Soul Thumping

Career Change at 41...Mars Bound

Just a question, right?  I could start over.  Why not?  For a second this morning, becoming an astronaut sounded appealing (and oh so original...just like every other Gen Xer at the age of 10) but I know I won't pass the mental, physcial, and IQ tests, so astronaut is out.

Although, anyone interested in becoming an astronaut should read this:  http://hubpages.com/hub/How-To-Become-An-Astronaut.  I found it this morning while searching on requirements for becoming an astronaut (See, I told you I thought about it for a second or two this morning.  I was serious in a not-really-serious-but-sort-of-curious way).  According to the author, "Not only do you need the balls the size of hypergiant twin binary-stars. You will need a baggage of academic and practical excellence."

So, astronaut is out for me...maybe swap meet coordinator?

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Approaching the Official "In my 40's" Date...Quickly

D-day is nearly here.  I have--counting today--3 days left before my 41st birthday, at which time I will be "in my 40's."  It sucks.  In my head I'm still 26 and I own the world, but we all know I'm not (and certainly don't think I own the world any longer, and DON'T really want to ever be in my 20's again).  My mid to late 20's were cool, but I was still a child.  There were a couple of years while in my 30's that I enjoyed a little, but I wasn't in my zone, but I know already that my 40's will be the best years of my life (so far).

Why will my 40's be the best years of my life?  I'm finding my way back to being comfortable who I am.  I'm also not waking up and contemplating what might have been.  I've never been married because I never felt that I had to be married, so there was no pressure or settling on someone or something, which has been the greatest of all attitudes to adopt, for me.  Why?  Because I don't have to look back and wish I'd done things differently, and I had time to find out all about me (the good and the bad).  Because it means I've never been trying to find someone (though I have found my soul mate now, Poseidon), if it happened, it happened.  I never stressed about having a baby before 30 (or any age really).  My biological clock may tick like most women's clock, but mine has a mute button, and I chose to use it.  Now I'm at a point where I feel like everything else is gravy!

So, as I'm approaching the big "41" I've done some reflecting, some journaling, etc., and I have a few more days to share those thoughts in my blog, so expect more posts than usual this week.  As I love to dole out unsolicited advice, what better time than now to give some "guidance" to the 20 and 30 year old greenhorns who think the world belongs to them and they are the only ones who've ever been that age... Let me first say this:  I have great friends who are in their 20's and early 30's and I mean no disrespect or offense to you just because of your age.  The friends I have who are in their 20's and 30's are mature, cool chicks who have at least one foot in reality with a solid understanding of who they are and where they might want to go!

--Fortuitous "Almost in my Forties" Observer

Remembering Mr. Gristle Head

I don't know why we named him Mr. Gristle Head, it just sounded right.  Mr. Gristle Head was actually a styrofoam wig stand (or holder, or whatever the correct term is) that belonged to my mother in the 1970s.  As Gen Xers, my sister, brother, Play Stations, iPods, and the internet didn't exist yet, so we had to actually use our imagination to come up with cool shit to do, and we did.  It was during one of those days when we had to find something to do that my mother's wig stand met with a most unfortunate makeover, becoming Mr. Gristle Head for all eternity.

One winter afternoon, my sister and I decided to kidnap my mother's wig stand and mutilate it beyond recognition.  I can only guess we did this out of pure boredom, but as it is decades later, the exact whys, hows and wherefores are mere speculation on my part.

First, we unearthed our old LITE-BRITE® pegs from somewhere.  I think we had them in a large freezer bag in a dresser drawer.  We began by sticking the LITE-BRITE® pegs into the styrofoam wig stand, which we began referring to it as "the head."  Once we started, there was no stopping.  The wig head must be covered with colorful pegs, and so it was.  We stuck the pegs close together, so close that barely an empty space could be found on the wig head.

Conveniently, there was already a hole in the bottom of the wig head.  It was made that way.  I'm assuming wig heads were traditionally displayed in wig stores on large wooden pegs or something to keep them from falling over.  So, fortunately, we had an empty hole in the bottom of the wig head, and a baton that would fit perfectly into that hole.

Next, we decided to somehow put some clothes on our new Frankenstein-like creation.  We found an old shirt belonging to my dad, and we buttoned it around the wig head.  Of course, the wig head had no shoulders, so the shirt draped over it, giving it a ghostly, yet comical look.

Now what?  We have killed my mother's wig head stand and stolen a shirt belonging to my dad.  The next logical step in this improvisational moment of cleverness was to name the beast.  As I stated at the very beginning, I don't know why we chose to call him Mr. Gristle Head (or why we decided it was a "him" because the wig head was already wearing blue eyeshadow and red lipstick), but we did.  We paraded him around, holding the end of the baton, marching him down the hall and through the dining room, into the kitchen.  I think we even took Mr. Gristle Head outside.  We tried scaring our little brother, though he recognized the now destroyed wig head immediately, and the LITE-BRITE® pegs just weren't scary.

I'm not really sure why I'm even telling Mr. Gristle Head's story.  Probably because it popped into my head one day last week, out of know where, and I felt the tale must be told.  Believe it or not, Mr. Gristle Head suck around for a few years, mostly hiding out in the closet, making an occasional appearance at Halloween.

Perhaps Mr. Gristle Head is important because my sister and I were extremely proud of the creativity displayed in the design and execution of our plans to create such a unique being.  Perhaps he is important because we took something from our mom and destroyed it without getting into too much trouble.  Those are possibilities, but whatever the ridiculous reason, Mr. Gristle Head was a holding space for our LITE-BRITE® pegs (I don't think we even had the LiteBrite at that time...it bit the dust years before), a conversation piece, and a bit of my personal childhood history that I look back on with fondness...though I really don't know why.  Long live Mr. Gristle Head.

--Fortuitous Observer

I Miss My "Friends"

I don't watch weekly television shows now with any regularity (I try to watch House because I wish I could be as honest as he is...ok, maybe not that honest), but I was thinking today that I really miss Friends.

Friends was my favorite show back in the day.  I felt like the characters truly were my friends and when I came home after a rough useless day from work on Thursdays, I couldn't wait to unwind with a glass of wine and hang out with Monica, Rachel, Chandler, Ross, Phoebe, and Joey.  I tuned into my Friendsand tuned out the rest of the world.  I took solace in their plights, zinger lines, and recurring neuroticism.  I liked it there, in that funky small apartment in Manhattan.  It was a little like my own tiny apartment at the time, only I was living in downtown Raleigh, not Manhattan (I know, huge difference).

I think what attracted me to this series was the fact that I didn't have many friends of my own (and I still don't), and I envied their connection and closeness, yet was overjoyed with it at the same time.  I didn't have many friends because it was always difficult for me to find and make connections with people that go beyond superficial (and I still have this issue).  Not because most people are superficial, but because Idon't know how to connect.  This time, I'm not blaming other people...yeah!!!  I'm putting the blame solely on me.  Write that down folks because my next post will be back to blaming or bitching about someone else.

The older I get ('gulp', and I am getting older), the more I realize how important these deep connections with people are, and if you have them, count yourself lucky and don't screw them up.  As for me, more years of therapy to understand why I don't want to make friends, and fortunately, cable so I can catch my Friends almost any day of the week if I want to, just in case I do feel like playing.

--Fortuitous Observer

Cough Syrup & Lies!

Boyfriend is sick, I'm sick.  I suffered through a month of hell with an upper respiratory infection November through December; an infection that wanted to keep a strong hold on to me like it was hanging over the side of a cliff about to plummet to its death or likely to be dropped into a boiling vat of wax.  I finally shook the thing after getting two shots, one in each hip, at the same time (I believe I mentioned that in another post, Flossing and Fainting).  That was an experience to journal about and pass along to my grandkids (oh, wait, I don't have/want kids, so how am I going to get grandchildren exactly?  Can you adopt grandchildren?  Not saying I wanna, just curious...).

Anyway, as usual I'm whining.  To make matters worse I realized today that I'm going to be 41 next month.  Yup, that's right.  I'll be, officially, "in my 40s" which sucks.  This is making me think that perhaps I have no (or limited) control over my health now that I'm on my way to middle age.  God, I'm growing more depressed as I type.

What happened to the vim and umph of my youth?  As a kid I could walk around for days with a snotty nose, sniffles, watery eyes and that raspy cough (the one that as an adult makes me run like a bat out of hell when I hear it coming from a kid).  It took so much to knock me down and make me give up playing and take a spot on the couch or my bed, gulping down teaspoons of cough syrup.  Actually, I think that is why I refused to admit I was sick and feigned perfect health:  I didn't want to take the cough medicine.  Kids, your parents are lying to you when they tell you if you hold your nose and take it you won't taste it.  You will and it tastes like shit.

So, now that I've whined, I need to buck up and get over it.  Poseidon had to get two shots yesterday (he is much worse than I am this time), and he has to take 3 different meds, including a cough medicine, and he isn't whining.  I forgot to tell him to hold his nose when he takes it.

--Fortuitous Observer

Imbecilic Things I've Done

Now that the new year and decade is immovably upon us, I've been doing the obligatory reflecting and I've realized that I have done some asinine things in my life.  I don't think I'm apologizing for them because these things, no matter how idiotic, have assisted in shaping me into the person I am today, good, bad, or insane.  I just feel like sharing.

This list is by no means a "no stone unturned" catalog of confessions.  I'm sure I've done things not included in this little lineup that I'll be reminded of at some point, either in this life or my next one as a bug (not to mention, my mom may be reading, and I don't want to give her a heart attack...yet : ) 

· Made rocket fuel in the 3^rd grade from a number of household cleaning products and tried to ignite it with my dad’s lighter

· Mixed Pop Rocks and soda together to see if I would explode (I didn’t)

· Hitchhiked drunk with my friend Josie (I won’t use her real name) one night just for laughs – oh, and because we were drunk

· Asked a cabbie in Albuquerque if he knew where I could buy pot.  Also asked him why Bugs Bunny never made that “left turn at Albuquerque”…he didn’t know the answer to either question

· I’ve broken all of my toes, on both feet, at least once.  This really isn’t my fault.  I have brittle toe bones and no control over their snapping into pieces.  I stopped going to the doctor long ago.  Now I just make my own little splints from nail files (or popsicle sticks, but I rarely have those) and tape

· When I was 8, I stuck a bunch of straight pins in a girl’s hand because she wanted to join our club and that was how she would prove her worthiness

· Accused the same girl of stealing the club’s money (an entire 20 cents), even though she didn’t, so we could have a reason to kick her out of the club

· Destroyed a neighbor’s garden when I was 9 (along with my sister and our best friend Jenny) because he was mean and we didn’t like him

· Purposely sang the wrong words to the song “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” (you know…”Shitty Shitty Bang Bang) when I was 5

· Taught a 4 year old little boy that I was babysitting how to strike matches (no one asks me to babysit their kids…it isn’t a good idea)

· Stole a pack of Tic-Tacs at a newsstand (that was really an accident, I did plan to buy them but absent mindedly stuck them in my pocket while looking through the magazines – I think I even went back and paid for them)

· When my twin sister and I were little and took our baths together, I always peed in the tub, but told her I didn’t

It's good to share...

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Empathy for Video Game Heroines

I and entirely too cynical for my own good and that is something I'm working on.  I think nearly everyone on the planet is out to stick it to the next person, and maybe they are, but I don't have to fall victim to the trap of believing it in my soul anymore.  So, while I've been reevaluating my cynicism level, I took a look at my empathy level, and I have to tell you, it is low, and that keeps me up at night.

I can, however, claim with certainty that I have great empathy for video game heroines.  I'm not even a video game player.  To be quite honest, video games scare the hell out of me.  Most video games I've seen are entirely too complicated for my Gen X brain to wrap around.  A few years ago (I'm guessing almost 10 now), I saw a video game at Best Buy while I was shopping for other things, and I found the picture on the box so intriguing that I was compelled to by the game (even though I did not play video games).  The name of this game:  "American McGee's Alice."  This is not Lewis Carroll's little Alice, I assure you.  The box art featured a knife-wielding, blood-soaked Alice in Wonderland with dirty tangled hair standing next to a skeletal version of the Cheshire Cat.  Set years after her travels through Wonderland, Alice is now older, creepy and quite possibly demented.  You just have to read the description on Wikipedia (I included the link above) of this game or you won't believe me.

Buying the game was my first mistake (it wasn't cheap).  Playing the game was my second mistake.  Keep in mind, I hadn't played video games in years, not since my Atari at home, really.  The graphics were complex (probably not by today's standards), and the game was difficult.  I couldn't get past the first "task."  I was constantly propelling Alice over a cliff (or the side of a castle or something), accidentally (due to lack of skill) causing her to land in a boiling lake of acid.  The worst part of that would be her screams.  When she fell into the lake, she would scream "Help me, help me" as she tried to claw her way up the side of the mountain.  I'm not kidding!  I got so upset being responsible for her falling into the lake that I felt sick to my stomach listening to her pitiful cries for help.  I could never get her out of the boiling lake, she always died, and my game was over in less than a minute and I was an emotional wreck.

I was so distraught with killing Alice that after a few days, I couldn't do it anymore.  My skin broke out in red itchy hives when I played the game.  I was fully aware at the time that it was only a video game, and I wasn't really killing her, and I was a rational person being irrational, but her screams sounded real and I felt terribly responsible for keeping her safe.  I had nightmares about this damn video game.

At the end of the week, I took the game CD out of the computer, put it back into its box, taped it up, and took it to work with me, giving it to a co-worker who was a gamer.  He was thrilled with the game as he heard so much about it, and wanted to know why I was giving it away.  I told him I was tired of curling up in the fetal position on the floor every night chewing the edge of my pajama sleeve for comfort until I cried myself to sleep.  He thought I was kidding, of course.  I wasn't.

So you see, I take comfort in my realization that I am not completely without empathy as I thought earlier this week.  While reaching far back into the recesses of my brain for a sliver of evidence that I am capable of feeling something other than annoyance for others, I pulled this memory of the video game back out into the open and realized that I am capable of empathy; overwhelming empathy.  Maybe the general people population will soon get on my empathy radar, but for now, I'll continue to feel the love for deranged, suicidal, pathetic animated characters.  It's a start.  A slow one, but it's a start.

--Fortuitous Observer

Excuse me God, I have to Pee

I was very modest as a child, and I worried about people seeing me when I didn't want to be seen (I still do, but, that is another story for another day).  When my twin sister and I were around 5 or 6, my mother was getting dressed to go to church or a funeral, I can't remember now which one (they are both equally uplifting in my opinion...I said myopinion), we were sitting on her bed watching her put her jewelry on, and we starting talking about dying and what happens when a person dies.

My mother said, "When someone dies, if they are good (don't ask me to define "good"), they will go to Heaven."  I asked her what Heaven is like.  She began describing it as an otherworldly, expansive dominion where everyone would be peaceful and loving and nothing bad would ever happen.  A place where ethereal beings (she said, "angels," I like "ethereal beings"...more descriptive) fly around and play the harp and sing all day long (I didn't think that sounded peaceful).  Everyone is taken care of and loved by God.  Everyone in Heaven lounges around on enormous soft feathery clouds without a care.

At the age of 5 or 6, my concept of a cloud was an impressive white sparse cotton ball that wouldn't be strong enough to hold me up (even though I was a stick person of a child).  This worried me.  I had visions of trying to sit on a cloud, but falling through, falling back to earth, and God might be too busy to catch me and the angels would be way too busy with their harp-playing to notice me!

During this imaginative daydream, my love of privacy kicked in and I asked my mom where I was supposed to go to the bathroom in Heaven if everything is made out of clouds.  People can see through the clouds and they might see me pee.  I was in a panic of sorts.  I did not want this to happen!  I did not want to go to Heaven.

I don't recall my mother laughing at me out loud (she could have later, when I left the room, I don't know if she did).  She didn't stop putting on her makeup to answer my question.  She simply said, "I don't think you have to worry about going to the bathroom anymore when you get to Heaven."

What the hell (ok, poor choice of words) kind of answer was that?  Was that supposed to calm me down?  Now I had even more questions.  Why wouldn't I have to go to the bathroom anymore?  Are my internal organs going to shut down?  I was afraid to ask anything else, I didn't want to know anything else.  I stood up, left my mom to finish dressing, ran down the hall to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me.

--Fortuitous Observer  

Everything I Need to Know, I Learned on the 3rd Grade Playground

Another gorgeous autumn Friday, and all I can think to say is, "Where has Friday been?"  This week just would not end for me.  One would think, at the glorious age of 40, I would have learned by now that work weeks grow longer by the minute the more you look forward to the weekend.  Of course, one would think I would have learned a great deal about everything by now, but I haven't.  Not really.  I think my absorbtion of the way things work stopped on the 3rd grade playground.  All I need to know to get me through life I learned then.  Anything after that, just fodder for my blog.

For instance, I learned on the playground when playing Red Rover (you remember that horrid little game don't you?) that the scrawny small kids are the target for busting through the human chain, and at that time, I was the scrawny small kid.  Much to the chagrin of my playmates however, I also decided it was rather moronic to let a colossal kid try to bust through my hands, knocking them completely out of my little gloves, so I let go!  Hell yes, I let go.  Let the humongous kids bust through, I don't care.  Was I going to get a trophy or anything for holding off the big kids, allowing my tiny hand to be smashed and bruised?  No.  Not even a, "Thanks girl, way to play!"  Really?  Nothing?  My poor cold, skinny little hand could have been shattered into a thousand pieces and you yell at me because I broke the chain?

I know, I was a bad teammate when it came to Red Rover.  I don't want emails pouring in screaming that I didn't (or still don't, which is entirely possible) understand the concept of being a team player and all that jazz.  I think I did.  I also understood physical pain and the importance of avoiding it whenever possible.  To my former 3rd-grade playmates who lived for winning Red Rover every day on the playground, I do offer you my sincerest apology.  Hopefully you all have internet access during recreation hours in the prison system so you can read my apology on-line.  I was a bad team player, only thinking of myself and my future as a writer with mangled hands.

The same is still true in adulthood, only it isn't necessarily the size of the kids who break through the chain, or the size of those that keep the chain intact:  it's their determination.  My determination to win at Red Rover wasn't as fierce as others' determination.  I was more determined to succeed in other ways, determined to get what I wanted from life using brains, not brawn.  The trouble is (yes, still), I'm not always sure of what I want...but, as it is Friday, I'm going to make peace with that for approximately 48 hours and not care.

--Fortuitous Observer

If Only I'd Chosen a Smaller Book to Put in My Shorts

Zeus and I had dinner this past weekend with R, M, and D, and R was telling us a funny story about when she was 4-years-old and she got a spanking from her father, and she told him that must never happen again (yes, at the age of 4 she doled out some sage words of advice for her father, which is what makes the story so funny), and it made me recall a particular spanking I received from my father when I was around 6 or 7 (I can't remember exactly).

I had done something (I can't remember that either...honestly) and my mom told me that she was going to have my dad spank me when he got home from the store.  I knew I didn't want a spanking, and I also knew she was too mad to plea bargain so I waited nervously for him to return.  Through my anxiety, I was somehow able to have an epiphany that would save me.  I had seen a sitcom not too long before this incident in which a child was in the same situation I found myself to be.  This child decided that a spanking would hurt less if he put a book in his pants before getting the spanking.  His dad would be hitting the book and not his bottom.  How clever!  I was going to do that.

Fortunately, we had a large selection of books.  Unfortunately, I chose a huge reference book, thinking it would be thicker, therefore, I would feel the spanking less (I was only 6 or 7 remember).  So, I put the book in my shorts and waited for my dad to come home, feeling almost sorry for him that he would be giving me a spanking that wouldn't bother me.

Dad arrived home, mom told him what I did (I still can't remember what it was...honestly), and I was sitting in the kitchen awaiting my fate.  He came in, told me he had to give me a spanking, and I believe I almost smiled as I turned around as if to say, "Go ahead, give it all you got."  Of course, he saw the book in my shorts, and I heard him laugh, just a little, enough to know I'd been caught, and he told me to take the book out, so I did, and even though he found it a little amusing, I still got the promised spanking.  The spanking didn't hurt, but I included the obligatory cries and I-hate-you yells, then it was over.

I realized later that my mistake was in the book selection.  Had I chosen Winne the Pooh or even Little Women, I may have actually gotten away with it, but I also knew if I tried that again, my father was not going to be amused twice, so I left those antics to the make believe children on the sitcoms...

--Fortuitous Observer