Soul Thumping

The Obligatory "Things I'm Thankful for List" at Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving 2009 and it came around so fast this year that I've hardly had time to mentally prepare.  It crept up on me because in my neighborhood, the stores had Christmas decorations out before Halloween.  Usually they have Christmas stuff out before Thanksgiving, and that is how I know it is almost turkey time.  This year, I was caught completely off guard and I'm annoyed about it because I like savoring the crisp late fall two weeks prior to Thanksgiving, preparing myself to eat more food than my stomach can physically hold, and I was robbed of that this year!

Some families do the traditional verbal "what-are-you-thankful-for" round-table exchange.  Mine usually did not.  Everyone is thankful for the same things anyway (and they should be):  my bank account, my family, my kids, my house, my BMW, my health, my ability to hold my breath underwater for 6 minutes, etc.

Because my family doesn't really do this (we are usually too hungry because the Thanksgiving meal is always late getting on the table), I've decided to do my own little list of thankfulness.  I'm calling it Vad jag är tacksam för (which is Swedish for "what I am thankful for, roughly...because I'm part Swedish I should try to use the language now and then).  Here we go:

• I'm happy England sucked or else we wouldn't even be a country (I'm just kidding...I love the U.K.)
• My Siamese cat, Kwinn, only throws up every few months now
• I have a terrific boyfriend (Zeus...that is what he wants to be called when I blog about him)
• I'm not in jail or prison
• I have a cool brother and sister and brother-in-law (and soon to have a new sister-in-law!!!)
• I look nearly 10 years younger than I am (thought I act 20 years younger...that may be considered immature)
• I have great teeth
• Tennessee Titan's won their 4th game in a row this week!
• Raleigh finally sells decent beer
• My flashing "Cassandra" key chain still works
• Though I've broken every toe on both feet at least once, I can still walk
• That I've never watched an episode of "Jon & Kate Plus Eight"
• My pathetic eyesight can only be corrected to 20/40 in my left eye with glasses/contacts, but that is better than 20/480 (which is what it is without corrective lenses)
• My little Scion gets 38 MPH
• I'm not affected (too much) by all the Phish concerts I attended during my 20s and 30s

Though there is so much more to be thankful for, I'm can't think anymore.  To all of my American friends and readers, enjoy your Thanksgiving feast.  To everyone else, enjoy the rest of your work week : )

Adjö

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

 

Empathy for Video Game Heroines - American McGee's Alice

I am entirely too cynical for my own good and this 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

Turn Signals, Soccer Moms, & Oxycontin

I know, this is a question that has been around forever, and until we are teleporting across space and time and no longer need automobiles, the question will remain unanswered:  why do turn signals exist in vehicles when no one uses them?

My morning commute is boring so I try to keep myself occupied by playing little games on the way to work.  I play the "I bet I can make you smile" game.  You just keep smiling at someone while you are stopped in traffic until they smile back.  Almost no one ever smiles back at me.  A few people have probably even considered calling the police or running a red light to get away from me.  I got bored the other day with that game, and the count-the-number-of drivers-on-cell-phones game is equally stale.  So, yesterday evening on the drive home I decided to count how many people make turns (right and left turns) without signaling.  I should have counted the number of people who do signal when turning.  I couldn't keep up with the counting the number of people who didn't signal.

Shouldn’t manufacturers just stop putting the time, money and effort into keeping us safe?  Shouldn't it be our choice to use turn signals?  Forget that the driver's handbook in most states tell you that you must use turn signals.  Police officers still issue tickets for changing lanes without signaling (though probably not much anymore...they wouldn't have time to catch murderers and thieves with all the bad drivers they would be arresting).  I hate to say this, being a woman, but the offenders seem to be mostly women.

I mean why does soccer mom, on her way to the nail salon (in between picking up little Tymmiee at baseball practice, dropping little LillianZoeBethanniee off at dance class, then dropping by the PTA president's house for her weekly supply of Oxycontin) need to signal that she is turning into the very next entrance in front of her?  Why should she be bothered with having to put her latte and the mascara wand down in order to take time to tell us that she is about to make a turn, so that we can prepare ourselves to stop and avoid hitting her minivan, injuring her, her family, us, the guy behind us who just had knee surgery, and the elderly lady who is already scared to drive, but has no choice because she has to pick up her heart medication from the drug store, as she is a widow and has no one else to get it for her?

The car signal or "turn indicator" is there for a purpose:  to avoid accidents and keep us safe.  It's that simple folks.  I don't understand the arrogance these days.  It's almost as if drivers think they don't have to signal because it's no one's business where they are going.  The next time you're on your way to Starbucks and you are yammering away on your cell phone and you think it's ok or not necessary to signal, think about that little old lady behind you trying to get her medicine so she can stay alive one more year to see her first great-grandchild as she smashes into your (her reflexes are a bit slow these days and it will take her a little longer to stop), gas-guzzler or how about the young woman of 30 who has breast cancer and on her way to chemotherapy because she wants to live to see another day, period.

Think about those people on your way to pick up your spoiled kid from hockey practice (who is just going to resent you and walk all over you anyway because he didn't learn "boundaries" as a child), or when you are running late for your tanning appointment, or on your way to the PTA meeting (don't forget to bring cash).

 

--Fortuitous (wow, I'm becoming cynical these days) Observer

Only One Mullet at the State Fair?

The thing I love about going to state fairs?  People watching.  I suppose people watching is one of my favorite activities and I would rather people watch than just about anything. 

Zeus and I went with some friends to the state fair this year, and as usual I had everything that could possibly be deep-fried, and even things that shouldn't be, but it is the southeast, and if they can deep fry Diet Coke, there is NOTHING they can't deep fry.  I had the deep-fried Snickers bar (which is better than sex...sometimes) and I had a corn dog, some fries, a fried onion, and I think that might be all (last year was worse and I'm too embarrassed to remember it all).

Anyway, back to my love of people watching.  The state fair is a prime location for this sport (I like calling it a sport because it makes me sound somewhat athletic...or that's just in my head).  My brain was in high gear, ready to mentally take note of everything I saw that fascinated me.  This could include the carnies, the fair attendees, and yes, even the agriculture.  I've seen animals at past fairs doing things that would make Hugh Hefner blush.

It was unseasonably cold weather for the fair this year, but we stuck around for a few hours, and I kept waiting to see that onething; that one thing that would make my fair experience memorable.  Something I'd be writing about for years.  Maybe a carny with 2 fingers and an extra ear, or one of the mountain families that all look eerily alike who come down from the hills once each year just to go to the fair.  I was excited!

Not only did I not see any curious carnies (just the normal recently paroled, unshaven smoking kind), or obvious inbreeding, I didn't even see the typical plethora of mullets.  I saw only one mullet this year.  One, and it was partially hidden under the obligatory camouflaged bass fish hat.

Though I enjoyed the fair with Zeus and friends, I can't help but hide my disappointment at having been among an "average" crowd this year, and please, don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun of anyone.  Quite the opposite in fact.  The people I usually see at the fair are down-to-earth, real, slice-of-life folks.  They enjoy the simple pleasures in life and are happy to have the opportunity to get to the fair each year.  In a way, I'm envious.  I'll leave it at that.

 

--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  

Life in the Rat Lane

Life truly is a rat race and hostility is our cage.  It isn't just a meaningless cliche; we are rats!  Now that I have a 'regular' job again and I'm not consulting, I have to do the daily commute like every other rat, and I can't believe how much I abhor said commute.  The actual driving, or even the volume of traffic I encounter (but I would be lying if I didn't say that it was a little bit traffic) doesn't really bother me so much as the dog-eat-dog-world attitude that everyone on the road seems to brandish like a weapon.

Have you ever looked at people, I mean really looked at them while driving to work these days?  They seem so miserable.  No one smiles and it isn't just a lack of smiling that is downright disturbing, it is the actual presence of a snarl or a frown (ladies, you need to especially be aware that that does cause wrinkles).  Everyone is out to get into the fastest moving lane, the closest parking spot (and it's usually those that could stand to walk a bit more and stop knocking back those lattes with whipped cream that scramble for the closest parking spot), etc.  It's maddening I tell you.  It has such a profound negative effect on the psyche.

When (I almost wrote if...there is no "if" when it comes to red lights, only "when") I am stopped at a red light, the guy (or gal) next to me always seems ready to race, to beat me to punch as soon as the light turns green.  The literal rat race!  The first one through the green lights wins it all!

Do you think I care that you took off before me when the light changed from red to green?   Is that really getting you anywhere in life?  Is it going to improve your day, your beating me at the light?   I'm just going to see you at the next red light and we will both be waiting like trained monkeys for it to change from red to green again, but congratulations, you beat me there.  You were an entire 5.5 seconds ahead of me.  Let's recap:  where are you?  The same place that I am, yet you stressed yourself out, emitted more noise pollution and used more gas.  Way to get ahead in life.

For those of you who know me personally, don't get me wrong, I'm not innocent here.  I've engaged in that behavior more times than I want to admit, but it is so obvious to me how stupid it is when I see others do it.  I've also noticed that I seem to be avoiding stressful commutes these days by popping the radio over to the classical channel and pretending I can't see to the left or right of me.  My driving experience has improved for the better.  Seems to be less hostile if I pretend no one else exists.  I simply focus on the cheese and chewing through the cage.

 

--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