This is the story of how I came to be disillusioned about life, and my future, within the working world.
When I was just twenty, I had myself some lofty ambitions in life. I was going to go and produce the world’s largest exhibition figure skating tour, and damn was I going to be something. Armed with this ambition, I began to research post-secondary institutions that could aid me in the realization of that dream. As a typical kid, (which, let’s face it, is all you are when you are still in your early twenties) I jumped at the first opportunity to get into college. The recruiter at this particular institution lied without remorse about the virtues of their particular brand of education, citing statistics that were more out of date than Zoot Suits. I, as a stupid kid, readily believed these statistics, believing the degree they were offering me in Business Operations with a concentration on Production Management would lead easily to my ultimate goal of producing the professional figure skating tour.
It took about two years of studies, (and roughly $20,000.00 in student loans) for me to fully realize the extent to which I’d been taken in. Production Management, under this particular Institute of Higher Robbery, related specifically to factory production. Factories were places that, even as child, I’d found more depressing than the holocaust. Sadly, by the time I figured this out (namely because up and to this point, the courses had been relatively generic, focusing on basic managerial practices and the like) I was too far in debt to turn back. What choice did I have?? I had to continue on taking the courses that would eventually reward me with a degree in a field I not only had no interest in, but would rather take my own life than be employed by.
Now, when a person loses interest, and not only loses interest, but genuinely abhors a subject matter; mustering enthusiasm for the same is next to impossible. As such, my grades soon slipped terribly, causing my instructors to query why I had morphed overnight into a D student where I had previously been on the honor roll. I explained to them carefully, hoping to find answers but getting only embarrassed glances and red faces. They knew, you see, that the structure of the recruitment department depended upon filling the seats in order to pay the recruiters salary and their own. My story was in no way unique. Most of the students there had been coerced through the doors via a recruiting officers lies, and made to stay through the debt they’d already incurred via student financing. Sometimes when you have a large number of folk in the same position, the unethical nature thereof is normalized enough to almost make it appear acceptable…almost.
At any rate, when I walked out of the Institute of Robbery, I did so two courses short of a degree. I had the good sense to change the wording of my resume to make it appear as though I had completed the full degree…but soon found out that due to the Institute of Robbery’s questionable name within the industry, the degree meant very little. My first job upon “completion” of my degree was in a credit union. Never in my life have I hated a job so intensely. I was made to stand for eight hours a day, Monday through Friday, due to the fact that our manager deemed it “unprofessional” for a bank teller to sit while dealing with customers. How she figured it appeared more professional for us to be shifting our weight from foot to foot in a desperate attempt to evenly distribute the pain is beyond me. On top of the physical strain of that job (which, in retrospect, I think greatly contributed to my hip and back finally deciding they both hated me and going on strike) my co-workers made the experience all the more unbearable. Here we had a bunch of women that felt their role in the credit union was to look as fashionable as possible at all cost. Given that I couldn’t afford Prada shoes and Gucci handbags, I was deemed unfit for their clique. The teller manager was, by far, the most immature and outspoken among them; our fearless leader in group stupidity and high snobbery.
There was a lady working there at the time that was in her eighth month of pregnancy. Sadly, like me, this lady was unable to afford the latest styles and was therefore deemed unworthy of humane treatment. Our teller manager’s favorite trick was to refuse Angela a seat, making her stand during her entire shift. Needless to say, this is not possible for a pregnant woman, and Angela often had to choke back tears through the course of her workday. This marked the first time since “completing” post-secondary that I realized many people in management positions were incompetent asshats; far more interested in competing in some vague popularity contest than in actually effectively managing a body of people. Working under such individuals was enough to make me want to cry…and believe me, cry I did. I don’t know what made me feel the most despondent; the horrible nature of the job itself, or the terrifying realization that these were the types of careers I could look forward to for the rest of my life.
At the end, I was laid off for two reasons. The first being that, following the bank’s implementation of increased service charges for senior’s, I made it my mission in life to reverse those charges so allowing these senior’s the luxury of eating. The teller manager spoke to me about the importance of continuing to rob the seniors and so increasing branch profits several times. I smiled, nodded, and proceeded to carry straight on reversing those charges. The second was a letter I opted to submit to the branch manager in regards to the teller manager’s unethical behavior. I quickly learned that there are certain things the low man on the totem pole probably shouldn’t do…pointing out the general incompetence and abject stupidity of management is decidedly one of those things.
I remember the day I was laid off with perfect clarity. I had gone to work that morning with a heavy heart, wishing fervently that my body would be run down by a vehicle prior to my arrival. When I walked into the bank, having had no such luck, I noticed a cab parked in front. Two minutes later, I was called into the branch manager’s office and handed my walking papers. I looked right into his eyes, and sighed heavily. “You could have phoned me this morning and saved me a trip in, you know. I mean to say; now I’m going to have to pay a cab to get home.” He hastily informed me that the cab out front was for my benefit, and that the company would pay the bill to ferry me home. Without waiting for any further explanation, I began to smile widely. I was FREE!!! I practically danced out of the bank, and then got a very startled cab driver to take me on a tour of the entire city prior to depositing me back at my house. The bill came to over eighty dollars, adding to my general joy significantly.
That job taught me a great many things, the chief among them being that my fabulous education at the Institution of Robbery afforded me absolutely no working future to speak of. Any ‘career’ the degree afforded me would start at a whopping $12/hour, putting me under people that had less common sense than my shoe, and daily solidifying that Darwin had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. To this day, I don’t know which part of this revelation depressed me more; knowing that no matter how hard I worked I would never make enough money to support myself and my daughter, or realizing that the second rate education I’d been sucked into ensured that whatever employment I was capable of ascertaining would be something I’d hate passionately.
By the time I received the documents from student finance demanding repayment, I was so resigned to my position in life that all I could do was laugh manically. They wanted me to pay back $45,000.00?? Really?? Umm…okay, sure…let’s see here, I was making a grand total of $12.00/hr. At eight hours a day, that totaled a whopping $1350.00 a month after taxes. My expenses at the time were roughly $1500.00, and that didn’t include food or any sort of clothing or entertainment for little one. Given that I was operating at a deficit of about $750.00 a month; repayment was simply out of the question. Frankly, they were damn lucky I hadn’t jumped out of the top story of my townhouse upon reading the total amount owing.
When my health started to go, despite the physical discomfort I couldn’t help but feeling a little like it was a blessing. As difficult as it is sometimes to go through the day, and as painful as it is sometimes to perform basic activities I used to take for granted, in some ways it also sets me free. My disability makes working impossible, as I can’t sit/stand/walk or bend properly. As a result, posts like these take up to a week to complete. I realize all of this sounds very negative, but you have to see this from my point of view. Disability gives me a far better income than I could ascertain working, especially now that my medications, (which disability covers and working does not) run over $500.00 a month. More than that, I can now afford to get glasses for my daughter, and take her to the dentist, because these things are also covered. Yes, I am in pain, and yes, sometimes I am intensely frustrated by the fact that things I once took for granted are now near impossible for me to do; but at least I can afford to live, albeit frugally. That’s a lot more than I could say for myself in good health in the working world. More than that, now that the government is aware I am on long term disability, with very little chance of a change in my condition, I am no longer expected to pay back this $45,000.00 loan that I received to attend the Institute of Robbery.
It’s sad, non? I am in better financial shape now that I’m incapable of working than I ever was when I was capable of working. What does this say for our society?? Is it really fair that the only average folks able to scrape by are the ones that are either fortunate enough to be married and have a dual income, or unfortunate enough to lose their health and require long term aid from the government?
I’d like to be able to say that now that my financial situation has improved to the point of being able to live, though incredibly sparsely, I’ve found great happiness in life…this is not, however, anywhere near the truth. I want to work. I want to be able to use the mind that I was blessed enough to receive to make a difference in this world. The fact remains however, that disabled or not, this is not reality. Not today, anyways. The reality is that every day is agony, and this agony is a combination of the physical and emotional hard truths that are mine to face, and mine to change.
What if I don’t get better and I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life living in subsidized housing on less money than most educated people make in a week? What if I do get better and my job prospects don’t? What if the dreams I dreamed when I was looking for a post secondary institution are just that…foolish dreams that have no hope of coming true?
Today, I’m learning to stop my mind and not think. Thinking too hard about reality is enough to kill a body in my position…literally. The doctors are hoping that they can improve my health with surgeries, possibly allowing me to return to the workforce part-time in a few years. I sit here not quite knowing what to hope for. Part of me is screaming to not allow them to touch me because damn it, if they do succeed in making me well enough to return to the workforce, I’ll be condemned to a meaningless $10/hr job with the student finance wolves eagerly panting at the doorstep for half.
I can’t possibly explain accurately the frustration of this position. You see, the mere thought of returning to the blue collar workforce in a few years fills me with a dread I can’t properly articulate. It’s an exercise in daily degradation; as you helplessly watch your self-esteem falling away from you by the hour. Each time a person ten years younger and four life times stupider gives you an order, you want to either break down and sob, or cause them severe bodily harm. Standing in the local fast food establishment, wearing a shit-brown uniform and hairnet, your biggest aspiration in life quickly becomes avoiding being seen there by anyone you know. Each day, as you get dressed for work, you feel the panic starting to rise in your chest; knowing in your heart that this is killing your soul and breaking your hopes and dreams into little bitty pieces. You hope your child doesn’t know that this is where Mommy works because damn it you want better for her than you have been able to manage, and you hate that when her friends come in you have to serve them like they are the fucking Queen herself because your asshat teenaged boss keeps tapping that infernal sign that reminds you “the customer is always right.”
You know in your mind that you could do so much if you only hadn’t made this choice or that one, but now…now you’re fucked, baby. You are forever stuck in this hole of debasing hourly hell with no escape in sight. Today, for me…it’s a choice between this horror and the horror of daily pain and hourly physical agony. God forgive me, but I truly believe that the prison cell that my body has become is far preferable to the humiliation quietly awaiting me in society. I have avoided discussing the procedures that might just free me from this agony for fear of having them work; releasing me unwillingly into a torture I deem much, much worse. At least in the safety of my home, I can sometimes ignore my pain for long enough to dream, and sometimes when I dream long enough and hard enough, I can almost believe that I still have the power to make those dreams come true.
I am not the only one in standing forlornly at this station in life. Many people live on long term disability, ignoring to the best of their ability any treatments that may alleviate their physical discomfort. It’s an action executed based on the knowledge that the physical pain is easier somehow to bear than the emotional anguish awaiting them should they ever “get better” and be deemed “employable” again. This is our tragic truth…but more than that…this is also frustratingly enough, our even more tragic choices.
As I review this entry, I see the bald truth I’ve never dared to speak to anyone, and it frightens me more than you could possibly know. I’m nearly thirty now, and knowing how bleakly I see my future leaves me with mixed emotions. In part, I know that I’ve spoken from the heart, and revealed the secrets of my real feelings to some people that it may well surprise, anger or sadden. My sister will be thinking of how she used to think that I would be something special, someone that would shine in life and really take the world by storm. My best friend, on the other hand, will be thinking about how quickly she can get into her car so she can come over here and beat the fuck right out of me.
All of you…know this. I wrote this because I had to. I had to see this whole thing in black and white so I could process it. I had to realize how far down I’ve let this go so that I can figure out where the hell to put the ladder that gets me out of it. If I allow this entry to become my mantra, I will never be any more than I have described today. If, on the other hand, I look at this truth and know in my heart that living it another day will kill me, I can change it. This blog has been a place where I previously posted little anecdotes about life, in the style of www.dooce.com. That’s been a lot of fun, but it’s not what I need this for anymore. Now, I need this blog to become the story of my journey…and for every journey, a person needs two things; a starting point and a destination. This entry is my starting point. Making my dreams come true, no matter how hard it is, and no matter what the fuck it takes…that’s my destination.
I no longer want to run a figure skating tour…that dream was one I created when I was still naïve enough to believe that happiness and fulfillment was achieved by being with someone that was all that you wanted to be. Today I know that happiness comes from achieving my personal best, using my own gifts and talents. Now, the dream is to write. That’s my gift. Finding a way to make that into a living is my challenge and doing it in a way that allows me to shine for who and what I am is the goal. I tried, at first; to do that by copying the style of someone I admire…just like the figure skating tour, however, this isn’t going to work because it’s still not me. I haven’t gotten to the point of knowing quite how to get there yet, but I will. All I can promise myself, and all of you, is that I will. It can’t be any harder a journey than sitting in the hell I have described above…and I’m willing to lay odds that in the end, it’ll be a hell of a lot more fun, too. Wish me luck, all!! I’ll keep you posted.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
When Sickies Attack...
My little one has been home all week this week with a chest cold and fever. Her little head is hot and feverish, her chest is full of gunk, coughing is agony and her little throat is sore. This means two things in my world: a) Puddin’ is sore, cranky and demanding. It doesn’t matter that I’m sick with the same bug and feel like a truck ran over my face, what matters is that I crutch my way to wherever she is; ready, willing and able to do her bidding. B) Due to her sickness, and relative crankiness etc. I’m unable to leave my home for any reason short of it bursting into flames. So, this whole week has sort of been a child imposed prison sentence, the phone and my computer remain my only methods of contact with the outside world.
I wonder who will be Prime Minister when I am finally released?? When you are a Mother, there is equivocally nothing worse in this world than your child being sick. You waver between being willing to sacrifice your left arm for the return of your child's health, and wanting to beat that same child into submission with a large stick to quiet their constant demands. So far this week, this damn chest infection has screwed up my appointments to get our eyeballs checked, and my visit to the hospital to get x-rays done!! On top of all this, I am almost positive that this lovely wee chest virus left behind an ear infection as a sweet reminder of our time together. However, despite my fatigue and general “I feel like shit” motif, I am required to wait on Puddin’ hand and foot because she has also contracted this virus. Remember those good ole’ days when Puddin’ went to school for a few hours, leaving me to general peace and harmony? I long for those days now, yet they seem so far away now...a beautiful dream I can't quite recapture...
If she’s not better by tomorrow, we are going to have to make a wee trip to the doctor. I hate to do it, especially now that “they” are warning so strongly against giving your little ones too many antibiotics. I'm beginning to realize, however, that because, other than this stupid inner ear infection, this virus cleared up for me, I may have been a titch overconfident that the same would happen for Puddin'. Unlike my flu-bug, her virus taunts us, holding back enough to give us hope that it’s clearing up, only to flare up again the next day, smiling viciously and waggling its tongue rudely. Personally, I think a round of antibiotics may be in order just to show that cheeky virus whose boss round these parts!!
My poor darling is hanging in there, lying listlessly on the couch demanding I get her cold beverages and soups. Failure to give in to these demands, or meet them in a timely fashion, results in Puddin’ throwing her body around the couch as though she’s having an epileptic fit and emitting high pitched squeaks of anger. (Squeaking being her only method of communication since losing her voice yesterday.) I, for one, am fast growing weary of being the servant; especially given I suffered all the same symptoms up to two days ago!! My only solace really, is that now I am at the tail-end of this cheeky bug, where Puddin’ is still right in the trenches with hers. This means, in all likelihood, she will remain home for the week, and I will remain her hostage...er...faithful Mama for at least a couple more days.
The other day a friend of mine asked me sincerely why I looked as though I hadn’t slept in weeks. Perhaps this is, in part, due to the fact that when Puddin’ is sick, I allow her to sleep in my bed. Nothing could be more fun for the both of us. She sleeps quite peacefully whilst I get treated to slaps in the face, and little toes in the most inappropriate and painful of places. One day, I shall learn how to say “no” when I am facing demands from a runny nosed little person whom, for reasons known only to the God’s themselves, I cannot deny a damned thing to save my very soul.
I wonder who will be Prime Minister when I am finally released?? When you are a Mother, there is equivocally nothing worse in this world than your child being sick. You waver between being willing to sacrifice your left arm for the return of your child's health, and wanting to beat that same child into submission with a large stick to quiet their constant demands. So far this week, this damn chest infection has screwed up my appointments to get our eyeballs checked, and my visit to the hospital to get x-rays done!! On top of all this, I am almost positive that this lovely wee chest virus left behind an ear infection as a sweet reminder of our time together. However, despite my fatigue and general “I feel like shit” motif, I am required to wait on Puddin’ hand and foot because she has also contracted this virus. Remember those good ole’ days when Puddin’ went to school for a few hours, leaving me to general peace and harmony? I long for those days now, yet they seem so far away now...a beautiful dream I can't quite recapture...
If she’s not better by tomorrow, we are going to have to make a wee trip to the doctor. I hate to do it, especially now that “they” are warning so strongly against giving your little ones too many antibiotics. I'm beginning to realize, however, that because, other than this stupid inner ear infection, this virus cleared up for me, I may have been a titch overconfident that the same would happen for Puddin'. Unlike my flu-bug, her virus taunts us, holding back enough to give us hope that it’s clearing up, only to flare up again the next day, smiling viciously and waggling its tongue rudely. Personally, I think a round of antibiotics may be in order just to show that cheeky virus whose boss round these parts!!
My poor darling is hanging in there, lying listlessly on the couch demanding I get her cold beverages and soups. Failure to give in to these demands, or meet them in a timely fashion, results in Puddin’ throwing her body around the couch as though she’s having an epileptic fit and emitting high pitched squeaks of anger. (Squeaking being her only method of communication since losing her voice yesterday.) I, for one, am fast growing weary of being the servant; especially given I suffered all the same symptoms up to two days ago!! My only solace really, is that now I am at the tail-end of this cheeky bug, where Puddin’ is still right in the trenches with hers. This means, in all likelihood, she will remain home for the week, and I will remain her hostage...er...faithful Mama for at least a couple more days.
The other day a friend of mine asked me sincerely why I looked as though I hadn’t slept in weeks. Perhaps this is, in part, due to the fact that when Puddin’ is sick, I allow her to sleep in my bed. Nothing could be more fun for the both of us. She sleeps quite peacefully whilst I get treated to slaps in the face, and little toes in the most inappropriate and painful of places. One day, I shall learn how to say “no” when I am facing demands from a runny nosed little person whom, for reasons known only to the God’s themselves, I cannot deny a damned thing to save my very soul.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Running on Empty with My Broom in Hand
http://www.dooce.com/archives/daily/03_20_2006.html
Okay, did you guys fucking read that?? The woman keeps her house immaculate, while caring for a two-year old, and working from home!!!! I, on the other hand,am currently looking at empty Fruit Gushers packages and empty cigarette packages, haphazardly strewn about the desk. Laundry sits to my left in a massive pile, taunting me mercilessly. The one load of laundry that managed to get into the washing machine has now been sitting there for a total of two days. By the time I get to it, it’s going to need rewashing. My sink is full of dishes, and so is my dishwasher. I can’t turn around in this house without finding a mess…the only possible exception being the kitty litter, which I only clean daily because of the stink.
Heather, however, gracefully balances her laundry on her hip and her child on the other hip, and cheerfully throws the laundry in while her husband merrily scrubs the toilet upstairs. This, my friends, is what sets Heather Armstrong and I apart. She is able to keep her house spotless, while mine looks like the house Mr. Clean forgot. I try to clean, I really do…but something always seems to stop me. Usually, it’s the need for a cigarette. When I take a cigarette break, I sit down by the computer…and once I’ve done that, all is lost.
Heather can wash dishes while balancing Leta on her left toe. I get stuck in the hallway because the cat won’t stop grabbing my legs and crutches. Heather and John cook fabulous meals for supper, and will make more than one meal for their fussy little eater. I make one meal, it’s entitled “Kraft Dinner”; (which you can’t say isn’t a supper food because it has “dinner” in the damn title…so there!!) if my little one doesn’t want to eat it, she’s welcome to eat the bits of Lucky Charms on the floor instead. Occasionally, when I’m feeling really outrageous, I’ll make hotdogs. I don’t like to do that too terribly often though, it breeds false hope.
Heather Armstrong probably crawls into a nicely made bed with her hubby at night, and tucks in under the clean, crisp sheets. Last night, I found two Fruit Gushers and a cigarette butt in my bed. I am sorry to have to admit to you all that I consumed the Fruit Gushers, regardless of their close proximity to the cigarette butt…and my own.
Now don’t get me wrong, I adore Dooce, and Heather Armstrong is the undisputed Blogging Goddess; it’s the work ethic and organization that kills me. I am the world’s best procrastinator, and I avoid all things resembling chores with a cunning that rivals Ivana Trump. Secretly I admire and envy the organized people in this world. People that rise from their beds saying “It’s 7:00am, time to work out, have a shower, get the kids to school, and get to my yoga class before work.” I want to be them, and yet because of my disability, I make excuses not to be. Though it’s more difficult, it is possible to vacuum with crutches, providing I’m not having a bad pain day. My room could actually exist in a state of bright white cleanliness, a place where the walls are not yellowed by layers of nicotine, and the computer screen is free of cat hair and dust. These things are completely possible for me to achieve, disability or no disability.
As sad as it may be, I think I may just have to admit to myself that I was somewhat inspired by Heather’s sparkling domain. This, unfortunately, calls me to pick up a broom and mop, along with other cleaning type products and tools. Amazing as it is, I think it’s time for me to break down, pretend to grow up, and remove the mushrooms from my closet.
Okay, did you guys fucking read that?? The woman keeps her house immaculate, while caring for a two-year old, and working from home!!!! I, on the other hand,am currently looking at empty Fruit Gushers packages and empty cigarette packages, haphazardly strewn about the desk. Laundry sits to my left in a massive pile, taunting me mercilessly. The one load of laundry that managed to get into the washing machine has now been sitting there for a total of two days. By the time I get to it, it’s going to need rewashing. My sink is full of dishes, and so is my dishwasher. I can’t turn around in this house without finding a mess…the only possible exception being the kitty litter, which I only clean daily because of the stink.
Heather, however, gracefully balances her laundry on her hip and her child on the other hip, and cheerfully throws the laundry in while her husband merrily scrubs the toilet upstairs. This, my friends, is what sets Heather Armstrong and I apart. She is able to keep her house spotless, while mine looks like the house Mr. Clean forgot. I try to clean, I really do…but something always seems to stop me. Usually, it’s the need for a cigarette. When I take a cigarette break, I sit down by the computer…and once I’ve done that, all is lost.
Heather can wash dishes while balancing Leta on her left toe. I get stuck in the hallway because the cat won’t stop grabbing my legs and crutches. Heather and John cook fabulous meals for supper, and will make more than one meal for their fussy little eater. I make one meal, it’s entitled “Kraft Dinner”; (which you can’t say isn’t a supper food because it has “dinner” in the damn title…so there!!) if my little one doesn’t want to eat it, she’s welcome to eat the bits of Lucky Charms on the floor instead. Occasionally, when I’m feeling really outrageous, I’ll make hotdogs. I don’t like to do that too terribly often though, it breeds false hope.
Heather Armstrong probably crawls into a nicely made bed with her hubby at night, and tucks in under the clean, crisp sheets. Last night, I found two Fruit Gushers and a cigarette butt in my bed. I am sorry to have to admit to you all that I consumed the Fruit Gushers, regardless of their close proximity to the cigarette butt…and my own.
Now don’t get me wrong, I adore Dooce, and Heather Armstrong is the undisputed Blogging Goddess; it’s the work ethic and organization that kills me. I am the world’s best procrastinator, and I avoid all things resembling chores with a cunning that rivals Ivana Trump. Secretly I admire and envy the organized people in this world. People that rise from their beds saying “It’s 7:00am, time to work out, have a shower, get the kids to school, and get to my yoga class before work.” I want to be them, and yet because of my disability, I make excuses not to be. Though it’s more difficult, it is possible to vacuum with crutches, providing I’m not having a bad pain day. My room could actually exist in a state of bright white cleanliness, a place where the walls are not yellowed by layers of nicotine, and the computer screen is free of cat hair and dust. These things are completely possible for me to achieve, disability or no disability.
As sad as it may be, I think I may just have to admit to myself that I was somewhat inspired by Heather’s sparkling domain. This, unfortunately, calls me to pick up a broom and mop, along with other cleaning type products and tools. Amazing as it is, I think it’s time for me to break down, pretend to grow up, and remove the mushrooms from my closet.
Bernadette and Reprogramming the Inner Computer
If my body were a computer program, today would have been the day that I removed the program in its entirety, and then reinstalled the upgraded, and therefore better version. Sadly, I am not given this option. For the last two God Damn Days I have awoken feeling as though my chest is going to collapse and my head is going to explode. I realize that this is likely only a virus, and will run its course; however coping with illness on top of a disability is about as much fun as putting your head in a bee hive to see what you can see.
One of my best friends is a nurse, and fortunately enough, she is a rational sort of person. When I get to thinking too hard about “poor me”, Bernadette is more than happy to give me an incredulous look and wrestle me to the floor. More often than not, I come to my senses somewhere between the headlock and having my face squished against the laminate flooring. Bernadette is that type of a person; she accepts no guff from anyone. In fact, some months ago after a particularly annoying day with her hubby, she informed me that there "was going to be spousal abuse going on shortly." Normally, when a woman tells you that she fears there is going to be spousal abuse going on shortly, you worry for the woman as it is a given in most circumstances that she will be the victim of said abuse. When Bernadette says such a thing, however, you feel compelled to tell her hubby to get into his car and drive for about an hour until he can re-enter the house without being made to pick up his teeth with his elbows. That, dear Internet is why I adore Bernadette so.
I think everyone should have a Bernadette in their lives. If everyone had such a person as a friend, a lot fewer people would be complaining bitterly about things they can do nothing about. Why, you ask? Because after being wrestled to the floor a couple of times, people would quickly learn not to react with such negativity. It’s a very effective form of aversion therapy.
In reality, though, Bernie keeps me honest. Because she’s a nurse, she’s seen a lot of things in her time, therefore, nothing I can say or do will surprise her. That type of life experience comes with a certain steadiness of mind, and when I am crying or telling her that I can’t do this anymore, it also comes with a firm hand. Bernie is the first person to say: “What are you going to do about it?” when I’m whining. Sometimes, that makes me want to scream, because I feel like I can’t do a damned thing about it, but there again, sometimes that’s just the point Bernie is making. Though I do feel frustrated and tired at times, I also feel blessed. I have good friends, and good family…both of which stick by me during those rough times.
Sometimes I stand in awe of these people…these angels in my life. I wonder how it is they make so much time for me when they have so much going on in their own worlds. This is what allows me to feel gratitude amidst my frustration, and happiness within my tears. These people are truly my family, some by blood, and some by choice. I have been blessed with them all, and for this I am be grateful. My little one smiles at me, and tells me she loves me, even after I’ve had a horrible day filled with pain and anger, and in this she reminds me that I am important to her. I am the one that she adores, and looks up to. What a responsibility!! What a way to take me out of self.
It’s a trap many fall into, really…thinking solely of self; especially on those days we are sick and hurting. I have done it. I have regretted it. Sometimes, though, something happens to remind me that it’s not all about me, and it really never was. Sometimes, I can see beyond my own backyard, and be grateful for the good things in my friend’s lives. Bernie is special to me in that way, because so many good things have happened for her over the course of the past year. I’ve seen her go from having to carefully budget every cent to having more than enough to feed her family, and her success fills me up with joy, and gratitude. Sometimes, feeling like that for someone else is just the medicine you need to walk away from a self-indulgent pity that serves no purpose.
One of my best friends is a nurse, and fortunately enough, she is a rational sort of person. When I get to thinking too hard about “poor me”, Bernadette is more than happy to give me an incredulous look and wrestle me to the floor. More often than not, I come to my senses somewhere between the headlock and having my face squished against the laminate flooring. Bernadette is that type of a person; she accepts no guff from anyone. In fact, some months ago after a particularly annoying day with her hubby, she informed me that there "was going to be spousal abuse going on shortly." Normally, when a woman tells you that she fears there is going to be spousal abuse going on shortly, you worry for the woman as it is a given in most circumstances that she will be the victim of said abuse. When Bernadette says such a thing, however, you feel compelled to tell her hubby to get into his car and drive for about an hour until he can re-enter the house without being made to pick up his teeth with his elbows. That, dear Internet is why I adore Bernadette so.
I think everyone should have a Bernadette in their lives. If everyone had such a person as a friend, a lot fewer people would be complaining bitterly about things they can do nothing about. Why, you ask? Because after being wrestled to the floor a couple of times, people would quickly learn not to react with such negativity. It’s a very effective form of aversion therapy.
In reality, though, Bernie keeps me honest. Because she’s a nurse, she’s seen a lot of things in her time, therefore, nothing I can say or do will surprise her. That type of life experience comes with a certain steadiness of mind, and when I am crying or telling her that I can’t do this anymore, it also comes with a firm hand. Bernie is the first person to say: “What are you going to do about it?” when I’m whining. Sometimes, that makes me want to scream, because I feel like I can’t do a damned thing about it, but there again, sometimes that’s just the point Bernie is making. Though I do feel frustrated and tired at times, I also feel blessed. I have good friends, and good family…both of which stick by me during those rough times.
Sometimes I stand in awe of these people…these angels in my life. I wonder how it is they make so much time for me when they have so much going on in their own worlds. This is what allows me to feel gratitude amidst my frustration, and happiness within my tears. These people are truly my family, some by blood, and some by choice. I have been blessed with them all, and for this I am be grateful. My little one smiles at me, and tells me she loves me, even after I’ve had a horrible day filled with pain and anger, and in this she reminds me that I am important to her. I am the one that she adores, and looks up to. What a responsibility!! What a way to take me out of self.
It’s a trap many fall into, really…thinking solely of self; especially on those days we are sick and hurting. I have done it. I have regretted it. Sometimes, though, something happens to remind me that it’s not all about me, and it really never was. Sometimes, I can see beyond my own backyard, and be grateful for the good things in my friend’s lives. Bernie is special to me in that way, because so many good things have happened for her over the course of the past year. I’ve seen her go from having to carefully budget every cent to having more than enough to feed her family, and her success fills me up with joy, and gratitude. Sometimes, feeling like that for someone else is just the medicine you need to walk away from a self-indulgent pity that serves no purpose.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Weight Loss Demons Strike Again
Today, I have a gripe with the media. Yes, that’s right, the media. My daughter, who is a beautiful little girl with delicate features and breath-taking blue eyes, informed me today that she is “fat”. Upon further questioning, she disclosed that she felt “fat” because “no one on T.V looks like this! You can see their ribs on TV.” Which, I have to concede, for the most part is absolutely true…but it begs the question of why? Why do we, as a society, only assign a person the title of “pretty”, “beautiful” or “gorgeous” if they weigh less than 90 pounds and look as though a slight breeze would carry them off into the sky? When did looking as though you are dying become a beacon of beauty? I think I must have missed the memo on this one.
I, for one, and sick and bloody tired of the Paris Hilton’s and Nicole – (I lost so much weight I now fit into toddler’s clothing)-Ritchie’s of the world defining what the rest of us consider attractive. I want to smack each and every designer in Hollywood, New York and wherever else they only design their beautiful clothing in size 0-4. That’s lovely, thank-you…but the only person in my household that’s going to fit into it is my cat. All this ridiculousness might even be palatable if it was kept to its own sick little part of the world, but that’s not the way it is, is it? Every time you or your child turns on the T.V, a woman that weighs 2 pounds is smiling happily from the screen. The commercials continually capitalize on the diet industry at every turn, advertising for diet pills, gyms or programs. No matter where you look people the size of your left leg are telling you to lose weight already, because God knows that if you don’t, you’re going to never find a boyfriend, get a promotion, or generally succeed in life. Is it any wonder that, with all that pressure on them, our children finally give in and try to look like their idols?
My daughter absolutely adores Hillary Duff, who used to look like she had a healthy body weight. Duff now looks like this:
http://www.hollywoodrag.com/images/uploads/duff_sisters1.jpg
For those of you who can’t recognize her, she’s the one on the right. Remember when she used to look like this?
http://i.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/030527/9548__hilary_l.jpg
Something is seriously wrong when a pretty girl like that feels the need to starve herself down to toothpick with eyes status. Clearly its Hollywood putting on the pressure, because a lot of the girls in California start out their careers at a healthy weight; a year or so later, they look as though they are about to faint at any moment...
Though a firm believer in live and let live, these women are in my living-room, God damn it, and my daughter is looking at them!! Each time she sees an idol shed pounds until they are so thin they are transparent, she believes that is the way she is supposed to look!! Is it somehow impossible for Hollywood to bring more than the one token “larger girl” up the ranks into stardom?? Instead of focusing all one’s energy into the “perfect look” I think recruiters need to start looking at sheer raw talent. If we had a bunch of very talented, average sized women beaming brightly into our living-rooms, those little people watching the television would be much less likely to get scary ideas of what they “ought to look like.”
I admit to wanting to believe that all folks are judged in their lives on the basis of their actions, not their looks. However, I’ve had to face the cold, hard reality; in this ole world of ours, there exists certain places where looks are the only thing that really matters. I find it very sad, to say the very least. How can you possibly garner a proper perception of a person based solely upon their looks?? I’ve known a few people in my life that were very striking on the outside and downright nasty on the inside. I can’t really expect Hollywood to ever get that, mind you. It’s too simple an equation for such a complex house of cards.
All I can do as a mother is ensure that Puddin’ knows that she is gorgeous as she is, and watch for those heart-wrenching signs that she might feel differently. It’s all any of us can do, isn’t it? Sad and frustrating as it is; most of us are incapable of effecting real change. I mean to say, beyond the odd activist group, or perhaps firing off an angry and generally pointless letter to the network, we are trapped either watching the programming available, or turning off the television set. I know I’ve made my choice.
I, for one, and sick and bloody tired of the Paris Hilton’s and Nicole – (I lost so much weight I now fit into toddler’s clothing)-Ritchie’s of the world defining what the rest of us consider attractive. I want to smack each and every designer in Hollywood, New York and wherever else they only design their beautiful clothing in size 0-4. That’s lovely, thank-you…but the only person in my household that’s going to fit into it is my cat. All this ridiculousness might even be palatable if it was kept to its own sick little part of the world, but that’s not the way it is, is it? Every time you or your child turns on the T.V, a woman that weighs 2 pounds is smiling happily from the screen. The commercials continually capitalize on the diet industry at every turn, advertising for diet pills, gyms or programs. No matter where you look people the size of your left leg are telling you to lose weight already, because God knows that if you don’t, you’re going to never find a boyfriend, get a promotion, or generally succeed in life. Is it any wonder that, with all that pressure on them, our children finally give in and try to look like their idols?
My daughter absolutely adores Hillary Duff, who used to look like she had a healthy body weight. Duff now looks like this:
http://www.hollywoodrag.com/images/uploads/duff_sisters1.jpg
For those of you who can’t recognize her, she’s the one on the right. Remember when she used to look like this?
http://i.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/030527/9548__hilary_l.jpg
Something is seriously wrong when a pretty girl like that feels the need to starve herself down to toothpick with eyes status. Clearly its Hollywood putting on the pressure, because a lot of the girls in California start out their careers at a healthy weight; a year or so later, they look as though they are about to faint at any moment...
Though a firm believer in live and let live, these women are in my living-room, God damn it, and my daughter is looking at them!! Each time she sees an idol shed pounds until they are so thin they are transparent, she believes that is the way she is supposed to look!! Is it somehow impossible for Hollywood to bring more than the one token “larger girl” up the ranks into stardom?? Instead of focusing all one’s energy into the “perfect look” I think recruiters need to start looking at sheer raw talent. If we had a bunch of very talented, average sized women beaming brightly into our living-rooms, those little people watching the television would be much less likely to get scary ideas of what they “ought to look like.”
I admit to wanting to believe that all folks are judged in their lives on the basis of their actions, not their looks. However, I’ve had to face the cold, hard reality; in this ole world of ours, there exists certain places where looks are the only thing that really matters. I find it very sad, to say the very least. How can you possibly garner a proper perception of a person based solely upon their looks?? I’ve known a few people in my life that were very striking on the outside and downright nasty on the inside. I can’t really expect Hollywood to ever get that, mind you. It’s too simple an equation for such a complex house of cards.
All I can do as a mother is ensure that Puddin’ knows that she is gorgeous as she is, and watch for those heart-wrenching signs that she might feel differently. It’s all any of us can do, isn’t it? Sad and frustrating as it is; most of us are incapable of effecting real change. I mean to say, beyond the odd activist group, or perhaps firing off an angry and generally pointless letter to the network, we are trapped either watching the programming available, or turning off the television set. I know I’ve made my choice.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Of Mice & Women...
I cleaned the hamster cage last night, which, as I’m sure you can all well imagine, filled me with a warm fuzzy glow of disgust. When we originally got Princess, I carefully explained to little one that she would be required to clean his cage, change his water, and otherwise make his life a happy one. Puddin’ solemnly promised that she would remain forever devoted to this little rodent, frequently reminding me that she adored Princess and would sacrifice her first born if it would contribute to his happiness. Since that time, a strange ailment has descended upon our household. It’s called the “novelty has worn off so now the pet is your problem, Mom” disease, and its plaguing families from all walks of life.
Symptoms of the illness are usually spotted roughly two weeks following the arrival of the pet your child said they’d spontaneously combust without, into your once peaceful and stink-free household. The beginning stages of the malady present as general disinterest in said pet and associated lack of care-taking on your child’s part. Parents usually attempted to combat this disease in the early stages by administering a moderate dose of nagging. Often, this treatment will produce temporary positive results, and despite the unpleasant side effect of rolled eyes and heavy sighs, effectively retards the disease’s full progression. Unfortunately, findings indicate that the positive effects of this particular treatment method are temporary at best, and normally the child will almost always revert back to a non-caring state within minutes of the nagging dose being administered. As the malady progresses, parents will find themselves in the difficult position of having to either clean up after and feed the animal, or allow it to perish from neglect. The final stages of the ailment present as parents fully caring for the animal while the child plays on their game cube. At this point, the disease is in the advanced stages, and unfortunately once the illness has progressed to this level, it is irreversible.
Now, given that I have a firm belief that all animals in my home have the right to proper care, love and attention, I’m unable to simply allow Princess to die due to Puddin’s lack of interest in her. HOWEVER, I’m also not willing to be the sole care provider for the little beast. Given that nagging had negligible results at best, I have resorted to the one tool Mom’s have in their arsenal that is guaranteed to trump any card their children play…GUILT! After somberly explaining to Puddin’ that Princess loved her dearly, and couldn’t understand why she was no longer loved back, Puddin’ immediately began fussing the hamster up. I, however, am still in charge of feeding, cleaning and generally ensuring the little rodent is healthy, while Puddin’ has appointed herself Chief in Charge of Petting, Loving and Playing. Why, I ask you, do we parents always seem to get the short end of the stick?? If I have to see one more teeny, tiny turd, I’m going to throw myself down the stairs.
Symptoms of the illness are usually spotted roughly two weeks following the arrival of the pet your child said they’d spontaneously combust without, into your once peaceful and stink-free household. The beginning stages of the malady present as general disinterest in said pet and associated lack of care-taking on your child’s part. Parents usually attempted to combat this disease in the early stages by administering a moderate dose of nagging. Often, this treatment will produce temporary positive results, and despite the unpleasant side effect of rolled eyes and heavy sighs, effectively retards the disease’s full progression. Unfortunately, findings indicate that the positive effects of this particular treatment method are temporary at best, and normally the child will almost always revert back to a non-caring state within minutes of the nagging dose being administered. As the malady progresses, parents will find themselves in the difficult position of having to either clean up after and feed the animal, or allow it to perish from neglect. The final stages of the ailment present as parents fully caring for the animal while the child plays on their game cube. At this point, the disease is in the advanced stages, and unfortunately once the illness has progressed to this level, it is irreversible.
Now, given that I have a firm belief that all animals in my home have the right to proper care, love and attention, I’m unable to simply allow Princess to die due to Puddin’s lack of interest in her. HOWEVER, I’m also not willing to be the sole care provider for the little beast. Given that nagging had negligible results at best, I have resorted to the one tool Mom’s have in their arsenal that is guaranteed to trump any card their children play…GUILT! After somberly explaining to Puddin’ that Princess loved her dearly, and couldn’t understand why she was no longer loved back, Puddin’ immediately began fussing the hamster up. I, however, am still in charge of feeding, cleaning and generally ensuring the little rodent is healthy, while Puddin’ has appointed herself Chief in Charge of Petting, Loving and Playing. Why, I ask you, do we parents always seem to get the short end of the stick?? If I have to see one more teeny, tiny turd, I’m going to throw myself down the stairs.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Crutching My Way to Happy Destiny
It’s now been nearly a year since I lost the full use of my legs, forcing me to rely on crutches and other instruments of torture to get around. I look at that statement, and I can’t believe that for nearly a year I’ve been denied the simple privileges of taking a long walk, or playing at the park with my little one. Almost a full year void of the joys that come from strolling by a lake in meditative silence, running with a dog, or riding a horse across the prairies. It’s been eleven months of pain and pain killers, frustration and agony, disappointments and miracles…and yet, here I am. I survived.
I have to admit, however, that I did not survive on my own. This year has also been a year in which I have learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who my friends really are. They are the individuals that have acted as my ever faithful therapists and chauffeurs throughout this ordeal without a word of complaint; more importantly, they are the miracles that refused to allow me to fall into the hole of depression, regardless of how often I tried to dodge them to dive in. (And believe me, it’s a hard pit to avoid when you’re parked firmly on the pity pot lamenting about what you can’t do.)
I did that for a long, long while. In some ways, I’m amazed it has been only 11 months, because it really does feel like I have already bitched bitterly about this for a lifetime.
One night in particular, I was talking to one of my best friends, Bernadette, about my poor, poor pathetic life. Mournfully speaking about my unemployable nature and subsequent financial squeeze, I actually startled us both with my ability to whine for a full hour without once straying off topic. (Admittedly, looking back on it, I am also rather startled by Bernadette’s ability to listen to such drivel coming out of her phone for that long without once driving over to beat me about the head with it.)
Two things happened as a direct result of that conversation. The first came in the form of a question Bernadette asked me while I was shrilly sobbing into her ear about the travesty that was my existence; “What are you going to do about it?” My initial thought was “Whine to you! What the fuck does it look like?” However, following my venting period, a new perspective began to emerge. Yes, I have lost the full use of my legs, and yes, in some ways, that really limits what I can do; however, there are still many, many things I can do despite my disability. One of those things is in front of you all at this very moment…I can still write!! Writing has been one of my greatest loves and firmest passions as long as my memory goes back, and I can still do that.
The second thing that happened was that it dawned on me that Bernadette, with her one simple question, was reminding me of something that I have known for years. The only person that can effect change in my life is me. Though it’s a hard pill to swallow, in many ways I have chosen my financial hardship by not choosing to find a way to turn writing into a stay at home job. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I can choose to change my mind and go for it at any time, and uh…just so you know, Universe, I’ve changed my mind!
As much as I wish to be able to go out with little one and jump and play, I can’t and that’s the reality. This, however, does not mean that there isn’t anything I can do with my daughter; there is a veritable plethora of activities I can still manage! My job is to change my attitude, not my affliction; and with that one simple decision, change my entire life. This doesn’t mean that there aren't still hard times, when I’m sick and tired of the pain and there’s nothing I want more than to be able to just walk to the damn grocery store; but it does mean that I’m learning to turn that around and just be grateful for the friends I have that will drive me there.
It’s funny that our true friends in this world are not the people that tell us everything we want to hear, but rather, the rare few individuals that have the guts to tell us what we need to hear. In my life, I am fortunate to have three such people to bounce things off of and do things with. In ways, it’s almost miraculous when I stop to really consider it; there are three people in this world that love my daughter and I like family, even though they are not obligated by blood to do so. That, folks, is a pretty damned incredible thing.
I have to admit, however, that I did not survive on my own. This year has also been a year in which I have learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who my friends really are. They are the individuals that have acted as my ever faithful therapists and chauffeurs throughout this ordeal without a word of complaint; more importantly, they are the miracles that refused to allow me to fall into the hole of depression, regardless of how often I tried to dodge them to dive in. (And believe me, it’s a hard pit to avoid when you’re parked firmly on the pity pot lamenting about what you can’t do.)
I did that for a long, long while. In some ways, I’m amazed it has been only 11 months, because it really does feel like I have already bitched bitterly about this for a lifetime.
One night in particular, I was talking to one of my best friends, Bernadette, about my poor, poor pathetic life. Mournfully speaking about my unemployable nature and subsequent financial squeeze, I actually startled us both with my ability to whine for a full hour without once straying off topic. (Admittedly, looking back on it, I am also rather startled by Bernadette’s ability to listen to such drivel coming out of her phone for that long without once driving over to beat me about the head with it.)
Two things happened as a direct result of that conversation. The first came in the form of a question Bernadette asked me while I was shrilly sobbing into her ear about the travesty that was my existence; “What are you going to do about it?” My initial thought was “Whine to you! What the fuck does it look like?” However, following my venting period, a new perspective began to emerge. Yes, I have lost the full use of my legs, and yes, in some ways, that really limits what I can do; however, there are still many, many things I can do despite my disability. One of those things is in front of you all at this very moment…I can still write!! Writing has been one of my greatest loves and firmest passions as long as my memory goes back, and I can still do that.
The second thing that happened was that it dawned on me that Bernadette, with her one simple question, was reminding me of something that I have known for years. The only person that can effect change in my life is me. Though it’s a hard pill to swallow, in many ways I have chosen my financial hardship by not choosing to find a way to turn writing into a stay at home job. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I can choose to change my mind and go for it at any time, and uh…just so you know, Universe, I’ve changed my mind!
As much as I wish to be able to go out with little one and jump and play, I can’t and that’s the reality. This, however, does not mean that there isn’t anything I can do with my daughter; there is a veritable plethora of activities I can still manage! My job is to change my attitude, not my affliction; and with that one simple decision, change my entire life. This doesn’t mean that there aren't still hard times, when I’m sick and tired of the pain and there’s nothing I want more than to be able to just walk to the damn grocery store; but it does mean that I’m learning to turn that around and just be grateful for the friends I have that will drive me there.
It’s funny that our true friends in this world are not the people that tell us everything we want to hear, but rather, the rare few individuals that have the guts to tell us what we need to hear. In my life, I am fortunate to have three such people to bounce things off of and do things with. In ways, it’s almost miraculous when I stop to really consider it; there are three people in this world that love my daughter and I like family, even though they are not obligated by blood to do so. That, folks, is a pretty damned incredible thing.
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