On Friday, Poseidon and I had dinner out, then on to a small art space to see an exhibition. After a brief stroll through the exhibit, we decided to head to one of our favorite bars downtown for a couple of beers. We haven't had a night out in a few weeks (due to that pesky surgery I had). It was a cold night, and this Swedish girl couldn't dig deep enough to find her inner-Swede, so we didn't stay out late.
Back at the ranch, pajamas on, we hopped into bed to watch a movie. As usual, Poseidon was asleep 90 seconds after his head touched the pillow. I watched the movie (can't even remember what it was) then, during the roll of the credits (I sometimes feel compelled to watch movie credits, even though I don't really care, I feel I have to satisfy some pointless need) I switched off the TV and tried to catch that next train to Slumberland.
I missed the train. More than once. I could not go to sleep. I tossed and turned for over an hour,
Source: http://sleephealthy.wordpress.com/
but then, unexpectedly, my brain switched into creative mode! Productive insomnia.
I had so many cool ideas for writing, art projects (making stuff out of dirt and paper), sewing projects, house remodeling, clothes I wanted to buy, self-improvement ideas, things I wanted to read about, etc. My bout of insomnia will surely pay off someday!
This interior monologue I was having was amazing. I've not ever experienced this. It was so much better than dreaming. The strange thing about this, to me anyway, is that I did this the entire night. I didn't want to stop. The last time I looked at the clock, it read 4:58 am! I suppose the Slumberland train circled back to Crazychickville to pick me up somewhere between 5:00 and 5:30am. I slept until 9:30.
As soon as I got out of bed, I went downstairs to my laptop and started jotting down all the ideas I had (the good, bad, and the ugly). If any of these ideas ever come to fruition, I'll let you know, or you might see my work hanging in the walls of the train station in Crazychickville.
I have to shake some negative ish from my bones, and now (shuddering). Tragic events on the planet (fortunately, the world is coming to an end on Friday, so there is that), hateful trolling comments on blogs I read, too many traffic accidents on my evening commute lately, etc. Today I just want everyone to be happy. We need to get happy (cue David Cassidy and Shirley Jones in velvet jumpsuits). Kick sadness to the curb today. Good bye. Auf Wiedersehen. Hejdå. Au Revoir. さよなら.
Looking back through some of my posts from 2009, when I was unemployed for a brief time and worried, stressed to the max, I can see where I tried cheering myself up, forcing myself to put on a happy face and keep going. God, I was annoying. I was not happy. Just trying to play along.
Annoying or not, chin in the air people. Let's talk happiness.
I think some people are afraid to be happy and there is not a thing wrong with that. Happiness means change and (string of cliches headed your way, and I'm sorry) change is scary, but
Photo Source: uber-facts.com
change is the only thing we can count on so befriending change is better than punching it in the face. I wanted to personify 'change' but I'm not sure if change is male or female, so I'm going to go with male and refer to change as 'him.'
Anyway, I can talk a good game about embracing change and being happy, but it's almost always easier said than done. Why? Because our rocks are indeed warm and comfortable. Crawl out. Someone once told me, "Courage is being scared to death to do something, but plowing ahead anyway." Thank you KW, I haven't forgotten.
We just have to shake a stick at our own fears, and sometimes that can be satisfying in a way we could never have imagined. At first, it's scary, but then, it isn't. Happy.
If you aren't living the life you want to be living, right now, then check yourself and make a plan. I'm doing this along with you, because trust you me, I'm no fan of change, but now I shake hands with Mr. Change more often than I punch him. We've learned to agree to disagree, but then I follow him anyway. Club. Dragging by hair.
We all have pain, or have experienced pain, physically and/or emotionally. Pain is part of life, but for Pete's sake people, don't just "accept" it and not do what you can to move beyond it. Happiness is so much more fun than sadness. More people will be at that party, so get over you own stuff, and get there.
Reverting back to the emotions of something we experienced previously when we are stressed or afraid is normal. We all do it. I do it. The brain simply goes into survival mode, like it did when we were children. Stop doing that. I'm working on that myself. If we keep referring back to our 'crosses to bear' or our traumas/dramas that, we feel, make us who we are, then we aren't moving toward emotionally mature adulthood, but we sure feel sufficiently martyred, don't we (Poseidon loves using that phrase)? I ain't no Joan of Arc.
I'm not telling you to fake happy, I'm telling you to be happy. Takes work. Isn't easy. Some were dealt a better hand than others to begin with, but the end result is what counts. We all have challenges and we will fail at some things and succeed at others. People are complicated like that. Please don't take every fail as an opportunity to throw in the towel. Small goals, easily obtainable, are what we need to start with. If you need help, don't be afraid to ask. Again, scary, but worth it.
Let's be happier people, ok? Happier people challenge their should-centric view of life. Let's do that.
If you could wake up tomorrow morning, and have the "happiest day ever," what would it look like? Seriously challenge yourself. Take a breath...truly think about...then start jotting down your thoughts without stopping (the last time I did this, I said I wanted to make some of my own clothes, and I ended up buying a sewing machine).
--Amphitrite
I found one of my annoying happy posts from 2009: Happiness Molecules! Oh, and here, I'll leave this for your entertainment...
"Sunglasses. N says we will definitely need sun glasses." Poseidon told me this before I left the house this morning. This is in regards to our Christmas trip to Alaska. Poseidon spoke with our friend N on Sunday evening, the friend we are going to visit in Anchorage next month, and he rattled off a few things we will want to bring.
Being the sun bunny that I am, this sunglasses bit made me feel less anxious about our trip, like it won't be pitch dark, 24/7. Don't get me wrong, I'm super-excited about going to Alaska! This will be my first trip to "The Last Frontier." God, that nickname scares me. Actually most of Alaska's nicknames give me the shakes: "Seaward's Ice Box" and "Land of the Midnight Sun." "Seward's Ice Box" has me contemplating a visit to the Alaska Airlines website to check their cancellation policy, because, you know, we already bought the tickets.
In all seriousness, we are trying to prep for the trip. I bought a new down coat from Eddie Bauer. E.B. had a huge sale event, and I participated. I walked out with a $220 down coat for $135.00. In North Carolina, we typically don't need a down coat suited for -20 temps, but we do have Eddie Bauer stores, so, they've got to move merchandise to either tourists visiting from the north, or North Carolinians traveling to Alaska.
We are going to be doing some cross country skiing, and I can't wait for that. I need new boots (boots that don't have a heel), so I have a month to get some. Poseidon insists his hiking boots will be fine, but I have doubts. If he cries like a baby when his short hiking boots fill with snow, I'll fill his jacket with snow.
"Seward's Ice Box." I can't get that out of my head. Please Alaska, don't kill us.
--Amphitrite
Ever take a vacation you thought you might not make it back from?
Several years ago, I attended yoga classes twice each week. I continued the routine for 2 months, but I just didn't quite get the "hang" of it. My body honestly did not appreciate being twisted into balloon animal shapes, and my mind wandered. Over the years, my yoga practice has consisted of attending classes in a one-off fashion, and nothing more serious or devotional than that.
Let's try meditation, shall we? I did. Last year I attended a 6-week "Introduction to Meditation" course, meeting one night a week at the Shambhala Center. I was into it. I even purchased my own Zafu cushion and Zabuton mat. Like I said, I was into it...for a while. Sadly, both cushion and mat are used more by Kwinn than by me. When I see the mat and cushion, lonely, on the floor, I silently scold myself for not practicing, then I bitch about Kwinn's cat hair. It's a dismal day when you realize your cat meditates more than you do.
So, back to yoga. On Sunday, I went to a yoga class. My first in a few months. I enjoyed the instructor, and my body found its rhythm during our final sun salutation series, and I felt great.
As with most yoga classes, we ended with shavasana. My body always feels relaxed during this pose, but for the life of me (no pun intended...you know, life, and the shavasana--a.k.a. the dead pose), I cannot shut my mind off! During the time I should have been enjoying shavasana, stupid thoughts raced through my head and I felt like there truly was a hamster running in a wheel up there and he was determined to go the full 26.2 distance. These were some of my actual thoughts (the thoughts I will admit to):
"Oh God, I really don't think I will be able to get off this mat without assistance. Do I ask T. for help, or do I wait and ask the instructor after everyone has gone?"
"Flea medicine for cats. Flea medicine for cats. Flea meds for cats. Flea cats." By repeating phrases over and over in my head, I actually believe I will remember them. Notice, my reminders shorten each time? The more repetitions I can pack into my brain, the more likely I will remember. Shorter is better.
This particular instructor likes to use yoga blankets during the corpse pose. She asked us to put them over us like a blanket. This is a public studio, so my prevalent thought during the pose, "How many people have had these blankets over them, and when were they last washed?" I don't skeeve out often about germs, but for some reason, while my head should have been in off-mode, this thought hung around.
"Man, I didn't even shower today. I can't believe Poseidon and I slept on the futon in the sun porch last night. Poseidon, I'm sure he isn't even awake right now. Am I wearing underwear, or did I just throw on my yoga pants? Did I really see a raccoon last night hanging off the bird feeder while his feet wrapped around the side of the house?"
"Did I buy enough Diet Coke to last until Wednesday? I don't want to go to the grocery store today. Shit, what was I supposed to do after class? Oh, oh, cats. Flea medicine. Did I determine which is closer, PetsMart, or PetCo?
While my thoughts raced, and my body tried to relax under the blanket used by many, many yoga practitioners, I'd not really achieved my goal of settling in. Before I knew it, the yoga instructor's soothing voice was transitioning us from deep relaxation to wake. My poor head was screaming, "No, no, it can't be over yet, I didn't relax...wait, wait, I'll focus on breathing, I promise I'll relax this time! Please, I've wasted this precious respite. Do over, do over!!!!"
And, that was that. I opened my eyes, reluctantly, and rolled over on my side (amazingly enough, I was able to get up without assistance...I'm having some neck issues). I got myself up, put away the yoga blanket (back on the shelf for the next victims) and blocks, rolled my mat into the shape of a large straw, big enough for the giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk," and gathered my other belongings.
I said goodbye to Tanya, then headed off to the pet store. I bought the flea medicine. I forgot cat litter because that didn't come up during shavasana, damn it. As I walked toward the check out area, I noticed some fluffy pet cushions on sale. "Kwinn and Kat would love those," I thought, then realized these cushions were not filled with buckwheat, simply polyester fluff, and therefore will not advance Kwinn's meditation practice, so I paid for what I had, drove back home, where Poseidon was napping on the sofa, Kat ran upstairs in anticipation of being given medicine (she would rather be eaten to death by fleas), and Kwinn nodded my direction with what looked to be his version of namaste.
With the passing away of Neil Armstrong last month, and Space Shuttle Endeavour heading for retirement, it is with considerable trepidation that I face my self-diagnosed "NASA anxiety." Born exactly 6 months (to the day) before the first landing on the moon (or, if you are a conspiracy theorist, the theatrical production of the first landing on the moon), this Gen Xer takes our space program seriously, sometimes, and this is why I'm now confessing that I hold myself responsible for the space shuttle disasters.
I hold myself responsible because I insisted on watching them live. January 28, 1986, in high school, I voted "YES" (along with the majority of my classmates) to watching the live take off of Space Shuttle Challenger during a Social Studies class. Our teacher was excited because Sharon Christa McAuliffe, the
first teacher to fly in space, was a crew member. History in the making folks.
Just over one minute into the flight, we saw the infamous blast of bright light, and we watched in horror as the space shuttle disintegrated, fiery pieces falling from the sky. LIVE. The reporters were at a loss for words. For the first time all year, that classroom full of high school students went completely silent.
Fast forward to February 1, 2003. I got up early that morning to watch the landing of Space Shuttle Columbia. I sat on the sofa with my bowl of cereal and a blanket, watching the television screen like a cat watching a mouse. A few minutes before 9am, the shuttle is nearing the coast of California. A play-by-play announcer on television made the whole thing that much more exciting. But then, something went wrong, because Columbia wasn't appearing where it should be, over Texas, at least that is when I remember feeling anxious. "Roger, uh, bu --" was the last contact. I won't go through all the details because those are readily available all over the internet, but I spent the entire day engulfed in the drama. I watched all the NASA press conferences, eyewitness accounts, conjecture from engineers, scientists, meteorologists, laypersons, family of the crew, etc.
I was sad but mostly stunned. Then, because I'm neurotic, I thought, "Damn, I did it again!" It was at that moment I decided my watching the space shuttle landings and take-offs was the cause of these freak disasters and I would watch no more.
As curious as I was, I chose not to watch the Endeavour make its way to California last week. As much as I wanted to watch it pass over the Golden Gate Bridge, I wanted more for it to make it safely.
It still has some road traveling to do before it arrives at its final home, the California Science Center, so someone let me know when it's all over and I can turn on the television again.
Challenger Flight Crew - By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Terrible drivers are the catalyst (usually) for my heated imaginary conversations. It is true. For example, below is the imaginary conversation from my commute this very morning. Before I start the dialog, I will set the scene for you.
I was driving to work, listening to a song I have not heard in a while, one I sortofkindof like, Texico Bitches by Broken Social Scene. Anyway, I'm in a shiny happy mood, driving along in the middle lane on I-540.
I want to pass the person in front of me who is traveling, oh, I don't know, maybe 7 freaking miles per hour (the speed limit is 65). There is a car in the left lane who just passed me, and there is not another car behind him for a great distance, so I signal, and move into the left lane. Done...errrr, not done. The woman who was waaaayyyyy back there, sped up and started tailgating me just so she could blow her stupid horn at me. She seriously did this...just to be a bitch warty dragon. So, then I imagined her actually hitting my car, and we would pull over to the side of the highway and verbally have it out, and this is the conversation I imagined:
ME: "What in Pluto do you think you were doing Broom Hilda, nice lady, speeding up on purpose JUST so you could blow your horn at me and instigate a road rage incident?"
SHREW: "How dare you get in front of me. My time is so much more valuable than yours?"
ME: "If I were you, I would consider making an appointment with your colorist, because that shade of b.s. isn't going to fly."
SHREW: "Huh?"
ME: "What is wrong with you you half-witted petticoat lady? There was no need to do what you did!"
SHREW: "I'm calling my husband right now, you...you...wahhh, wahhh, wahhh (that is her crying by the way), how...dare...you...<sniffle>...talk...<sniffle>...to...me...<sniffle>...that...way."
ME: "Oh, wow, should I call my husband too? I don't know the protocol for helpless woman!" (Poseidon would so be on her side anyway, but she didn't need to know that)
This is where the imaginary conversation ended. I usually get bored with these imaginary conversations before an actual maiming or scratching out of eyes occurs.
I mentioned to Poseidon a few weeks ago that I sometimes have imaginary conversations while driving (not sure what I was expecting him to say or do, but I took a chance because one cannot have someone committed against their will, at least in this state), and he told me he does the same thing! Two peas hanging in the same dang pod. The coolest thing about this? Poseidon's revelation that he has imagined conversations while driving makes me feel less alien. Still neurotic, but less alien.
"Do you have synesthesia?" This was a question my massage therapist asked me last week. I had no idea what that even meant, so I said, "Probably."
He laughed, then he explained that synesthesia is a condition where a person can experience two senses at the same time. He used an example of a person smelling a distinct smell when they see the color green. I've had similar experiences at Phish shows, but totally unrelated to synesthesia. I didn't bring that up.
Coincidentally, that same evening, Poseidon and I were having a beer with one of my coworkers and her husband, and we were noticing the details on some of the pint glasses, when she mentioned that her friend assigns gender to inanimate objects, including beer glasses. If a pint glass is "plain" it is male. If a glass has a stem, it is female (which seems a bit backward to me), if the color of the logo is yellow, it is female, etc.
I then blurted out, "Wow, I assign gender to numbers and letters, and months." I've imagined genders for letters, numbers, and months since childhood. Guess what? There is a name for this! Yup. It's called ordinal-linguistic personification, which is a form of synesthesia.
Here is what my brain thinks when it sees numbers, letters, and names of months:
NUMBERS 1 - male (a tomboy) 2 - female 3 - male (usually with a moustache) 4 - male (very aloof) 5 - female (an overweight female) 6 - female 7 - male 8 - female 9 - female (a tomboy and a bully) 10 - male
LETTERS A - female B - female C - female D - male E - male (a bully) F - male G - male H - male I - male J - male K - female L - male M - male N - male O - female P - female Q - female R - female (a loner, very independent) S - female (dainty, prissy) T - male U - female V - male (another loner) W - male X - female Y - male (arrogant) Z - female
MONTHS January - female (tomboy) February - female March - male April - female (usually sad) May - female June - female July - male (when I was younger, July was female, but now it is male) August - female (overweight female) September - female (tomboy) October - male November - male (always brown) December - male (he always wears a hat)
I'm glad I finally looked this up, if anything, just to give it a name. Seriously, I assumed everyone did this, especially as a child, but today when I did an impromptu survey during lunch, and out of the six of us at the table, only I thought the letter "A" should be wearing a dress. Any other ordinal-linguistic personification folks out there?
What I'm about to say is true, though many might think I'm being funny. Talking on the phone makes me anxious. I have an actual phone phobia. The thought of talking on the phone, right this very minute, is making me feel nauseous. There are only a handful of people I actually speak to on the phone: My husband, my sister, my brother and my mom (I consider that less than a handful actually). When my cell phone rings, I get nervous, I stop breathing and my pulse kicks it up a notch. Phone phobias are real, and also known as telephonophobia, telephobia. The Wikipedia description is spot on!
My telephone phobia began when I was in junior high school. My best friend would call, and we would chat about a few things, but then there would be long periods of silence because neither knew what to talk about next. I felt like an idiot, a dork, an uncomfortable dork. Phone conversations became something I didn't look forward to. Hell, they terrified me!
This phone phobia plagues me even now. Imagine how excited I was in the early 90s when emailing began. I was so much happier communicating. Now that texting and chatting are the norm, I've noticed I shy away from the phone even more (if that's possible), and I like it!
When I was unemployed, I couldn't stand to do phone interviews, especially technical phone interviews. My phobia would rear its ugly head the night before a scheduled call, with symptoms including upset stomach, restlessness, shakes, and sometimes hives to boot. These symptoms would last until I got the phone call "over with."
The thing is, I'm a very social person, in person, emails, texts and chats. I'm a very personable, outgoing chick! I love getting and answering emails. I get so excited when someone texts me! I enjoy going out and hanging out with friends. I'm even fine at parties where I know almost no one. I can talk to people...in person, just not on the phone.
I've made peace with my phone phobia and we are pals now. I can make fun of myself and this little quirk of mine. It is funny if you've never experienced this sort of thing. If you have, then you know what a ringing phone can do!
The funniest part of this phone phobia business, to me? My degree is a BS in Communications!
It distresses me to see people nervous and uncomfortable and I try (at least I think I do) to say things and do things in awkward situations that might put others at ease when they've said or done something that didn't go quite as planned. I even laugh at jokes that are not particularly funny to save the joke teller from mortification. Because I've walked in those shoes (well over a mile I might add, with music playing in the background), I'm sensitive to the embarrassment or nervousness that others might be feeling.
Tuesday, while in the waiting room of the spa I visit sometimes (I was going for an eyebrow wax), I noticed the woman sitting across from me was looking very sad and out of sorts. Maybe a friend gave her a spa gift card or something and she decided to use it. She just seemed nervous or uncomfortable, or both. Anyway, I smiled at her and started reading a stupid magazine (it's a local magazine, pretentious at best).
Her aesthetician or masseuse came to get her from the waiting room, and as she stood up, she tripped over her own feet and did an almost tumble. I could tell she was embarrassed and my knee-jerk reaction was to make her feel better immediately, so I quickly made up a story. I said, "I did that today at work, I'm such a klutz." I hadn't done the near face plant to the floor at work, but she didn't know that and I needed to make her feel better. This complete stranger, who for all I know, could be a serial killer. I have a compulsion to do whatever it takes to relieve the stress others are feeling in public. I would have offered to buy her a new car or house if I were independently wealthy (which of course, I'm not), just to take away her awkwardness and make her feel good.
She smiled at me as she left the waiting area and maybe my little white lie helped, maybe she knows I was making it up but appreciated the effort. I don't know. Why do I do this? I'll use my blanket answer for all of these internal questions: Because I'm neurotic. That seems to cover it.
I asked myself this question yesterday after fuming over a voice mail message I received from a large home building supply store, I won't use their name, but it rhymes (more or less) with Chrome Repo.
The above mentioned message was in reference to a refrigerator that Poseidon and I ordered, scheduled for delivery this weekend. Well, needless to say, Chrome Depot doesn't call customers merely to wish them a grand day, so I knew something was amiss. The call was to inform us our appliance is currently on back-order and Chrome Repo regrets having to postpone the delivery until April 5th. The woman leaving the message was pleasant enough, and for a second, I believe she actually felt bad for having to call with the news that our yogurt and vegetables will go to rot before our refrigerator is in place.
I was upset, and I'm not sure why, except that I had a childish sense of entitlement to have the appliance that we paid a handsome sum of money for (refrigerators I've newly discovered, are not cheap), delivered on the date agreed to.
I phoned the Chrome Depot customer service department back and told them the new date they gave me was not acceptable because either Poseidon or I will have to take off work to be there. I asked why they advertise the product online as "available" if it was on back-order? I was smoking angry, but I took a breath and told her I would check with their competitor--again, I won't use the company's name, but it rhymes with Blows--and if they had a comparable fridge in stock I would cancel my Chrome Repo order and go with Blows. She was very apologetic, but nothing she can do. I believed her.
Minutes after the call I was still piping mad and I was ready to call Blows to see if they could do anything for me. My face was getting hot and my blood was boiling. Then I asked myself the question: "Is this the hill you want to die on?" It's a refrigerator. Do I want to expend anymore energy by calling Blows? The principle of the thing had me keyed up and over the moon with annoyance, but we've survived a few months with a semi-broken fridge, we can survive another week.
So, no. No, this isn't the hill I'm choosing to die on. The hill we will be making out of our moldy vegetables, fetid chicken, and rancid milk might make me regret giving up without a true fight, but I'll march on to the next battle. Now, if I can only find a flautist to accompany me.