So Hot...

Focus

I had fully intended to write today.  I've had some other stuff going on this week, so I didn't get to write as much as is good for my soul.  So, I really wanted to write today.  But it's really hot.  And I every time I start to put together a coherent thought, I just revert back to thinking about how hot it is.  I'm a spaz anyway, so focusing is hard when I don't have to think about the 100 degrees in the back yard or the wilting plants or the sweat running down my chest or the fact that I can't believe I don't have air conditioning in my car.  See.  I'm already distracted.  What was I saying?   Oh.  Right.  I wanted to write.  I also wanted to mop the floors and fold laundry and paint the patio table I procured from my neighbor up the hill.  I wanted to do a lot of things.  BUT IT'S SO HOT.  So, I didn't do too much of any of that.  And when I sat down to write, I had nothing.  But had a lot of things that I wanted to write about.  I just couldn't demonstrate any cognitive function at that point.  Then I thought of something.  Something I had said earlier in the week while I was out with a friend.  I made reference about the diversity of thought and the ability to have a discussion, despite differences of opinion, and how important those aspects are when you communicate with others.  Since this blog is just a medium for me to communicate with others, I thought I might get some feed back from you on a few of the ideas that have been swimming around my brain over the past few days. 

Burning Questions

The basic communication model states that communication cannot exist with out a sender and a receiver.  The sender initiates a message, the receiver acknowledges the message and gives feedback.   Because communication is never one sided, I'd like a little input.  Below is a list of questions I have been mulling over recently.  I know that they are diverse and abstract, but these are the things I think about regularly.  See if anything touches a nerve or strikes an image or conjures any emotion.  Let me know what you have....I'd love to hear. 

1.)  When you chose to enter into a relationship, be it a personal, professional, sexual, how do you decide what is important?  I guess essentially, how do you connect with people?  How do you form successful relationships? 

2.)  Music.  Is it just background noise, or is it inspiration?  Does your choice in music reflect your personality? 

3.)  Monogamy . I recently read an article (http://www.cnn.com/2013/06/21/opinion/laslocky-monogamy-marriage) that suggested that humans are not monogamous.  Can we be?  Is it a choice?  Do we just find a soul mate?  Why do we decide to be monogamous?  What are the benefits?  Does
"the one" exist? 

4.)  I haven't had an orgasm that was not self induced in 9 years.  Is there such thing as good sex anymore?  How do you define good sex?  Is it important to have an orgasm? 

5.)  Fear.  I am afraid of a lot of things.  Everyday I worry about something.  Most of you know, by now, the things that make me fearful.  What makes you fearful?  What is worth being afraid about?  Is fear productive? 

Feedback

So, if you choose, please let me know what you think about one or all of these ideas.  The likelihood is pretty good that they will all get addressed in the future, so keep that in mind.  I just don't want to feel like I'm talking to myself all the time.  Which I do.  A lot.  It helps with the inner peas.  And so does this.  Looking forward to hearing some ideas. 

Benefits

Perks.

You know how when you start a new job and you are really excited and your new employer's talk all about perks and benefits packages?  And you think…Uh…Yeah!  I want perks.  I deserve benefits!  Health insurance.  Life insurance.  Retirement plans.  Paid vacation.  Business lunches.  Annual golf tournaments.  Boom.  Benefits.  They are awesome.  Benefits are how successful employers maintain productive employees.  Benefits increase moral.  Benefits motivate.  But what if your employers are stingy with benefits?  What if you can’t afford those benefits?  When you start a new job, nobody tells you that your “benefits package” is expensive or that you have to pay for your benefits. 

Are they really benefits? 

Employers are required to offer employees “benefits.”  Some are more generous than others.  But essentially, employers “offer” benefits to protect themselves.  They have to offer employees health insurance and life insurance and disability insurance and unemployment insurance to protect themselves.  Everything they MUST offer, is “insurance.”  Mostly to “insure” they don’t get slapped with a law suit.  So, employers offer insurance in the guise of “benefits.”  But just because employees are offered benefits doesn’t mean they can afford them. 

So, why all this talk about benefits?  Why are they such a big deal?  Are you thinking “Jesus Angela, shut up about benefits?”  Well, I would love to.  But this is the thing.  I can’t afford the  benefits my employer offers.   It was more important to me to pay the rent, the car insurance, and the student loan bills than to pay $600 a month for health insurance.  Also, as a disclaimer, choosing against health insurance “benefits” wasn’t an easy decision.  Every morning when I get in the car, I say a little prayer that I make it through the day without getting in a catastrophic accident.  Every night before I go to bed, I tell myself I will be far enough ahead in a couple of months to buy that fancy insurance in the event I get sick.  I always plan on making good on that promise.  It just hasn’t worked out so far. 

You don’t have benefits? 

No.  I have them.  I just can’t afford them.  But what happens if something happens and you don’t have insurance?  What if you get sick or have an accident?  What if, and I’m just spitballing here, but WHAT IF you find a lump in your right breast?  What do you do then?  Well, I will tell you.  You start making phone calls.  You start establishing resources.  You find a way.  Because in a socially conscious society, there are programs that can help if you can't afford a mammogram or a biopsy.  At least that’s what I was told.  So, I reached out.  I did my research.  And I found out that breast health programs do exist, only you have to meet two criteria:  1.)  You have to be 200% below the poverty limit.  2.)  You have to be over 40.  So, if you are under 40 and have a job…any job…your cancer risk isn’t a concern if you don’t have health insurance. 

Aw hell…

The options.

I had to seek other options.  It’s scary to have an unidentified mass in your boob.  Everyone knows that breast cancer is a killer if it goes ignored or undetected.  I mean, there’s an entire month dedicated to wearing pink and running marathons to raise money for the cause.  I asked people how to get the diagnostics taken care of.  “How do I get treatment with no insurance?”  I asked.  I got some pretty stimulating answers.  My bestie told me to marry one of these strapping young men on base.  “They have insurance and you can buy them booze!  It’s a win-win.”  Another of my nearest and dearest said “well, if you lose your job, you’ll qualify for Medicaid.  They’ll cover it.”  That sounds like the best option I’ve heard all day.  Then I went to Doc and he gave me very explicit instructions on what to do.  “Call Komen Foundation.   Find out who their partners are in the bay area.  Call the partners.  Tell them you have to pay cash.  They’ll cut you a deal.”  Well, as enticing as finding a 19 year old husband or losing my job sounded, I think this doctor made the most sense.  I’ll call them. 

But I was humiliated just calling around to find out how to qualify for a low cost mammogram.  The thought of calling a place funded by grants to ask them for help was overwhelming, to say the least. 

The Shame.

Yesterday, I promised my sister that I would call today and figure something out.  I promised.  All day I sat with the number to the Susan G. Komen foundation displayed on one of the tiles on my desktop.  And every time I looked at it, I found something else to do.  The shame that comes with asking someone else for help is overwhelming.  We spend our entire lives trying to become independent and do right by the people around us.  It never even occurs that we might be vulnerable at some point.  And when you spend your entire life taking care of other people, you don’t ever want to be taken care of.  You don’t ever want to ask for help.  You convince yourself that you are so self-sufficient that picking up a telephone is a sign of weakness.  Today, I offered to pay a friend $20, American, to make the call for me.  Because it is too embarrassing to ask for someone to help salvage my physical and emotional health.  It’s shameful, it’s helpless, and it everything I don’t want to be. It's not a benefit and it’s defeating my inner peas. 

If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball...

Encouragement

I don't really have a poignant story to tell tonight.  I only have gratitude.  And this is going to take a minute, so you might want to grab a comfy chair and a cold beverage.  Because I have a lot to say about encouragement and no real rhyme or reason to go with it. 

Let us begin...

Gratitude

The past couple of weeks have been VERY difficult.  We don't have time to get into all of it right now, so I am just going to tell you about some of the amazing people in my life I would like to thank for their encouragement.  First, the colleagues who let me maim and disfigure them with knifes and needles, in a marginal attempt to learn to the fundamentals of clinical procedures.  Next, let me thank the people who cheered me on, even when they knew my endeavors were a crap shoot, at best.  Thank you for the early morning IMs that simply said "good morning, beautiful."  Thank you for the stories and the laughter.  Thank you to the doctor who, before I had the courage to take matters into my own hands, told me where to go to get help.  Thank you to the amazing women on a different coast who called and texted every day with threats and offers to pay the bills.  Thank you to the friend who looked at me like I was crazy during lunch when I told her "I am tired and I hope this lump is the end  Because I can't do this anymore."  Thank you to the sister who showed up at my house FOUR minutes after hearing despair in my voice.  Thank you to the dear, old friend who cut me a deal on a washer when I needed it.  And by deal, I mean free.  And thank you to another dear old friend, who showed up at my house in a mustang, with a shop vac to clean up the mess I'd made with a broken window.  Thank you to my very own mother, who let me scream profanities at her because I couldn't communicate like a normal person.  Thank you to my dad who offered to buy me health insurance.  Thank you to the familiar, but unexpected voice on the other end of the phone who said "keep your head up, OK?"  Thank you to my girl for insisting I eat cake on Tuesday, when I was ready to just go back to work.  Thank you to the ladies who always post about wine on my FB page.  Thank you to the unforeseen friendship with a woman who REALLY gets me.  Thank you to the guy who gave me shit for being a girl when I was trying to cut the grass.  The grass would still be three feet high, if I didn't have something to prove.  Thank you to the saviors with a cup of coffee in the morning.  Almost every morning.  Thank you to the boss who is gone, but still checks in with me.  Thanks to the new boss lady who has a ton of shit on her own plate, but every day asks what she can do to help. Thank you to the nonrate I screamed at "what are you, a fucking frat boy?? Sit up straight!"  Who had the decency to respond by saying "Sorry, ma'am."  Thank you to the little boy who lost a tooth yesterday for giving me the honor of being his mother.  Thank you to all the people who remind me that being tired doesn't mean I need to give up. 

Back to Encouragement

When I say thank you, I mean to say that I am grateful for your encouragement, for your friendship, for your realism.  Thank you for bugging the shit out of me.  Thank you for irritating me.  Thank you for being the constant.  Because if I didn't have that in my life, I would have given up a long time ago.  The people who give me the hardest time are the people who make me think the most.  They are the people who remind me what is important.  They are the people who make me laugh at what is not. They are the people who have the balls to throw a wrench at me, so that later I can dodge a ball.   That's encouragement.  That's inner peas. 

It was a Sunday

Sundays

Sunday.  The day of rest.  The day that we use to unwind from the weekend of errands and obligation.  The day that we prepare for the new week.  Sundays are for relaxing and eating and being grateful for the next Sunday.  Sundays are about football and barbeques and pool time.  Some people revere Sunday as a day of worship.  Some accept it as a day of solace.  Any way you look at it.  Sunday is Sunday.  It’s a few hours to recoup and prepare.  So, I find it a little ironic, and maybe a little hateful, that the universe decided that I should find a lump in my right breast on a Sunday.  That’s not cool.  Sunday is SUNDAY!!!  A funday.  It’s very widely accepted in western society that Sunday is synonymous with tranquility.  Finding an abnormal growth on your body is not tranquil, and therefore, should be reserved for a different day of the week.  But Sunday is when it happened.  Sunday is the day that I woke up with my left hand on my right breast and realized that there was something there that shouldn’t be. 

But it was Sunday, and I had things to do.   I had to make breakfast.  I had to make coffee.  I had to put water in the pool.  I had to sit and relax and enjoy a little Cab Franc.  It was Sunday.  I couldn’t be bothered with a lump in my breast.  Also, I had to prepare for the week.  That takes a lot of energy to get through a “normal” week.  But this particular week was big.  It was a make or break week.  It was the week I was scheduled to take a test that would determine my employment status.  It was kind of a big deal, you know, because my performance on this test was going to dictate my ability to pay the rent.  No time for lumps. 

So I focused on something different.  Like keeping my job. 

That’s weird

Well, on Friday afternoon after I took the employment-determining test, I went home and had a glass of wine.  Maybe two.  Maybe another.  I don’t remember the particulars right now.  Anyway, I had made it a point to not think about the disenchanting mass in my boob.  So, it probably went away.  I hadn’t thought about it, it must not be there.   That’s weird.  It was still there.  I’m gonna ignore it again.  This time, I thought, it’s bound to go away. 

And it was easy to ignore that weekend.  There was a lot of shit going on.  I had a washer to replace and a yard to mow and, subsequently, a glass door to repair.  Life at Holly Heights never gives me one minute to sit and contemplate a dismal future.  It’s too busy making sure I remember a dismal reality.  At least during the day.  Evenings at Holly Heights, however, remind me of all the things that I did or didn’t do that got me here.  The nights here get quiet and lonely and, despite the comfort of this place and my place in the world, the silence and the moonlight here give me ample time to think about my failures and shortcomings and my place in the world.  So, after two days of chaos, I sat on a Sunday night and remembered what I had promised myself I would forget.  I remembered the abnormality in my body. 

Still There

In spite of my best efforts to forget it, it was still there.  It was late last Sunday night.  And I was still trying not to think about it.  Even though I was thinking about it.  And Radley climbed into my bed.  He doesn’t do that very often.  After all, he’s five; practically grown.  But he climbed into my bed with his angry birds blanky and his bear pillow and he cuddled up with me.  As I held him, I began to shake.  I was shaking uncontrollably.  And I began to see my child.  I see him every day.  But last Sunday, I saw him as was growing.  I saw him, not only as he has been and is now, but how he will be.  And I wondered what it would mean if I orphaned him.  What would he lose out on?  What would I lose out on?  I know what I would miss, but what would he miss?  I mean, he really doesn’t think too much of me now.  I’m just the lady who gets him milk, cookies and puts out a modest dinner every night.  Because he’s five, that’s how he sees me.  But then I really started thinking about it.  Even if I’m just a conduit to nutrition right now, I want him to know me as more than that.  And if I’m not here, he won’t ever remember me for anything other than mealtime. 

Now what?

Well, the story doesn’t end there.  I don’t know when it will end.  I had intended to write privately about this, but private just isn’t my deal.  Sharing my experiences is more my thing.  Not because I want the entire world to stop and give me attention, but because if I don’t share, I will become my own worst enemy.  I will become self destructive.  I won’t be able to function as a mother, friend, daughter, employee, or colleague.  I will crumble.  And that’s not good for anyone.  This isn’t over.  I could publish a novel on my experiences from this past week, alone.  But for tonight.  These are the memories and emotions I had to revisit.  You know, for the sake of my inner peas. 

Survival

 

Imagination

When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up to be a politician.  How’s that for imagination?  But I had great hopes of the things I could do in politics.  I was going to go to law school.  I was going to advocate for women and children and other underrepresented minorities.  I was going to save the world.  And because I was the product of two hippie parents, I was raised to believe that I could do that.  Even as they grew nauseous of my talk of a life in Washington, they still supported it.   Of course, my parents were both hippies, so they would have also supported a life of tree pruning or coupon clipping.  I guess that’s what gave me the advantage.  My parents never discouraged my dreams, nor did they stifle my imagination. 

As a little girl, my imaginary friends were dead presidents, dead writers, and dead artists.  And also, to my parents dismay, Barbie.    But they accepted my relationships with dolls and my ponies and books.  Wait.  Books?  And Barbie? And dead people?  I’m pretty sure that’s therapy-worthy. 

My therapist would agree.  Also, she is grateful for the disparity. 

Reality

Well, this is the truth.  I wasn’t smart enough to go to college when I got out of high school.  I knew I wasn’t going to be.  Despite my best efforts, school was not for me.  Maybe I was young.  Maybe I was immature.  Maybe my hippie parents didn’t beat the value of an education into me.  I will always thank my parents for that, by the way.  But I just wasn’t college material at 18.  So I joined to Coast Guard.  Then that sucked.  So I got out.  And I decided it was time to go to college.  When I was 23.  And that was the perfect time for me to go to college.  I wasn’t any smarter than I was at 18, but I understood the value of an education by that point.  And I believed, again, that I could be all of those things I thought I could be when I was a little girl.  I soaked up education.  I remembered what was important.  I sat in classrooms and listened to the gospel of academia.  I WAS GOING TO BE A SCHOLAR. 

So, I studied for finals and the GRE, the LSAT and all the other standardized tests that were going to get me to the place where I could save the world.  Then I ran out of money.  By that time I was 26 and in desperate need of an income.  College couldn’t pay the bills anymore. So, I got a full time job to supplement my college education.  With a high-end homebuilder in the DC metropolitan area.  I was rubbing elbow with politicians and dignitaries.   That’s when my education went by the wayside.  Even though I do have a college degree, FROM an accredited institution, work became more important than my dreams.  And the things I imagined for myself as a little girl were lost to the façade of success. 

I no longer thought that the impact I would have as an environmental or social advocate was as important as dinners and drinks and parties after work.  I was going to be a star. But I was still in college.  I forgot about that. I guess that’s where I lost my perspective.  I guess that’s where the line between books and Barbie became blurred. 

Fantasy

In the mid-2000’s, the housing market hit the shitter.  I think we all know that, right?  Well, that’s when I lost my job.  As soon as I entered the industry, within months, it all went to hell.  And we all attribute our unrealistic expectations of economic success to our fiscal demise.  We aren’t stupid.  We may have been then, but we have knowledge and experience now.  We know what happened to the market 8 years ago.  And when I thought, 8 years ago, that I had lost everything, that’s when I began to dream again.  

When I lost the Marquis lifestyle, I realized that there might be something else out there.  Maybe it was my time.  My time to do something different.  So I looked at other opportunities.  I looked to re-evaluate my dreams.  I looked at where I could find purpose.  And I decided that living a life of simplicity on a south pacific isle was my destiny.  Apparently, it was not. 

Destiny

I like to talk about destiny.  A lot.  I like to say “everything happens for a reason.”  It makes me feel better about how I live my life.  I tell myself that the reason I don’t live in a bungalow on a South Pacific island is because the universe has other plans for me.  It’s easy and it helps me drive west, every morning, instead of to south to the airport.  It’s my destiny.  I guess.  But it also gives me the freedom to fantasize.  It gives me the opportunity to forget about what is real.  When I think about the bungalow on the North Shore, I don’t have to think about giving up on my ambitions or getting myself to work on time or brushing my kid’s hair in the morning.  I don’t have to think about the emotional price I have to pay for forfeiting my dreams or the lump in my breast or the $12 l have in the bank until Monday.  I only think about walking around barefoot in the yard and picking mangos and wading in the river with a child who deserves to be a child. 

But that wasn’t my destiny.  If it was, I would have made it so.  My destiny is uncut grass and late dinners and no health insurance and old cars.  It’s a destiny I chose for myself.  And even though it sounds like I am complaining, I wouldn’t change it for anything.  Because chaos and imperfection, are often, where I find my inner peas. 

 

 

Vulnerablity

Connection

A few days ago, my girlfriend Sally introduced me to a qualitative researcher named Brene Brown.  The subject of Brown’s research is human interaction, specifically, connection.  This woman has dedicated the better part of a decade to studying the dynamics of connection and what constitutes successful and futile attempts at emotional connection.  That’s weird.   I have also spent the better part of a decade trying to understand those principles.  Only nobody has been willing to publish my thoughts on the matter.  Regardless, connection is a subject that isn’t fascinating only to scholars.  We all question the meaning of our relationships and how they are maintained or neglected. 

Anyway, the long and short of Brown’s thesis is that people who can obtain and maintain relationships with others possess four common character attributes:  Courage, compassion, connection, and vulnerability.  Vulnerability being the keystone of successful relational interactions.  Brown’s position is that, even though we are conditioned to believe that we should avoid being vulnerable, it precedes openness, therefore vulnerability is conducive to forging human connection.   Her research is, obviously, far my intricate than that.  But for the purposes of this conversation, let’s just focus on vulnerability and its role in connectedness. 

So, how do we connect? 

Sometimes we want to be hermits.  Sometimes we don’t want to interact with other people.  Sometimes we just want to be left alone.  But we do need other people.  It’s just a fact.  We need friends we can relate to.  We need people to bounce ideas off of.  We need intimacy and validation.  (Please refer to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.  It’s Psychology for Dummies, people.)  What I am trying to get at here, is that we NEED relational interaction, but how do we get it? 

Well, we get it by finding others with common interests, thoughts and goals.  We get it by sharing our ideas and emotions with other people.  We get it by being honest.  We get it by being open.  We get it by being vulnerable. 

Weakness

If anyone gets vulnerability, it’s this girl. Because I don’t have a problem with honesty.  I don’t have a problem telling people how I feel.  I don’t even mind that the whole world knows my short comings.  I’m kind of the epitome of  vulnerability.  Or am I?  I will tell you when I’m happy.  I will tell you why I’m happy.  I will tell you when I’m pissed.  And everyone knows why.  I am the proverbial open book.  But I still try to qualify my experiences.  Yesterday, for example, when I was pissed at the world and the one million pieces of tempered glass in the back yard.  Everyone knew that I was sick and tired.  But I had to qualify my anger with gratitude.  Yes, I was pissed, but I couldn’t just say I was pissed.  I had to acknowledge that my life is amazing and, yes, sometimes bad things happen and we have to pick up and move forward…blah…blah…blah…VOMIT.  But I approached it that way, because I would appear too self-consumed and vulnerable if I just said “This sucks and I’m real pissed.” 

After watching the Brown piece on YouTube, it occurred to me that the same reason I won’t just say I’m pissed” is the same reason I won’t just say “I’m confused and my heart hurts.”  It’s the same reason that I haven’t been able to approach some of the emotionally significant things in my life.  Not too long ago, I had a very intimate encounter with someone I have loved for years.  The basis of our relationship had always been honesty and understanding.  That’s how our friendship was built.  So, it probably wasn’t a leap to incorporate more intimate interaction.  After all, what’s more personal than truth and compassion?  That was our connection.  It was established by vulnerability.  Duh.  But after we saw each other at our most susceptible, I became guarded.  I could no long say what I meant.  Or what I felt.  I couldn’t say “This changes everything and nothing at the same time.”  I couldn’t say “I have loved you up until this point; I won’t stop loving you now.”  I absolutely couldn’t say “I can’t stop thinking about you.”  Because those things would have left me vulnerable.  And even though I wanted to say all of that, and more, I couldn’t.  Because it’s a show of weakness.  Because intimacy leaves you vulnerable.  And we lose the connection when we don’t have the courage to be vulnerable with the people we care about.

Vulnerability

I’ve been having a real hard time writing recently.  It’s because I don’t want to appear too vulnerable.  Or maybe I don’t want to appear too crazy.  But I’m starting to realize that, socially, vulnerable is synonymous with crazy.  Or insecure.  Or unhappy.  Or any other undesirable character trait we may possess.  We equate vulnerability with weakness.  It isn’t though.  It takes more strength to be forward with your intentions, regardless of how those intentions are received, than it takes to hide them.  By hiding our intentions, we submit to the idea that we aren’t worthy of connection.   By avoiding vulnerability, we sacrifice our inner peas. 

Why are we Here?

Purpose

What are we doing here?  What is our purpose?  Why do we go through the motions?  What’s the meaning of life?  No human being in the history of humanity hasn’t asked these questions at some point.  We all wonder what we are doing here.  And the truth is, we all have a different purpose.  No two journeys are the same.  But, as I have mentioned before, I think the purpose is to leave your space better than it was when you found it.  We don’t ever perfect ourselves or the people or places we are responsible, but we should always try to make a positive impact.  Of course, positivity is relative.  We all have different interpretations of what is beneficial, of what is beautiful, of what is worthwhile.  For the most part, however, we all agree that kindness, compassion, and conscientiousness are all virtues.  So, that’s a good place to start when you are looking to figure out your purpose.  Of course, it is also possible that some people have no purpose, except to serve as a warning to others.  I have suspected for a while that I may be one of those people. 

Calamity Jane

Remember when I lost my birth certificate and my social security card?  Remember when I lost Radley’s birth certificate?  Remember when I locked myself out of the house, three times in one week?  Remember the injuries sustained from having to climb through the bathroom window?  How about the time that my kid got naked in a giant plastic bag in the front yard?  Or how about the time he took a dump in the neighbor’s driveway?

Then that time a couple of years ago when the weed whacker nearly severed my foot from my leg at the ankle.  There was that winter that I spent without heat.  And a couple of weeks ago…when the washer broke.  No, wait.  It didn’t just break.  It broke with a large load of laundry, after it was full of water.  Now today, with the one million pieces of tempered glass on my back patio from the PEBBLE that hit the door when I was cutting the grass.  That’s why they call me CJ. 

Am I making a case for myself yet? I may be that person.  I may be that warning.  I may be the glaring, red flag that reminds you to respect karma. 

The Small Stuff

Yes.  I am very well aware that this is all small stuff.  Nobody died.  Nobody suffered.  Nobody was injured.  Ok.  I was during that weed whacker incident a couple of years ago.  I almost lost a foot, for Christ’s sake.  But generally, I get off pretty easy, all things considered.  Sometimes there’s a little embarrassment or a bruised ego or some time spent repairing the damages.  It’s the small stuff though, right?  But what about when a lot of little shit adds up?  Does that make it big stuff?  Can we quantify that?  Do I deserve a break? 

Yes, this is going exactly where you think it’s going…

Pitty Party

Let me just start by saying that I understand my place in the universe.  I am grateful for EVERYTHING that I have.  I am fortunate on so many levels.  I have a smart, beautiful, healthy child.  I have a great job, that I love.  At least I do for the next 4-6 weeks.  More to follow on that later.  I have the most AMAZING collection of friends, family and colleagues that any girl has ever been graced with ever.  Not only am I lucky, I am charmed.  My life is good.  Now, with all of that said, let me say this:  I AM SO SICK OF THIS SHIT!!!!  I do not want to clean up that glass in the back yard.  I don’t want to get the water out of the washing machine.  I don’t want to snake my own toilet!!!!!  I don’t want to be reliant on the people I love to help me when things go bad.  I just want ONE DAY that I don’t have to worry about life.  One.  Day.  Is that unreasonable? 

Now, Enter Reason

Yeah.  It is unreasonable to want to take a hiatus from life.  Because it happens every day.  You can’t stop it.  It’s there.  First thing in the morning.  Before you go to bed at night.  And every single second in between.  Life is always there.  You don’t get a break.  You don’t get a time out.  You only get a delay of game penalty if you take too long getting it together.  It doesn’t matter if it’s little issues or big issues or issues that shouldn’t be issues at all.  You have to make a positive effort to make a positive difference in life.  That’s our purpose.  That’s how we make our corner of the world better than we found it.  That’s how we find our inner peas. 

Priorities

First Things First

 I have two priorities:  1.)  Radley.  2.)  Wine.  That’s it.  These are the two most important things in my life.  Yes, I know that you are, yet again, enamored of this display of exceptional parenting.  But if we are being honest here, that’s how I prioritize.  At least I didn’t say wine first.  And don’t get me wrong, I have other priorities, too:  Family, friends, shoes.  I’m not that shallow.   Anyway,  point being,  I can’t provide for Radley or provide myself with wine without other priorities.  I can’t give Radley food, clothing and shelter without a source of income.  I can’t enjoy a moment of solitude with an oaky, fruit forward vintage without a job.  So, even though Radley and wine are the two most substantial entities in my life, I can’t just focus on them.  I need to maintain employment.  Somehow.  So are they really first?  Are they really my priorities? 

Skewed

This is how priorities get skewed.  We know we love our children.  We know that the most reasonable among us, also, love wine.  These aren’t unrealistic priorities.  In fact, these priorities are meaningful.  But how will we substantiate our priorities?  How will we make sure that these needs are fulfilled?  Well, we do it by working to provide for our priorities.  So, then, work becomes a priority.  By getting up in the morning and going to work and performing our occupational functions to the best of our ability, so that we can ensure a means viable employment, we are sustaining what is important to us. 

But when we go to work, we find ourselves prioritizing things a little differently.  When I am at work, my job is the priority.  The people who depend on me are my priority.  The patients, the doctors, the corpsmen.  Those people become my priority.  Therefore, for 8-10 hours a day, Radley and wine stop being the most significant aspects of my life.  And I take on the burden of 1300 people on any given day.  Yes.  I am there only to provide for my child and my way of life.  But both of those things hit the back burner the minute I log on to my computer in the morning.  Suddenly, the things that matter most are physicals and records and pulled hammies.  Starting at 7:AM, politics and bureaucracy and bullshit take precedence…over everything.  And, of course, I love my job.  I’m not complaining about it.  I am grateful for what I have and “benefits” from working there.  (“Benefits” in quotation marks because they aren’t actual benefits.  I don’t even have health insurance.)  But I love my job.  Also, I have priorities.  That’s the point. 

Priorities

So what are those priorities, exactly?  I am pretty sure I explicitly laid out what my priorities at the beginning of this diatribe.  But, this morning, as I was getting ready to go take an employment-contingent test, I read something very relative.  On Facebook.  My dear friend Travis, who by the way has a very insightful blog (check it out:  bit-thinking.com/), posed the question “How often do we carry around someone else’s priorities with us?”  Uh….Forever?  We ALWAYS carry priorities that are not our own.  That’s why our priorities are skewed.  Even though our intentions are genuine and our priorities are valuable, we can never solely focus on what is important to us. 

Today, as I was getting ready to take a test that has no relevance in my life, no relevance in my job, no relevance to my employers, NO RELAVANCE AT ALL TO ANYONE, I was reminded that we always are responsible for someone else’s priorities.  So, this morning, as I drove an hour to take a test that my employment hinges on, even though it won’t change  my scope of work, I found some peas.  We will always have hurdles, obstacles and hoops.  We will always have to be responsible for someone else’s priorities, even if they are irrelevant.  Our priorities will always be contingent on appeasing someone else.  But as long as we can remember why we make asinine sacrifices for others, we will know our inner peas. 

Oops

Mistakes

We all make mistakes.  They are a part of life.  Sometimes, they are unavoidable.   We call them “honest” mistakes because we truthfully don’t mean to cause any harm by them.  And even though we don’t mean to make them, mistakes just happen. For most people, mistakes are generally something simple to resolve.  Some people never make big mistakes.  Maybe you forget to pay the gas bill, or unintentionally reveal a secret, or maybe you didn’t feed your cat yesterday.  All of those things can be resolved relatively easily.  My mistakes never work like that, though.  My mistakes always take a while to resolve, and usually, I can lose my job or my house because of them.  I like to call them “Manhattan Project” mistakes.  You know, the potential mistakes you don’t even consider because you have the best of intentions, but inevitably millions of people will die because of?  That’s my kind of mistake.   Also, I never make a mistake when life is simple.  It’s always when I have a thousand things going on and the prospect of losing my house or my job makes me want to sit in a warm tub with a bottle of wine, a Tracy Chapman CD and a razor blade.  That’s how I do mistakes. 

Nobody has fucked up this bad.  EVER. 

That’s what I tell myself when I make a mistake.  Every mistake I make, even if it’s less significant than any other mistake I’ve ever made, is the biggest travesty in the history of humanity.  It’s just a fact.  Mistakes equate to failure, and I’m already a failure when I’m not failing.  So, when something goes wrong, I automatically assume that I have destroyed every life that I have ever touched, and that my own demise is only minutes away.  

It could be the PG&E bill that was three days late.  It might be the cat I didn’t feed last night.  It could be the water hose I left on for an hour because I got distracted.  It could be a call at work from across the country requesting something I had no idea about.  It doesn’t even have to be my mistake.  I am always CONVINCED that my mistakes will, quite certainly, destroy life as I have ever known it. 

Flares Sightings

This afternoon, in the vicinity of Bodega Avenue and Tomales Road, flares were spotted.  Actually, it wasn’t just flares.  There were sirens and alarms and red flags and guys with automatic rifles conducting room searches.  The whole place may as well have been on lockdown.  Shit got real.  All because of a case of mistaken identity.  My case of mistaking an identity.  All because of me and MY mistake today.   Oh, today.  Two days before the day that the rest of my life hinges on.  Today.  The day I need to prove my worth more than any other day in my entire life.  Today.  Today, I made the mistake that redefines mistakes.  EFF YOU, TODAY!!!!

OK.  Real Talk. 

None of that actually happened.  There were no flares or fires or guns.  But that’s how I envisioned my mistake.  It wasn’t just a big deal.  It was about to alter the course of history.  But as I sat here chronicling my single handed effort at destroying society as we know it, it occurred to me how ridiculous it sounded.  Yes, maybe I should have paid more attention to what was going on.  Or maybe I should have paid less attention to what was going on.  Maybe I could have saved myself some embarrassment.  Maybe I could have saved some very busy people some of their very precious time.  But considering what those people have to waste their time on, any given day, this mistake wasn’t nearly as horrifying as I created it to be in my mind.  Honestly, I still may lose my job for it.  If nothing else, I am going to lose a little respect.   But it isn’t the end of the world.  And it didn’t cause any solar storms that will send the Earth spinning off its axis.  It was a mistake.  It was honest and unintentional.  It was the definition of a mistake.   And eventually, I will come to peas with it. 

Crazy Knows Crazy

Crazy

I talk a lot about my crazy.  I talk a lot about other peoples’ crazy.  I tell people all the time, “Don’t try to play crazy with me, I can see that shit.”  I can.  I can even spot crazy at first glance.  I may not be a good judge of character, but I am an exceptional judge of crazy.  As my girlfriend, Rachael, always tells me:  “Crazy.  Knows.  Crazy.”  She’s right.  And I’ve got the gift.  I can pick crazy out of a line up.  I’m actually trying to pitch a case to the government on how they should create a position for me at the Military Entrance Processing Stations (MEPS), where I just sit and watch the prospective recruits to determine their suitability for service.  I’m pretty sure I could save the United States Government hundreds of millions of dollars by weeding out the crazies before they even hit the bus to boot camp.  So far, that endeavor has been unsuccessful.  Anyway, that’s not the point.  The point is that crazy knows crazy. 

It’s a gift.  And I’ve got it. 

I See it All

Give me a scenario.  Allow me one look at a complete stranger.  I can see everything they have going on in those creepy little minds.  I can call it before they even speak a word to me.  I’ve predicted it all.  Insecure. Egocentric.  Psychopathic.  Sociopathic.  Daddy issues.  Mommy issues.  Want’s a baby.  Want’s a baby daddy.  Drives a panel van.  Collects toenail clippings. I see it all.

Some people say, “Oh, it’s really not a gift, Angela.   You see their medical records before you see them.”  Well, that’s true.  And I know the signs.  But before I even put a face to the record, I can see it.  I see it because I get it.  OK, I don’t get all of it, but I always get crazy. 

My Brand of Crazy

Now, don’t go thinking that because you have a little bit of crazy, you’ll be able to identify all the crazy. That’s not true.  You need to have all the crazy to be able to see other people’s crazy.  I get it because anyone who lives with as much crazy as I do can spot an ally through the fog in a blizzard.  Once you’ve seen it in the mirror, you can see it easier than Waldo in the public market.  I’ve lived a lot of life.  I know that it may not seem that way when you see me from behind a desk or at the coffee shop or when I’m picking up wine at the market.  But you don’t get this sort of crazy from not having the experience.  Or should I say, having the experience of ignorance.   There isn’t a day during the week that my life doesn’t almost fall apart.  Job. Bills.  Grass.  Child. Dinner.  Gas.   Job.  Child.  Relationships.  Responsibility.  Job.  Child.  FUCKING GRASS!!!   Oh look…wine…It’s been that way for my entire adult life.   I never feel adequate.  I always feel like I am letting somebody down.  

 “Adult” is a relative term.  I probably wouldn’t even be sure that I had reached adulthood if not for the fact I have to pay my rent to keep my child sheltered.  If the very real possibility of homelessness didn’t taunt me, I might not ever use the word “adult” as a means of describing myself.   And as I grow, I find that I still get worked up over the insignificant.  It makes me act like a crazy person sometimes.   It’s just life, though.  It’s not death.  It’s just crazy. 

That’s How I See It:

I see the crazy, because I have known the crazy.  Everyone thinks they have a special brand of crazy. Most notably, young adults who have never been away from their parents before.  So they think that nobody has ever been where they have been before.  They think they are alone.  They aren't though.  They aren't special.  They aren't different.  They aren't even, necessarily, unsuitable.  They just haven't figured out how to put the crazy aside for a few minutes.  I understand, better than anyone, that sometimes it's easier to think you are bat shit crazy than it is to try to find a place for peas.  Inner peas.  But, we all need to remember that we have that place.  We also need to remember that we are ALL crazy, so maybe judgment should be replaced with empathy. 

A Really Big Deal

BFD

It’s the most powerful force on the planet…Maybe the universe.  It can build families.  It can destroy homes.  It can be the demise of entire dynasties.  Stronger than the tides.  More prevailing than the winds.  Fierier, even, than molten lava.    What is this cosmically influential entity?  It’s sex, of course.  It owns us.  The way we think.  The way we dress.  The way we talk.  The things we talk about.  Even the way we see the world is contingent on our perception of sex.  I know.  It’s real Freudian.  Again, I don’t ever claim to have any “new” ideas.  I’m just trying to offer my perspective on the things we already know. 

Anyway, we all know that we are sexual beings.  But why?  Why is it such a big fucking deal?  Our entire being is centered on sex.  It’s how we define love.  It’s how we gain acceptance.  It’s how we create a family. Hell, in some cases, it’s how we define ourselves.   It’s everything we interpret to be important.  But why? 

Much Ado about Nothing…Again.

When you meet that person who “completes” you, you want to explore your connection on a deeper, more emotional level.  The only place to go from good conversation and intense stares and the “unintentional” brush of the hand, is sex.  And that’s why it’s a big deal.  Because we work ourselves up over these remarkably ordinary interactions that happen with extraordinary people.  (Whether or not those people are actually extraordinary is a different conversation, and I’m sure I’ll address it at some point.  But for the sake of tonight’s discussion, let’s just assume they are, in fact, extraordinary.) So, there you are in a restaurant or on the beach or sitting in lawn chairs in the front yard, and you know you that this person is about to ignite your soul.  That’s when it happens:  The kiss.  The kiss leads to touching.  Then to more kissing.  When, finally, you realize that you can’t breathe.  Now your skin is on fire, you can’t touch enough, and you are suffocating.  It’s very romantic.  Then there’s the sex.   

Why is it Always so Awkward? 

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a few girlfriends and one of them said, with a straight face “why is it always so uncomfortable?”  And the four of us sat in silence for a few minutes.  Yeah.  Why is it so uncomfortable?  Why is hot sex so awkward?  You would think that, by definition, awkward would preclude hot.  But we always have to be inventive.  We always have to try different things.  We need pillows and swings and potions to keep it interesting.  If it was that interesting in the first place, wouldn’t we just be satisfied with what’s comfortable? 

I once said to a man:  “Did you actually just have sex with me with those ridiculous socks on?”  I didn’t actually notice the ridiculous socks at the time.  With or without, the sex would have been the same:  marginal at best.  But it was sex that I couldn’t live without…until we had it.  Then I realized, I could have done without.  Especially since, despite the quality of the sex, we were now physically AND emotionally connected.  The perfect recipe for crazy. 

Excellent.  Now everything is awkward. 

The Difference between Men and Women

OK.  So, back to the question at hand…Why is sex such a big deal?  Good, I’m glad you asked.  It’s because women associate acceptance from a man with sex.  It’s because (yes this is cliché and gender profiled) women feel like we are “giving” ourselves to someone we feel an emotional connection with. And once we validate that connection, women are cool.  Don’t need it, don’t want it.  We’re good.  Men, on the other hand, look at sex a little differently.  They like sex, obviously.  And they’re up for it in the beginning.  But if sex isn’t produced with one woman, they know there will be another. Men aren’t going to get emotionally attached over sex.   Until they are in a monogamous relationship.  Then, sex is what the salvation of society hinges on.  It’s the biggest fucking deal on the planet.  If he’s not getting any, than the world will certainly implode.  Ever heard of the black hole theory?  That’s what happens. 

In either case, it causes hostility, resentment, and destruction.
 

It’s a Big Deal

Now, don’t misunderstand.  Sex is important to women, too.  There have been multiple periods in my adult life (right now, included), that I have gone years without sex.  And it is always  a big deal.  My girlfriends tell me  “Just go to a bar.”  But that is not the answer.  I have a vibrator.  It’s not that.  It’s the connection.  That’s why it’s a big deal.  Even though I’ve only ever gotten two things out of sex:  1.) A false sense of emotional security.  2.)  A valid source of resentment,  It’s still a big deal.  I don’t know how this relates to inner peas, but as my friend Pedro would say, “It needs said.”