On my way home tonight, I noticed that the traffic slowed much earlier along my trek than usual. My first thought was that I'd left earlier than usual so there were more cars on the road. Nope, it was 5:16, which is about normal for me. Finally, I could see that there was a wreck in one of the main lanes. As I approached, I saw another car behind the accident, blinker on, trying to get around the mess. Folks, do you think anyone let this lady in?
No. Of course not. They're all in such a damn rush to get home that they forgot the rules of the road. So I let her in, and I was saddened to see that it took her a minute to realize that I was going to stop and allow her to merge. She was suprised that someone would let a minute of her precious life go by so another person could rejoin the moving traffic.
This is ridiculous. We all have to share the road, and there's an absolute social contract to driving. We all know the basic rules: Stay in your lane, signal your turns, for the love of Pete, don't drive drunk...but you know there are many more subtle rules. You're supposed to pay attention. You're supposed to know that we're all in this gridlocked nightmare together. You're supposed to take turns.
So now, when someone breaks these rules, I yell out the window, "You broke the contract!"
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pretty!
I found this on Discombobulated. Enjoy!
Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I do not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I do not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Words Of Wisdom
I was reading Cary Tennis' archives on Salon, and these are my favorite bits. I didn't save the exact pages from which I got these quotes, but that's OK. It's just a sampling...
<- The fact that you are a little crazy doesn't mean you have no rights.
Who is it who decides that our wishes are ridiculous or not ridiculous, anyway?
Our wishes, after all, are very close to feelings. Like feelings, they are not always rational. But they deserve respect.
<- Our churches have become the propaganda wings of political parties.
<- Why not simply accept that death will come to us all, and let it come when it comes? Why not recognize death as the one merciful thing that will bring us finally together. Why not see death as the final antidote to our crippling feeling of insufficiency. Finally, if we feel we have not been good enough for anything in life, at least we are good enough to die. At least death will embrace us as it embraces your mother and my uncle and my father-in-law and every other soul who has ever lived and ever will live.
<-You love each other and love is part madness. You love each other and are caught up in a mad dance of veils. Behind the veils that she waves in the air are her secrets, and thus her secret stories, and thus her sacred story, the one she cannot tell for fear it will lose its power of enchantment.
I suggest we more fully embrace the eros of interaction and the sweet honey of need.
I am trying to signal that at root love is madness; it is a contract not between people but between souls. It is different from your marriage. Your marriage is a contract between two people. But your love is a contract between two souls. Love is crazy because the souls want what they want and you don't have much to say about it.
Apparently in the marriage contract there is a clause in invisible ink that says we must sever all our ties and mute all our needs and close all the windows and become what we are not in order to protect the inviolable envelope of the marriage contract. But that is not always practical. There will be violations because we are who we are.
Many of us need more attention to feel more alive. Some of us need to stand in the spotlight and hear the applause. Some of us need a kind of intimacy we can only find outside the house. There is nothing wrong with wanting a fuller social life. There is nothing wrong with needing to be in the spotlight. There are ways to get that honestly. There are ways to get that by forming open friendships, and by performing, and in the fantasy realm.
What I say, at the risk of sounding like an idiot, is that love is naturally the realm of madness. You, your wife and I are all stark raving mad. Begin in madness. Accept everything. Trudge slowly under your great burdens toward some kind of rationality if you must. But accept that you may never get there. You may be perpetually trudging through madness toward some illusory land of Apollo. That's the way it is.
We are all mostly crazy. It's that simple.
<- It takes courage and strength not to repeat, because repetition feels like repair.
<- Opportunistic religiosity. People who revere authority will often turn to God, but if there is no God present, the doctor might do just fine.
"Opportunistic religiosity." Yeah, I need to give that one a think. Might make a good post.
<- The fact that you are a little crazy doesn't mean you have no rights.
Who is it who decides that our wishes are ridiculous or not ridiculous, anyway?
Our wishes, after all, are very close to feelings. Like feelings, they are not always rational. But they deserve respect.
<- Our churches have become the propaganda wings of political parties.
<- Why not simply accept that death will come to us all, and let it come when it comes? Why not recognize death as the one merciful thing that will bring us finally together. Why not see death as the final antidote to our crippling feeling of insufficiency. Finally, if we feel we have not been good enough for anything in life, at least we are good enough to die. At least death will embrace us as it embraces your mother and my uncle and my father-in-law and every other soul who has ever lived and ever will live.
<-You love each other and love is part madness. You love each other and are caught up in a mad dance of veils. Behind the veils that she waves in the air are her secrets, and thus her secret stories, and thus her sacred story, the one she cannot tell for fear it will lose its power of enchantment.
I suggest we more fully embrace the eros of interaction and the sweet honey of need.
I am trying to signal that at root love is madness; it is a contract not between people but between souls. It is different from your marriage. Your marriage is a contract between two people. But your love is a contract between two souls. Love is crazy because the souls want what they want and you don't have much to say about it.
Apparently in the marriage contract there is a clause in invisible ink that says we must sever all our ties and mute all our needs and close all the windows and become what we are not in order to protect the inviolable envelope of the marriage contract. But that is not always practical. There will be violations because we are who we are.
Many of us need more attention to feel more alive. Some of us need to stand in the spotlight and hear the applause. Some of us need a kind of intimacy we can only find outside the house. There is nothing wrong with wanting a fuller social life. There is nothing wrong with needing to be in the spotlight. There are ways to get that honestly. There are ways to get that by forming open friendships, and by performing, and in the fantasy realm.
What I say, at the risk of sounding like an idiot, is that love is naturally the realm of madness. You, your wife and I are all stark raving mad. Begin in madness. Accept everything. Trudge slowly under your great burdens toward some kind of rationality if you must. But accept that you may never get there. You may be perpetually trudging through madness toward some illusory land of Apollo. That's the way it is.
We are all mostly crazy. It's that simple.
<- It takes courage and strength not to repeat, because repetition feels like repair.
<- Opportunistic religiosity. People who revere authority will often turn to God, but if there is no God present, the doctor might do just fine.
"Opportunistic religiosity." Yeah, I need to give that one a think. Might make a good post.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Little Rant That Won't Hurt A Bit
One of my biggest pet peeves in the whole entire world is when people screw up my name. It's not a difficult name. It's a classic name, which now has so many permutations that the original is the rare version. It's Christine, but you knew that already.
I mean, I can live with the nicknames from my family, friends, and the one that has stuck since high school. Although, luckily, most of my friends from there now know not to call me that name. If they do, it's in a moment of reminiscing or kindness. So that's not so bad.
Here's what NOT to call me:
1. Chris
2. Kristen
3. Christina
4. Chrissie
5. Christa
6. Christian
I generally don't talk about this because it REALLY, REALLY bothers me to be called anything other than my name. And most people either a) want to dig into the psychology of why it bothers me so much to be addressed incorrectly, or b) thinks it's funny to tease me about it.
So here's some truth: Just don't do it. Don't call me anything other than Christine. It will only serve to royally piss me off and make me wonder if we should even be friends/acquaintances/someone I felt obligated to add on Facebook.
kthxbye.
I mean, I can live with the nicknames from my family, friends, and the one that has stuck since high school. Although, luckily, most of my friends from there now know not to call me that name. If they do, it's in a moment of reminiscing or kindness. So that's not so bad.
Here's what NOT to call me:
1. Chris
2. Kristen
3. Christina
4. Chrissie
5. Christa
6. Christian
I generally don't talk about this because it REALLY, REALLY bothers me to be called anything other than my name. And most people either a) want to dig into the psychology of why it bothers me so much to be addressed incorrectly, or b) thinks it's funny to tease me about it.
So here's some truth: Just don't do it. Don't call me anything other than Christine. It will only serve to royally piss me off and make me wonder if we should even be friends/acquaintances/someone I felt obligated to add on Facebook.
kthxbye.
Friday, September 18, 2009
I'm The Lucky One
The last few days have been tough. I've got some friends dealing with some serious problems, and I've tried to be there for them. Imperfectly, I know, but I've been thinking about them and their worries for a while.
Last night, I finally got a chance to talk with the boy around 10:30. By then I was tired and getting close to weepy. He told me about what's going on with him, and then he said, "So what's going on with you? How's work?" I told him that I didn't want to talk about work because there's so much background information required that it just wasn't worth the effort. "Tell me," he replied softly.
So I tried to talk about two coworkers and how I'm worried for my own position when one returns, and I tried to explain about their personalities, but then I just gave up. It was quiet for a minute, and then the boy spoke.
"Honey," he said sweetly, "When you get up here, let's take one evening and let me wrap you in my favorite blanket and just hold you. Just let me take care of you. You need it too."
Six weeks and counting.
Last night, I finally got a chance to talk with the boy around 10:30. By then I was tired and getting close to weepy. He told me about what's going on with him, and then he said, "So what's going on with you? How's work?" I told him that I didn't want to talk about work because there's so much background information required that it just wasn't worth the effort. "Tell me," he replied softly.
So I tried to talk about two coworkers and how I'm worried for my own position when one returns, and I tried to explain about their personalities, but then I just gave up. It was quiet for a minute, and then the boy spoke.
"Honey," he said sweetly, "When you get up here, let's take one evening and let me wrap you in my favorite blanket and just hold you. Just let me take care of you. You need it too."
Six weeks and counting.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Laughingstock, Once Again
I'll be honest. When this story first broke, I paid it little attention. It just seemed like something that Alabama would absolutely do. Somehow, today, the story caught my interest. I was reading Above The Law and came across this link. Which, of course, led me here.
What really caught my eye were these two quotes: Public morality can still serve as a legitimate rational basis for regulating commercial activity, which is not a private activity, Supreme Court justices wrote in the opinion issued Friday. And, even better: As the Eleventh Circuit in Williams IV pithily and somewhat coarsely stated: There is nothing 'private' or 'consensual' about the advertising and sale of a dildo.
I can't seem to get my head around this. I did search, quite in vain, for the slip copy of the Supreme Court's decision, only to find that for a mere $17 I could have it. That absolutely sucks, but isn't my point. (However, law should not be only for those who can afford it.)
So, is the issue here the commercialization of such shops? In that case, how 'bout we ban gun advertising? Something tells me that a lot more people have been harmed with guns than have with dildoes.
And oh, how I love the ACLU. It fought the law declaring illegal the sale of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs. And it lost. But at least it tried. And folks, in this story, they quoted the Alabama Attorney General as saying, "a ban on the sale of sexual devices and related orgasm-stimulating paraphernalia is rationally related to a legitimate legislative interest in discouraging prurient interests in autonomous sex."
I would really like to know how. Honestly. If you can explain it to me, please let me know and we'll have a very interesting conversation.
But with things like this happening, how can anyone be worried about sex toys (excuse me, "marital aids")?
What really caught my eye were these two quotes: Public morality can still serve as a legitimate rational basis for regulating commercial activity, which is not a private activity, Supreme Court justices wrote in the opinion issued Friday. And, even better: As the Eleventh Circuit in Williams IV pithily and somewhat coarsely stated: There is nothing 'private' or 'consensual' about the advertising and sale of a dildo.
I can't seem to get my head around this. I did search, quite in vain, for the slip copy of the Supreme Court's decision, only to find that for a mere $17 I could have it. That absolutely sucks, but isn't my point. (However, law should not be only for those who can afford it.)
So, is the issue here the commercialization of such shops? In that case, how 'bout we ban gun advertising? Something tells me that a lot more people have been harmed with guns than have with dildoes.
And oh, how I love the ACLU. It fought the law declaring illegal the sale of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs. And it lost. But at least it tried. And folks, in this story, they quoted the Alabama Attorney General as saying, "a ban on the sale of sexual devices and related orgasm-stimulating paraphernalia is rationally related to a legitimate legislative interest in discouraging prurient interests in autonomous sex."
I would really like to know how. Honestly. If you can explain it to me, please let me know and we'll have a very interesting conversation.
But with things like this happening, how can anyone be worried about sex toys (excuse me, "marital aids")?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Just So You Know
I am thinking, just not writing. I don't know why. Today, though, it's because I'm really, really overtired and anything I write would be even dumber than this post.
Maybe I can get an idea out tomorrow at work. Anything in particular you'd like to know about?
Maybe I can get an idea out tomorrow at work. Anything in particular you'd like to know about?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
What I Did All Weekend
I know you folks have been waiting with bated breath for a recap of my weekend. Well, lovelies, your hopes are about to come true!
Friday:
It's a surprisingly large state, this here Alabama. I mean, I know it's a long state, but I had no idea how wide it is. It took me about three hours to get to Mississippi (like anyone's in a hurry to get there, but still...). In Mississippi I saw a field of FEMA trailers left over from Katrina. It was a trailer graveyard. Strange. I wished there had been a sign warning me so I could've pulled over and taken pictures.
Finally made it into Louisiana, only to discover that interstate 12 is an absolute abortion. I mean, it was terrible. Bad drivers, bad road...awful. Luckily it was the last thirty miles of my trip, so I managed to make it through unscathed.
I arrived and was a thrilling house guest, what with the alternating yawns and hyperness, brought on by a lot of Red Bull. Oh, did I have wings. But when those wings fell off, I crashed pretty hard...
Saturday:
Wade and I went to the mall and got me the prettiest prettiest dress ever. See, the boy is taking me to he opera next month, so certainly I needed a new dress. It's black jersey on the top and shades of blue on bottom, and the fabric on the bottom is accordion-style...
Saturday night Wade and I went to a casino. I was super excited, as I love to gamble. And by 'gamble', I mean nickel slots. With twenty bucks. Yes, I know what a high-roller I am. No need to be jealous. This casino was pretty bad - it was like Gamblers Anonymous created a place from which to cull new members. Wade's drink was weak, mine was strong, but that only seems fair since she won money and I did not. I lost money and pouted through a smile until we got to go home. Wade's as big a gambling enthusiast as I am.
Sunday:
New Orleans! Wade and I struck out around 1pm and hit French Quarter with the kind of vengeance a stay-at-home mother and underemployed lawyer can. We ate red beans and rice and bread pudding...
Can I just get a Twitter-style NOM NOM NOM?
Next we walked around Jackson Square, looking for someone to read my tarot cards (shut up) and maybe give me a henna tattoo. The psychics all looked pretty non-clairvoyant, so we skipped that plan. Instead, we walked past a street artist and his works, and I saw the most amazing piece of art.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bestest find I've gotten since the Hell artwork the boy bought for me:
Introducing...Demented Chicken!
I absolutely love this, and it now holds a vaulted space just outside my kitchen. Wade and I then shopping for silliness - t-shirts, other things, and then, just as we were about to have to start kicking tourists, we got out of there.
When we got back, Wade's husband took us out for Mexican food. Can I just tell you that I love Wade's husband? This was the exchange between the waitress and me (mind you, Wade has two small children):
Waitress: Something to drink?
Me: Got any Xanax back there? (Nodding towards kids)
Waitress: ...
Waitress: I don't think so.
Me: Oh, all right. Margarita rocks, please.
5 minutes later.
Waitress: Anything else?
Me: Find any Xanax?
Waitress: Unfortunately, no.
Me: Oh, all right. Another margarita rocks please.
See how clever I am? I'm sure she didn't find me at all annoying.
Monday:
I packed up my goods and got ready to leave. I walked past Wade's husband and said, "If you help me load up, I'll be gone more quickly." That man got up with a speed I hadn't seen all weekend.
It was a lovely trip. I'm looking forward to returning. Thanks Wade, Wade's husband, and Wade's small children!
Friday:
It's a surprisingly large state, this here Alabama. I mean, I know it's a long state, but I had no idea how wide it is. It took me about three hours to get to Mississippi (like anyone's in a hurry to get there, but still...). In Mississippi I saw a field of FEMA trailers left over from Katrina. It was a trailer graveyard. Strange. I wished there had been a sign warning me so I could've pulled over and taken pictures.
Finally made it into Louisiana, only to discover that interstate 12 is an absolute abortion. I mean, it was terrible. Bad drivers, bad road...awful. Luckily it was the last thirty miles of my trip, so I managed to make it through unscathed.
I arrived and was a thrilling house guest, what with the alternating yawns and hyperness, brought on by a lot of Red Bull. Oh, did I have wings. But when those wings fell off, I crashed pretty hard...
Saturday:
Wade and I went to the mall and got me the prettiest prettiest dress ever. See, the boy is taking me to he opera next month, so certainly I needed a new dress. It's black jersey on the top and shades of blue on bottom, and the fabric on the bottom is accordion-style...
Saturday night Wade and I went to a casino. I was super excited, as I love to gamble. And by 'gamble', I mean nickel slots. With twenty bucks. Yes, I know what a high-roller I am. No need to be jealous. This casino was pretty bad - it was like Gamblers Anonymous created a place from which to cull new members. Wade's drink was weak, mine was strong, but that only seems fair since she won money and I did not. I lost money and pouted through a smile until we got to go home. Wade's as big a gambling enthusiast as I am.
Sunday:
New Orleans! Wade and I struck out around 1pm and hit French Quarter with the kind of vengeance a stay-at-home mother and underemployed lawyer can. We ate red beans and rice and bread pudding...
Can I just get a Twitter-style NOM NOM NOM?
Next we walked around Jackson Square, looking for someone to read my tarot cards (shut up) and maybe give me a henna tattoo. The psychics all looked pretty non-clairvoyant, so we skipped that plan. Instead, we walked past a street artist and his works, and I saw the most amazing piece of art.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bestest find I've gotten since the Hell artwork the boy bought for me:
Introducing...Demented Chicken!
I absolutely love this, and it now holds a vaulted space just outside my kitchen. Wade and I then shopping for silliness - t-shirts, other things, and then, just as we were about to have to start kicking tourists, we got out of there.
When we got back, Wade's husband took us out for Mexican food. Can I just tell you that I love Wade's husband? This was the exchange between the waitress and me (mind you, Wade has two small children):
Waitress: Something to drink?
Me: Got any Xanax back there? (Nodding towards kids)
Waitress: ...
Waitress: I don't think so.
Me: Oh, all right. Margarita rocks, please.
5 minutes later.
Waitress: Anything else?
Me: Find any Xanax?
Waitress: Unfortunately, no.
Me: Oh, all right. Another margarita rocks please.
See how clever I am? I'm sure she didn't find me at all annoying.
Monday:
I packed up my goods and got ready to leave. I walked past Wade's husband and said, "If you help me load up, I'll be gone more quickly." That man got up with a speed I hadn't seen all weekend.
It was a lovely trip. I'm looking forward to returning. Thanks Wade, Wade's husband, and Wade's small children!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Placekeeper
I promise to tell you all about my trip to Baton Rouge and New Orleans soon. Right now I'm so wired on caffeine that my thoughts would be more stream-of-consciousness than usual.
Also, I've got a post in the works about how I probably wouldn't be a good parent, in which Wade and her husband look like rock stars and I look like a dope.
You don't want to miss either one! Stay tuned...
Also, I've got a post in the works about how I probably wouldn't be a good parent, in which Wade and her husband look like rock stars and I look like a dope.
You don't want to miss either one! Stay tuned...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I Need The Laugh
It's been a weird twenty-four hours. After some drama last night, I found that I was in pretty good mood today. This surprised me. I thought I'd be anxious and shaky and worried and all those other bad-tummy feelings. Instead, I was busy, cheerful, and productive, and when I got home and GOT ON THE INTERNET (that's directed at someone we shall refer to as 'the boy'. Yeah.) I found a Facebook update referencing despair.com. Folks, this site saved my life when I worked for the software engineering company.
I'm going to share my favorite with you, right here, and hopefully the lovely people at Despair.com will not send me a cease-and-desist letter. If you love these too, go spend your hard-earned cash over at the site. I know I have.
And, finally, a personal favorite. Momma's got this one hanging in her classroom. Good thing she's got tenure, huh?
I'm going to share my favorite with you, right here, and hopefully the lovely people at Despair.com will not send me a cease-and-desist letter. If you love these too, go spend your hard-earned cash over at the site. I know I have.
And, finally, a personal favorite. Momma's got this one hanging in her classroom. Good thing she's got tenure, huh?
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