If you know me or have spent any time around me, you might notice something a bit strange. I generally can hide it or make it seem minimal, but here's the truth - I shake. It's most noticeable when I've not had enough sleep, if I'm about to have an anxiety attack (being me ROX!), or if I'm awake.
A friend in law school pulled me aside one day and said, "Can I ask you a question? Why do you shake?" It was a particularly bad day that day, and I was quite grateful to have my laptop because sometimes it's hard to hold a pen. I told him that I didn't know what it was, but that both my mother and my grandmother shook, so I figured it was something genetic.
Now, with the help of the interwebs, I think I've figured it out: it's essential tremor. What a fantastic name, folks! Essential Tremor! Can't you picture the indie-rock kids just having a field day, or some art gallery exhibition that you'd be dragged to with that title?
It pretty much means that I shake and modern medicine doesn't know why. It doesn't hurt, it's not fatal, and it means that I get quite creative some days when I put on eyeliner. (Thank Christmas for the smudgy eyeliner brush!)
It's mostly with my hands, sometimes with other body parts, and it's quite embarrassing. It's not the DTs or any kind of withdrawal - and honestly, that's what most people think it is. It's not.
You know what one of the treatments is? Having a drink or two. That stops the shaking. And really, for the most part my shakes are minimal and barely noticeable. But some days, I look like I have Parkinson's. (OK, I'm overdramatizing, but it seems that way.)
So now you know.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I Like What I Like
I’m sitting here, reading a few weeks’ old interview with Jack White (White Stripes, The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather) and I noticed a comment at the bottom – you know, where anonymous trolls go to put in their vital two cents’ worth – that if someone likes Lady GaGa then his/her taste is dead. Really? Uh-oh, folks, I’ve got some bad news for you. My taste is dead.
This reminds me a lot of high school (and to some extent, college), where people were closely defined by the music they liked. I can remember having to pretend that I liked certain bands so my ever-so-goth group of friends would continue to accept me. I can remember having to say I hated certain bands because they were too popular and therefore uncool for anyone worth knowing to like.
So I’m just going to have to put a little truth out there, and to do it, I’ll have to use the words of the boy, “I have both great and terrible taste in music.” It’s true (for both of us.) I’ll tell you a little secret, dear everyone who’s ever been on or will be on the internet ever, so let’s keep this between us, one of the boy’s and my first flirtations was over Teena Marie’s Lovergirl. Can there be a better example of great and terrible taste in music?
So hush up now, inner sixteen-year-old me, and let’s just enjoy the Lady GaGa CD I own, along side my seemingly endless collection of Marc Almond. Let’s not judge ourselves based on our musical tastes, or make up elaborate excuses for liking what we like. (One last aside – I think record producers have gotten so good that in many cases, we physically cannot help ourselves from liking some popular songs.)
This reminds me a lot of high school (and to some extent, college), where people were closely defined by the music they liked. I can remember having to pretend that I liked certain bands so my ever-so-goth group of friends would continue to accept me. I can remember having to say I hated certain bands because they were too popular and therefore uncool for anyone worth knowing to like.
So I’m just going to have to put a little truth out there, and to do it, I’ll have to use the words of the boy, “I have both great and terrible taste in music.” It’s true (for both of us.) I’ll tell you a little secret, dear everyone who’s ever been on or will be on the internet ever, so let’s keep this between us, one of the boy’s and my first flirtations was over Teena Marie’s Lovergirl. Can there be a better example of great and terrible taste in music?
So hush up now, inner sixteen-year-old me, and let’s just enjoy the Lady GaGa CD I own, along side my seemingly endless collection of Marc Almond. Let’s not judge ourselves based on our musical tastes, or make up elaborate excuses for liking what we like. (One last aside – I think record producers have gotten so good that in many cases, we physically cannot help ourselves from liking some popular songs.)
You’ll Be Fine
As I worry over work, money, and everything else on the planet which makes me not at all special, I’ve found that I’ve heard, “You’ll be fine,” more and more often. This really bothers me. To me, it’s a way of being condescending and ending a conversation in three short words. It’s rude. If someone needs to worry, let them worry out loud for a bit. I’m not saying that you have to be the listening martyr. I’m just saying that everyone needs a few minutes (let’s say five) to get their thoughts off their chests. Everyone needs to be listened to and heard on occasion. And hell, you don’t even have to be really paying attention to the speaker at all! At this point in our lives, we’re all more than adequate at appropriate, “Oh, no,” or “Hmmm,” comments.
So play nice. One day you’ll want to be heard. And for the record, I pay close attention to dismissive attitudes from those with whom I speak. And you lose listening minutes each time you shut me down.
So play nice. One day you’ll want to be heard. And for the record, I pay close attention to dismissive attitudes from those with whom I speak. And you lose listening minutes each time you shut me down.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Ow.
If I've not told you, I have quite possibly the worst set of knees in existence. Really, it's true. When I was fourteen and visiting my brother in Florida, I was unable to get out of the car because my knees locked. Luckily, back then, I was a tiny thing and my brother was a Navy...something or other. Suffice to say that people saluted him. Which still makes me laugh.
I apparently inherited my grandfather's knees from my Momma's side. They work OK most of the time, but on occasion, they can tell weather, standing up too straight, and once or twice, that there was a fantastic sale at SuperTarget.
Yet I insist on wearing very high heels. As time goes on, the heels get higher and the balance gets worse. Why, you ask? Why would I hurt myself more?
Because I won't be able to wear them forever and I love love love love love high heels. Yes, they generally make me taller than any man who's not a member of the NBA, but so what? I love the way they change my walk.
But I have to tell you, after nine hours at work in four-and-a-half-inch heels, I hurt. Badly. The boy said that I should get a foot massage. NO! I do not anyone to touch my feet tonight.
So here's some truth - I put beauty over pain.
Wait - you wanted to see them? OK, but only because I expect you to mock me:
I apparently inherited my grandfather's knees from my Momma's side. They work OK most of the time, but on occasion, they can tell weather, standing up too straight, and once or twice, that there was a fantastic sale at SuperTarget.
Yet I insist on wearing very high heels. As time goes on, the heels get higher and the balance gets worse. Why, you ask? Why would I hurt myself more?
Because I won't be able to wear them forever and I love love love love love high heels. Yes, they generally make me taller than any man who's not a member of the NBA, but so what? I love the way they change my walk.
But I have to tell you, after nine hours at work in four-and-a-half-inch heels, I hurt. Badly. The boy said that I should get a foot massage. NO! I do not anyone to touch my feet tonight.
So here's some truth - I put beauty over pain.
Wait - you wanted to see them? OK, but only because I expect you to mock me:
Friday, January 15, 2010
What Are You Doing Here?
For some reason, it always weirds me out when I run into people in a different place from the area where I normally associate them. I’m sure you know the feeling as well; it’s like when you were in high school and you saw one of your teachers at the grocery store.
When I was younger, I never thought about those people having actual lives, families…homes, for that matter. But of course they did, as I did too. I would think by now that I would be over this strange, nerve-wracking feeling. But I’m not.
Two Novembers ago, after the 9-hour date, as you might remember, I ran into said date at an art fair. I didn’t know he’d be there and when I recognized him (I’ll admit to very bad eyesight on occasion), my pulse started racing and I could feel my heart beating into my chest. I smiled, got no response, and headed upstairs to meet my friend. On the landing between the flights of stairs, I ran into an old manager from Geeks-R-Us. Same visceral reaction. In fact, I probably didn’t notice so much because I still hadn’t calmed down from running into date. But when we exchanged pleasantries, I’m sure my voice was shaking and I didn’t make a lot of sense. Later that day, it turned out that whoever date was with had the space directly in front of my friend’s booth. Wonderful. I’ve probably shaved three weeks off my life because of that day. (And I’ll tell you, I totally made some snide comments. You expected better behavior? Read another blog. Date hurt my feelings and even more so my ego.)
Today I decided to give myself a rare treat (it’s been a long week. Sweet merciful Christmas, Friday, what took you so long?!?) of a Subway® sandwich. When I walked in, I saw another old manager from Geeks-R-Us. I’d not seen him since 2004. But I said hello, and we spoke briefly:
Him: What are you doing here?
Me: Getting lunch. What are you doing here? (You should know by now that I’m a smartass. But that’s a dumb question, people. What was I going to say? “Planning to rob the joint”?)
But as I walked away, my heart was pounding into my throat and my hands shook. (Not that that’s all that rare, but that’s a story for another time.) I just can’t figure out why I react the way I do. It’s almost like a guilt reflex. But what could possibly make me feel guilty? I’m not leading a double life, I haven’t done anything particularly naughty as of late…so what is it?
When I was younger, I never thought about those people having actual lives, families…homes, for that matter. But of course they did, as I did too. I would think by now that I would be over this strange, nerve-wracking feeling. But I’m not.
Two Novembers ago, after the 9-hour date, as you might remember, I ran into said date at an art fair. I didn’t know he’d be there and when I recognized him (I’ll admit to very bad eyesight on occasion), my pulse started racing and I could feel my heart beating into my chest. I smiled, got no response, and headed upstairs to meet my friend. On the landing between the flights of stairs, I ran into an old manager from Geeks-R-Us. Same visceral reaction. In fact, I probably didn’t notice so much because I still hadn’t calmed down from running into date. But when we exchanged pleasantries, I’m sure my voice was shaking and I didn’t make a lot of sense. Later that day, it turned out that whoever date was with had the space directly in front of my friend’s booth. Wonderful. I’ve probably shaved three weeks off my life because of that day. (And I’ll tell you, I totally made some snide comments. You expected better behavior? Read another blog. Date hurt my feelings and even more so my ego.)
Today I decided to give myself a rare treat (it’s been a long week. Sweet merciful Christmas, Friday, what took you so long?!?) of a Subway® sandwich. When I walked in, I saw another old manager from Geeks-R-Us. I’d not seen him since 2004. But I said hello, and we spoke briefly:
Him: What are you doing here?
Me: Getting lunch. What are you doing here? (You should know by now that I’m a smartass. But that’s a dumb question, people. What was I going to say? “Planning to rob the joint”?)
But as I walked away, my heart was pounding into my throat and my hands shook. (Not that that’s all that rare, but that’s a story for another time.) I just can’t figure out why I react the way I do. It’s almost like a guilt reflex. But what could possibly make me feel guilty? I’m not leading a double life, I haven’t done anything particularly naughty as of late…so what is it?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Suggestions
It's been a while, but the boy has returned to the habit of reading to me. He has a lovely voice for such a task, and is one of the rare few who can read out loud well. (I do not have such a gift. I have the opposite tendency - to read as quickly as possible so hopefully no-one will notice that I've not read the word "the" in about thirty years.) He also doesn't mind when I fall asleep when he reads to me, and people, that's a pretty rare find in a man. I'd take offense after a while, but he takes it as a sign that I trust him.
So, on to the point. The other night he read to me a graphic novel of a Lovecraft story (irony ain't lost on me either) and then from Hannibal. I was doing OK with the Hannibal; I've read it myself a few years ago. I was doing OK until Harris switched from third person to omniscient narrator, and that's about when I'd had it with the bad writing and the bad story and the bad book and just kinda freaked out on the boy about it all.
So now he wants suggestions of what to read to me, and please, no chick lit. I can't imagine enjoying my Jennifer Weiner favorites in the boy's voice, so that's a fine limitation by me. So what do you guys suggest as a good bedtime story? I'm thinking of something in the vein of Kipling's Just So Stories. Do you know of any good short story collections?
So, on to the point. The other night he read to me a graphic novel of a Lovecraft story (irony ain't lost on me either) and then from Hannibal. I was doing OK with the Hannibal; I've read it myself a few years ago. I was doing OK until Harris switched from third person to omniscient narrator, and that's about when I'd had it with the bad writing and the bad story and the bad book and just kinda freaked out on the boy about it all.
So now he wants suggestions of what to read to me, and please, no chick lit. I can't imagine enjoying my Jennifer Weiner favorites in the boy's voice, so that's a fine limitation by me. So what do you guys suggest as a good bedtime story? I'm thinking of something in the vein of Kipling's Just So Stories. Do you know of any good short story collections?
Monday, January 4, 2010
Bless Your Heart
This is something that you know if you're Southern. I will help you out here. Bless your heart is a traditional Southern saying, and I don't think you really know what it means.
You know you've seen movies with Southern characters. You know you've heard the phrase. (The two can be quite different.)
"Bless your heart" is actually an insult. Yeah. I said it. It really is. I'm sure you've not heard it in that context very often. But it's true. "Bless your heart" really means that the sayer thinks it's fortunate that you're bright enough to tie your shoes. It's a finishing school thing. I will admit, I've never been to finishing school. But if you've met my Momma, and know the importance of Hallmark cards, you might have a clue.
Most people say it as if to say, "I'm so sorry." These are not bad people (women). They just don't know.
You need to know the glory of sarcasm in order to get this right. Bless your heart is an awful phrase, but so endlessly useful.
If you need examples, feel free to let me know. I'll be glad to teach you. Just, please, don't ask me about JuWantTo. I'm not quite ready to explain that.
You know you've seen movies with Southern characters. You know you've heard the phrase. (The two can be quite different.)
"Bless your heart" is actually an insult. Yeah. I said it. It really is. I'm sure you've not heard it in that context very often. But it's true. "Bless your heart" really means that the sayer thinks it's fortunate that you're bright enough to tie your shoes. It's a finishing school thing. I will admit, I've never been to finishing school. But if you've met my Momma, and know the importance of Hallmark cards, you might have a clue.
Most people say it as if to say, "I'm so sorry." These are not bad people (women). They just don't know.
You need to know the glory of sarcasm in order to get this right. Bless your heart is an awful phrase, but so endlessly useful.
If you need examples, feel free to let me know. I'll be glad to teach you. Just, please, don't ask me about JuWantTo. I'm not quite ready to explain that.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
How It's Going To Be
I have to tell you, I am so pleased that it's 2010. As I type, I'm listening to Snow Patrol's Just Say Yes. I love this song. I'm a bit disappointed that it's attached to a movie. This means it'll be ruined.
AnyHoo...
I've made my resolutions for this year. They do tend to morph back and forth, but they're mine, and I will make them work. I intend to reintroduce myself to me. As it turns out, I'm pretty fucking awesome and I don't give myself enough credit.
I'm going to trust both my training and my instincts at work.
I'm going to really care about myself, both physically and mentally.
I'm going to show love when I feel it. Even when it's not returned in the way I'd like.
I'm going to figure out when to lift up my walls and when to let my guard down. I will make mistakes over and over as I figure this one out, but that's OK. There's never a downside to showing someone how you really feel.
I'm going to be honest and tell people when they hurt me. I've always been afraid of being left alone. But do I really need people who betray my trust as friends? No. No, I do not. This one will be difficult, because I've lived so long with the mantra, "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" You know what? They're not mutually exclusive.
Thank you, all of you, for going on this journey with me. It's not easy, but I love sharing with you and I so appreciate that you listen/read to me.
2010 is OUR year. Indeed. Let's do this journey together.
AnyHoo...
I've made my resolutions for this year. They do tend to morph back and forth, but they're mine, and I will make them work. I intend to reintroduce myself to me. As it turns out, I'm pretty fucking awesome and I don't give myself enough credit.
I'm going to trust both my training and my instincts at work.
I'm going to really care about myself, both physically and mentally.
I'm going to show love when I feel it. Even when it's not returned in the way I'd like.
I'm going to figure out when to lift up my walls and when to let my guard down. I will make mistakes over and over as I figure this one out, but that's OK. There's never a downside to showing someone how you really feel.
I'm going to be honest and tell people when they hurt me. I've always been afraid of being left alone. But do I really need people who betray my trust as friends? No. No, I do not. This one will be difficult, because I've lived so long with the mantra, "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" You know what? They're not mutually exclusive.
Thank you, all of you, for going on this journey with me. It's not easy, but I love sharing with you and I so appreciate that you listen/read to me.
2010 is OUR year. Indeed. Let's do this journey together.
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