The other morning, while I was lying abed and ruing the thought that I had to get out of it eventually, this terrifying thought came across my mind:
Somehow, your blog/tweets are going to be used against you.
Man, that'll shut down my ability to write big time. So now I'm afraid to write anything that might show some personality.
But there's hope. I'll eventually either forget that I had that thought, or I'll get so ticked that someone would use my words against me and get on such a First Amendment tear that nothing will stop me.
But I won't tell you which of the above two it was that got me writing again.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
And On A Lighter Note...
I’m typing this bit of awesomeness out in its entirety because I don’t know how many of you follow through the links I post, and this is just Too. Fucking. Amazing. not to share with you.
Remember, it’s because I love each and every one of you who read this blog. Consider this a little gift to *you*.
Via:
Witnesses estimated the crowd of drunken Santas numbered about 50, and said that they rushed in through the front door of Hoyts Cinema in Christchurch, New Zealand, and began ripping down movie posters and smashing things.
"They were all dressed as Santa and shouting 'Ho f___ing ho'," said Kate Gorman, who was waiting to see the film "Enchanted" with her two young children when the Kringle onslaught began. Gorman said her children were confused by the event. "They asked me, 'Are they Santa's helpers gone crazy?' and I said 'No, they are just idiots.'"
Police were called to the scene but the Santas had already fled. Theater manager Derek Rive called the attackers "hooligans." "How often do a bunch of Santas just go and wreak havoc?" he asked.
More often than you might think. For example, in one incident that I reported on in 2005, another group of drunken Kiwi Santas went rampaging through Auckland. Some threw beer bottles, others reportedly robbed a convenience store, and one climbed the mooring line of a cruise ship. The New Zealand groups do not appear to be affiliated with the main Santarchy movement, which says that it is a peaceful organization that exists only to have fun and spread holiday cheer.
Link: Stuff.co.nz
Link: Santarchy.com
Now, if you are not reading Lowering The Bar, you have no-one to blame but your humorless, cold-hearted self.
Remember, it’s because I love each and every one of you who read this blog. Consider this a little gift to *you*.
Via:
Witnesses estimated the crowd of drunken Santas numbered about 50, and said that they rushed in through the front door of Hoyts Cinema in Christchurch, New Zealand, and began ripping down movie posters and smashing things.
"They were all dressed as Santa and shouting 'Ho f___ing ho'," said Kate Gorman, who was waiting to see the film "Enchanted" with her two young children when the Kringle onslaught began. Gorman said her children were confused by the event. "They asked me, 'Are they Santa's helpers gone crazy?' and I said 'No, they are just idiots.'"
Police were called to the scene but the Santas had already fled. Theater manager Derek Rive called the attackers "hooligans." "How often do a bunch of Santas just go and wreak havoc?" he asked.
More often than you might think. For example, in one incident that I reported on in 2005, another group of drunken Kiwi Santas went rampaging through Auckland. Some threw beer bottles, others reportedly robbed a convenience store, and one climbed the mooring line of a cruise ship. The New Zealand groups do not appear to be affiliated with the main Santarchy movement, which says that it is a peaceful organization that exists only to have fun and spread holiday cheer.
Link: Stuff.co.nz
Link: Santarchy.com
Now, if you are not reading Lowering The Bar, you have no-one to blame but your humorless, cold-hearted self.
It's Not You, It's Me
Free-flowing thoughts...
I feel scared. That's OK; I'm allowed to be scared. And the fear won't last as the mastery takes over. But until then, my fear will make me interact with you differently. I will ask for your attention. I will ask for reassurance, so much so that it may be overwhelming to you. It may seem that my well never fills, that I can't take enough of your belief in me into myself.
You know what? I can't. I can't get full. I don't listen to your positive reinforcement. I hear you, I absolutely hear you. But it never gets deeper than my epidermis. What I will listen to are your sighs when I ask you to tell me again that I can do this. That I will be good at it. That I am a good, smart, worthy person. I will listen to the impatience in your voice, and that will reinforce my absolute, pure knowledge that I am not good enough. That I will never be good enough. That the best I can hope for is to be needed. And if I can't find it in your words or actions, I will find a way for it to be there. It will be something little, something so insignificant, but it will speak truth to me.
I feel alone. I expect you to leave. I expect that I am overwhelming to you. I expect reinforcement that my needs are not worth addressing, that my fears are silly, that my worth is so vastly below yours that I am embarrassed to even write this down. I am embarrassed for myself. "How pathetic I am!" I think. "How worthless I am!" But it is my truth.
I will block this away, to chew on in quieter moments. For this incredible lack of self-esteem is not always apparent. Sometimes, I feel good. I feel powerful. I know that I can do whatever it is I need to do. Surely that's true; after all, I am still alive. I've lived through worse and I will again. And I will take that pain and block it away. It's the only way I can function. I will forgive even the cruelest words and actions aimed at me. I will do this because I need you. I need your friendship and support and love.
I know that when I do not place you above me or above another person who is important to me, you will be angry with me. I believe that you think, even on a subconscious level, "How dare she? After all I do for her, after all I put up with?" I do not know for certain that this is true, but it is how I imagine you regard me.
I cannot control how you react or feel or need. I am only now starting to work on myself. I have to. I have to face whatever it is that tells me of my lack of importance in this life. Ad I am afraid of this as well. I know there's a reason why my memory is bad and I'm not sure I want to know what I've experienced.
But I need the validation. I need to be heard, not just listened to, but heard. And heard. And heard again, until I absolutely believe that you understand. You can tell me that you understand, that you get it, that you sympathize with me or celebrate with me. But I do not believe this. This is me, these are my needs, and no amount of your love can fix it.
But please try. Or at least, try to understand.
I feel scared. That's OK; I'm allowed to be scared. And the fear won't last as the mastery takes over. But until then, my fear will make me interact with you differently. I will ask for your attention. I will ask for reassurance, so much so that it may be overwhelming to you. It may seem that my well never fills, that I can't take enough of your belief in me into myself.
You know what? I can't. I can't get full. I don't listen to your positive reinforcement. I hear you, I absolutely hear you. But it never gets deeper than my epidermis. What I will listen to are your sighs when I ask you to tell me again that I can do this. That I will be good at it. That I am a good, smart, worthy person. I will listen to the impatience in your voice, and that will reinforce my absolute, pure knowledge that I am not good enough. That I will never be good enough. That the best I can hope for is to be needed. And if I can't find it in your words or actions, I will find a way for it to be there. It will be something little, something so insignificant, but it will speak truth to me.
I feel alone. I expect you to leave. I expect that I am overwhelming to you. I expect reinforcement that my needs are not worth addressing, that my fears are silly, that my worth is so vastly below yours that I am embarrassed to even write this down. I am embarrassed for myself. "How pathetic I am!" I think. "How worthless I am!" But it is my truth.
I will block this away, to chew on in quieter moments. For this incredible lack of self-esteem is not always apparent. Sometimes, I feel good. I feel powerful. I know that I can do whatever it is I need to do. Surely that's true; after all, I am still alive. I've lived through worse and I will again. And I will take that pain and block it away. It's the only way I can function. I will forgive even the cruelest words and actions aimed at me. I will do this because I need you. I need your friendship and support and love.
I know that when I do not place you above me or above another person who is important to me, you will be angry with me. I believe that you think, even on a subconscious level, "How dare she? After all I do for her, after all I put up with?" I do not know for certain that this is true, but it is how I imagine you regard me.
I cannot control how you react or feel or need. I am only now starting to work on myself. I have to. I have to face whatever it is that tells me of my lack of importance in this life. Ad I am afraid of this as well. I know there's a reason why my memory is bad and I'm not sure I want to know what I've experienced.
But I need the validation. I need to be heard, not just listened to, but heard. And heard. And heard again, until I absolutely believe that you understand. You can tell me that you understand, that you get it, that you sympathize with me or celebrate with me. But I do not believe this. This is me, these are my needs, and no amount of your love can fix it.
But please try. Or at least, try to understand.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Scariest Words
Today at work, a lady came by me and said, "I hear congratulations are in order!" "What did I do?" I replied. "You're a lawyer, right?" "I am. I have been for a while."
"I have some questions for you."
Uh-oh. Folks, as much as I love what I do, I hate hearing that sentence. To me, it inevitably means that someone wants free legal advice. It also means that the asker assumes that I know everything about every aspect of the law. I wish I did, but were that true, I wouldn't be able to retain the knowledge of 80s music or the random trivia I can pull out of my ass. (Or make up. Get me to tell you my theory about the name Wayne, and all permutations thereof, sometime.) It almost always means that someone wants me to do research on his/her specific circumstance, without the benefit of being paid for it.
I'm betting that I'm going to be answering family law questions tomorrow. I also bet that by the end of the week, I'll be answering a whole lot more. And this means that I can't put my personal spin on what people tell me (not out loud, at least).
Still - I bet doctors get this all the time as well. And it's not that I mind answering, it's just that there are potential repercussions for even attempting to give advice, no matter how vague. But I will try, because although I don't know even a quarter of the law, I do know more than someone who hasn't gone to law school. Plus I want people to like me.
"I have some questions for you."
Uh-oh. Folks, as much as I love what I do, I hate hearing that sentence. To me, it inevitably means that someone wants free legal advice. It also means that the asker assumes that I know everything about every aspect of the law. I wish I did, but were that true, I wouldn't be able to retain the knowledge of 80s music or the random trivia I can pull out of my ass. (Or make up. Get me to tell you my theory about the name Wayne, and all permutations thereof, sometime.) It almost always means that someone wants me to do research on his/her specific circumstance, without the benefit of being paid for it.
I'm betting that I'm going to be answering family law questions tomorrow. I also bet that by the end of the week, I'll be answering a whole lot more. And this means that I can't put my personal spin on what people tell me (not out loud, at least).
Still - I bet doctors get this all the time as well. And it's not that I mind answering, it's just that there are potential repercussions for even attempting to give advice, no matter how vague. But I will try, because although I don't know even a quarter of the law, I do know more than someone who hasn't gone to law school. Plus I want people to like me.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Most Healing Conversation
This post concerns a conversation I had back in April, so if you already know the story, and especially if you're B. or Wade and had to hear it ad nauseum, feel free to skip this one. Also, I don't have permission to talk about this, so if it's even more vague than usual, that's why.*
During my first trip to Birmingham this year, I got to spend time with an ex, who I'd not seen since, oh, say, before the turn of the millennium. I was excited to see him, to see the man he's become, to see if we could be friends. We talked, the group of us, for a while, and yes, of course, there were cocktails involved. Social lubricant, people! Can you imagine how many conversations you'd've never had were it not for the help of a martini or so?
The ex and I finally got a chance to talk, just the two of us, and we ended up hashing out our relationship. It occurred to me, about ten minutes into this talk, that I was actually getting to have the fabled "closure" conversation. We talked about why we got along, why we didn't, and we talked about our favorites memories of each other and of the long-gone 'us'.
It was interesting to hear his memories of me, like how I wrap my hair in a giant turban after a shower. It was funnier to hear that all those times I thought he was annoyed with me when I'd distract him from studying, he actually was never annoyed but playing along. (Well done! I had no idea, and I had no idea you were that good of an actor.) It was bittersweet to talk about a Valentine's Day we had together, when he drove two-and-a-half hours to surprise me at work, and how he left a New Year's Eve party that he was hosting because I insisted on a kiss at midnight.
These are now good memories, and I feel really, forgive the turn of phrase, validated in having that conversation. It means a lot to me to know that I meant a lot to him. I never believe that I am, or ever was, as important to another person as s/he is/was to me.
I wish I could have this conversation with my other significant others.
This post courtesy of reading Cary Tennis for an extended time today. If you've not started reading his advice column, you really should start. There's a pure method to his rambling madness. And a sweetness and a forgiveness that I appreciate more than I could express.
* I got permission, which is why this post is still here. And I send thanks to the man who let me keep it online.
During my first trip to Birmingham this year, I got to spend time with an ex, who I'd not seen since, oh, say, before the turn of the millennium. I was excited to see him, to see the man he's become, to see if we could be friends. We talked, the group of us, for a while, and yes, of course, there were cocktails involved. Social lubricant, people! Can you imagine how many conversations you'd've never had were it not for the help of a martini or so?
The ex and I finally got a chance to talk, just the two of us, and we ended up hashing out our relationship. It occurred to me, about ten minutes into this talk, that I was actually getting to have the fabled "closure" conversation. We talked about why we got along, why we didn't, and we talked about our favorites memories of each other and of the long-gone 'us'.
It was interesting to hear his memories of me, like how I wrap my hair in a giant turban after a shower. It was funnier to hear that all those times I thought he was annoyed with me when I'd distract him from studying, he actually was never annoyed but playing along. (Well done! I had no idea, and I had no idea you were that good of an actor.) It was bittersweet to talk about a Valentine's Day we had together, when he drove two-and-a-half hours to surprise me at work, and how he left a New Year's Eve party that he was hosting because I insisted on a kiss at midnight.
These are now good memories, and I feel really, forgive the turn of phrase, validated in having that conversation. It means a lot to me to know that I meant a lot to him. I never believe that I am, or ever was, as important to another person as s/he is/was to me.
I wish I could have this conversation with my other significant others.
This post courtesy of reading Cary Tennis for an extended time today. If you've not started reading his advice column, you really should start. There's a pure method to his rambling madness. And a sweetness and a forgiveness that I appreciate more than I could express.
* I got permission, which is why this post is still here. And I send thanks to the man who let me keep it online.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Snickers
Today I ran across Lowering the Bar. Now, to set this up, let me describe where I sit at work: It's a two-story building and I am upstairs. The reception area is outside the main work area, separated by a door and glass walls. Across from me is open; it's an open-aired entryway. This area is also covered in glass, all the way down to the entrance. Needless to say, this place is an echo chamber. I use this for both good and ill. For example, the other day, a customer came in, speaking too loudly on his cell phone. "Can you hear me?" he hollered into the phone. From above came a spooky voice that sounded strangely like mine, "Yes. Yes, I can." I don't think the guy ever figured it out.
So I get to reading this blog, and I cannot control my giggles. Seriously, this is a funny site, and you don't even have to be a lawyer or law student to appreciate it. So enjoy, folks, but know that you will laugh out loud and customers will look at you strangely.
Or maybe it's just me.
So I get to reading this blog, and I cannot control my giggles. Seriously, this is a funny site, and you don't even have to be a lawyer or law student to appreciate it. So enjoy, folks, but know that you will laugh out loud and customers will look at you strangely.
Or maybe it's just me.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Goodbye, July
I really didn't intend for that to rhyme. But since I didn't invent the English language, I suppose I can be forgiven.
Sunday was nice - I visited with Momma. Usually we do these visits on the phone, but with Bubbles still on the fritz and dad out of the house, it was a good time to have a 2-for-1 date - good company and clean clothes. Two thoughts: Momma has mah jongg installed on her new computer and I almost wanted to knock her over so I could play. I restrained myself, but only barely. I was only over there for just over an hour and when I left, I smelled my hand, and it smelled like their place. Weird. You can decide whether smelling my hand was weird or the scent it had was weird. I'll accept your judgment.
When I got home with seventy-five dollars' worth of groceries and a basket of wet clothes, I got Fluffy going (at least I can rely on one appliance) and made myself a broccoli-and-cheese quiche and a vegetarian pot pie so I could have lunches for the week. Everyone at work was so jealous of my tasty-smelling quiche, and I know this because for just a brief instant, the aroma of reheated barbeque pork faded.
Let's hope this month I can get Bubbles fixed or replaced. If she's replaced, the new machine will be called Bubbles 2: Electric Bugaloo, or E.B. for short. Let's also hope that my campaign of strong-arming the boy to come visit me (yeah, and his folks and friends too) works. He's been talking about a visit here for a while, and since it's approximately 1000 degrees where he lives and all he has is a window unit, and although it's approximately 1000 degrees here (not including humidity) but I have central air, I think I might have the stronger argument.
Sunday was nice - I visited with Momma. Usually we do these visits on the phone, but with Bubbles still on the fritz and dad out of the house, it was a good time to have a 2-for-1 date - good company and clean clothes. Two thoughts: Momma has mah jongg installed on her new computer and I almost wanted to knock her over so I could play. I restrained myself, but only barely. I was only over there for just over an hour and when I left, I smelled my hand, and it smelled like their place. Weird. You can decide whether smelling my hand was weird or the scent it had was weird. I'll accept your judgment.
When I got home with seventy-five dollars' worth of groceries and a basket of wet clothes, I got Fluffy going (at least I can rely on one appliance) and made myself a broccoli-and-cheese quiche and a vegetarian pot pie so I could have lunches for the week. Everyone at work was so jealous of my tasty-smelling quiche, and I know this because for just a brief instant, the aroma of reheated barbeque pork faded.
Let's hope this month I can get Bubbles fixed or replaced. If she's replaced, the new machine will be called Bubbles 2: Electric Bugaloo, or E.B. for short. Let's also hope that my campaign of strong-arming the boy to come visit me (yeah, and his folks and friends too) works. He's been talking about a visit here for a while, and since it's approximately 1000 degrees where he lives and all he has is a window unit, and although it's approximately 1000 degrees here (not including humidity) but I have central air, I think I might have the stronger argument.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
