Wow.
Sometimes, you write something, and then you're just embarrassed.
Suffice it to say I was having a really bad day on Tuesday. Which is not what I'm embarassed about--everyone has bad days, and shit luck, and I've had more than my fair share lately, plus my genetic predisposition to depression even when things are peachy--but the way I put it down was just so trite.
Boo hoo, life is unfair. Waaaah, men are shallow and sex-driven. Oh noes, I feel like I'm dying/already dead.
*cringe*
If I'd been auditioning to be the chorus of a My Chemical Romance song, it would've sounded better. But as it is, my obvious low mood and general fed-upness, which have proven themselves to be about as unique as my cheesy pop sensibilities, just read like more of the same boring shite (and I haven't even rhymed and set them to a snappy tune).
I can't believe I actually wrote an entire entry on the unfairness of life. Surely that's been said enough. Surely it's been felt enough, by enough people. Surely my comments on the subject are superfluous.
Then again, I defend the right of anyone to say/think/write/feel anything they need to, so maybe I'm being too hard on myself. Still, I'd be more impressed--or at least less unimpressed--if I'd managed to make my last entries sound a little less, well, whiny.
You know what I mean. A sonnet about slitting my throat. An all-men-suck haiku. A short story about aloneness. Not just, "Waaah, I'm so unhappy, why doesn't anyone care, lookit me lookit me I'm gonna stick my head in the oven."
Anyways. I'll work on that. No need to make people read reconstituted drivel, especially when they're taking the time to read my blog.
Which someone did (someone other than the 1 person who usually reads this). Which was surprising and nice. He's part of the reason I'm back on here today, instead of... well... writing a suicide sonnet.
So now I'm going to head right back to the other side of the sloppy sentimental spectrum, and send Kiri--I suppose I can use that, it's not even his real name, I hope he doesn't mind--lots and lots of hugs *sends hugs* Thanks, Kiri. You really cheered me up.
Why do I sound like I'm being sarcastic??? I'm so being serious, and I even sound sarcastic to myself. Nevermind that. My thank-you stands. But I'm going now, before I start singing, 'I Just Called to Say I Love You,' or some other, equally pants, love song.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Tuesday 25 November 2008
Do You Like Scones?
I do. I prefer biscuits, American-style, but scones are good too.
I wish someone would make some for me. Or better yet, teach me how to make them myself. That would take longer, and be more interesting, and at the end of it, I'd have a new skill; and with some luck, I'd have a new friend, as well.
I am starving. I am wasting away, and not from lack of food.
Why is it that no matter how loudly I scream, NO ONE CAN HEAR ME?
I wish someone would make some for me. Or better yet, teach me how to make them myself. That would take longer, and be more interesting, and at the end of it, I'd have a new skill; and with some luck, I'd have a new friend, as well.
I am starving. I am wasting away, and not from lack of food.
Why is it that no matter how loudly I scream, NO ONE CAN HEAR ME?
can't be arsed to think up a title
I can't.
I can barely be arsed to write this, but I just feel so bad... I've gotta get the feeling out somehow.
It's a funny thing--mostly it's just funny that I still haven't figured this out--did ya know, something like 97% of all guys just want to fuck you... and the other 3% don't give a shit. You may as well not exist. Unless they want to bang you (and fancy their chances) you are invisible to every man you meet.
I direct these comments to women, of course, and likely gay guys... but I've had no experience as a gay guy, so I'm just guessing. My experience as a woman, sadly, has led me to the aforementioned (and soon to be repeated) conclusions.
Men are only after one thing. Some of them dress it up, and call it love, because they're so shy/afraid of disease that they want to stick to as few partners as possible, but really, they all just want to get laid.
Just. Just. Just.
I use that word a lot. When really, the situation is anything but just.
It's all so dreadfully unfair.
How can anyone be so ALONE, even when they're surrounded by people?
I can't even dredge up any more anger. There's only weakness left.
Sometimes I think my heart will simply stop; I marvel, in a detached, melancholy way, that it even has the energy left to beat. I can't muster the will required to smile, but, wonder of wonders, my body continues pumping pints upon pints of blood through miles and miles of the organic tubing known as my circulatory system...
There must be a God. I could not summon the strength to live, on my own.
I can barely be arsed to write this, but I just feel so bad... I've gotta get the feeling out somehow.
It's a funny thing--mostly it's just funny that I still haven't figured this out--did ya know, something like 97% of all guys just want to fuck you... and the other 3% don't give a shit. You may as well not exist. Unless they want to bang you (and fancy their chances) you are invisible to every man you meet.
I direct these comments to women, of course, and likely gay guys... but I've had no experience as a gay guy, so I'm just guessing. My experience as a woman, sadly, has led me to the aforementioned (and soon to be repeated) conclusions.
Men are only after one thing. Some of them dress it up, and call it love, because they're so shy/afraid of disease that they want to stick to as few partners as possible, but really, they all just want to get laid.
Just. Just. Just.
I use that word a lot. When really, the situation is anything but just.
It's all so dreadfully unfair.
How can anyone be so ALONE, even when they're surrounded by people?
I can't even dredge up any more anger. There's only weakness left.
Sometimes I think my heart will simply stop; I marvel, in a detached, melancholy way, that it even has the energy left to beat. I can't muster the will required to smile, but, wonder of wonders, my body continues pumping pints upon pints of blood through miles and miles of the organic tubing known as my circulatory system...
There must be a God. I could not summon the strength to live, on my own.
Sunday 23 November 2008
W
I feel better now. Nothing like some Fraggle-time to get your mood up :)
Aside from Fraggles lifting my mood, I would like to mention the one genuine friend I've made, since coming to this strange land. He's a peach (soft, sweet, fuzzy) and some of his finer qualities include:
the fact that he's never judged me,
the fact that, generally speaking, he's a pretty nonjudgmental guy--he seems to be of the opinion that if someone he likes is doing something bad, there's a reason for it/there are extenuating circumstances,
the fact that he's never been sexually inappropriate with me (he is such a cyberslut, and he's working on becoming a real life slut, but he confines his actions to times when this behaviour is appropriate),
he's just fun to talk to--asks thought-provoking questions, knows nifty trivia, is an all-around bright, capable, nice-to-chat-to guy,
he's my friend. To the best of my recollection, he's never done anything to hurt me (I did once corner him into admitting I was fat, but hey, honesty is the best policy and it's not like he used that word; he tried to be tactful about it, and followed it up by mentioning how much weight I've lost and how good I look nowadays). The point is, where possible, he avoids hurting me. This marks a pleasant change from all the people who seem to go out of their way to verbally/emotionally attack me...
Anyways, he knows who he is, and I just thought I'd give him a little mention on here. I may as well, lol... I'm pretty sure he's the only one who ever reads this :)
Aside from Fraggles lifting my mood, I would like to mention the one genuine friend I've made, since coming to this strange land. He's a peach (soft, sweet, fuzzy) and some of his finer qualities include:
the fact that he's never judged me,
the fact that, generally speaking, he's a pretty nonjudgmental guy--he seems to be of the opinion that if someone he likes is doing something bad, there's a reason for it/there are extenuating circumstances,
the fact that he's never been sexually inappropriate with me (he is such a cyberslut, and he's working on becoming a real life slut, but he confines his actions to times when this behaviour is appropriate),
he's just fun to talk to--asks thought-provoking questions, knows nifty trivia, is an all-around bright, capable, nice-to-chat-to guy,
he's my friend. To the best of my recollection, he's never done anything to hurt me (I did once corner him into admitting I was fat, but hey, honesty is the best policy and it's not like he used that word; he tried to be tactful about it, and followed it up by mentioning how much weight I've lost and how good I look nowadays). The point is, where possible, he avoids hurting me. This marks a pleasant change from all the people who seem to go out of their way to verbally/emotionally attack me...
Anyways, he knows who he is, and I just thought I'd give him a little mention on here. I may as well, lol... I'm pretty sure he's the only one who ever reads this :)
Dance Your Cares Away!
I just feel like, once again, we're going to an unhappy place. Shake it off! And, c'mon over here. Let's dance.
da doo-da doo doo doo doo DOO doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo DOO... 'Dance your cares away! *clap clap* Worries for another day/Let the music play! *clap clap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'
And then
'Work your cares away. *tap tap* Dancing's for another day/Let the Fraggles play' *tap tap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'
Repeat as many times as necessary, until you've decided to either work or dance your cares away. As another groovy song says, 'The singing works just fine for me...'
So. I'm gonna go have a nice day, and you do too. Not that I'm convinced any of you are reading this; but then, I'm writing it for me, anyway.
da doo-da doo doo doo doo DOO doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo DOO... 'Dance your cares away! *clap clap* Worries for another day/Let the music play! *clap clap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'
And then
'Work your cares away. *tap tap* Dancing's for another day/Let the Fraggles play' *tap tap* Down in Fraggle Rock!'
Repeat as many times as necessary, until you've decided to either work or dance your cares away. As another groovy song says, 'The singing works just fine for me...'
So. I'm gonna go have a nice day, and you do too. Not that I'm convinced any of you are reading this; but then, I'm writing it for me, anyway.
Wednesday 19 November 2008
Acquaintance
I have decided, based on past/current experiences, that I should re-evaluate my definition of the word, 'friend.' This is not to curtail anyone from attempting to be my friend--all applicants are welcome--but I need some sort of guideline, just to stop me from getting confused.
I need more real friends. I should attempt to learn how to spot them.
Or, failing that, I should attempt to weed out the shit friends by process of elimination. Here goes:
You are not my friend if I cannot trust you, even in the most minor ways. If you are going to continually stand me up, break plans, and force me to rearrange my schedule at a moment's notice if I want any chance of seeing you, you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if you continually call me a liar/assume the absolute worst about me. If I say something which could have 2 or more meanings, and you pick the worst one every single time, you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if you never ask about me. My life, my kids, my folks back home, etc. If all that's just trivia to you, then you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if I'm not allowed to have an opinion which differs from yours. If you are never wrong, resort to name-calling when losing an argument, and rain judgment down upon anyone who dares to disagree with you, you are not my friend (and probably not anyone else's, either).
Similarly to above: you are not my friend if I can't have an open, honest discussion with you. If you reject everything I say as invalid or irrelevent before I've even finished saying it, you are not my friend.
And finally, you are not my friend if you don't respect me. Regardless of the mistakes I've made in my life, I deserve at least basic civility. I deserve the right to make my own choices, without your censure. If you believe you have the right to tell me how to live my life, and then become enraged and abusive when I don't take your (half-assed, unresearched, made-up-in-your-head) advice, YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND.
We can remain friendly acquaintances, because it is not in my nature to cause drama just for drama's sake. I will be civil, polite, courteous, etc, most likely even when you don't deserve it. But make no mistake. Unless you are capable of treating me with basic human decency--which is more important than being able to make me laugh, anyone can do that--then you are not my friend.
I need more real friends. I should attempt to learn how to spot them.
Or, failing that, I should attempt to weed out the shit friends by process of elimination. Here goes:
You are not my friend if I cannot trust you, even in the most minor ways. If you are going to continually stand me up, break plans, and force me to rearrange my schedule at a moment's notice if I want any chance of seeing you, you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if you continually call me a liar/assume the absolute worst about me. If I say something which could have 2 or more meanings, and you pick the worst one every single time, you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if you never ask about me. My life, my kids, my folks back home, etc. If all that's just trivia to you, then you are not my friend.
You are not my friend if I'm not allowed to have an opinion which differs from yours. If you are never wrong, resort to name-calling when losing an argument, and rain judgment down upon anyone who dares to disagree with you, you are not my friend (and probably not anyone else's, either).
Similarly to above: you are not my friend if I can't have an open, honest discussion with you. If you reject everything I say as invalid or irrelevent before I've even finished saying it, you are not my friend.
And finally, you are not my friend if you don't respect me. Regardless of the mistakes I've made in my life, I deserve at least basic civility. I deserve the right to make my own choices, without your censure. If you believe you have the right to tell me how to live my life, and then become enraged and abusive when I don't take your (half-assed, unresearched, made-up-in-your-head) advice, YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND.
We can remain friendly acquaintances, because it is not in my nature to cause drama just for drama's sake. I will be civil, polite, courteous, etc, most likely even when you don't deserve it. But make no mistake. Unless you are capable of treating me with basic human decency--which is more important than being able to make me laugh, anyone can do that--then you are not my friend.
'Friend' -ship
Why is it that the most insensitive, most hurtful, most thoughtless people in the world, are always the ones who can't handle the truth about themselves?
I've been talking to one of my 'friends' again. She's been giving me grief for not leaving my insignificant other. Worse, she insinuated I was a liar when I said I couldn't get a council house.
So I basically told her she has no idea what she's talking about, nor any idea what it's like to be in my position--she doesn't, she's both surrounded by family and from a financially-comfortable background, and also has the advantage of being a citizen of this country--and bam, I get an abusive text full of 'shite's and 'fuck's and 'piss off's.
I am beginning to see a pattern developing here. The majority of 'friends' I have made in this country are selfish, self-serving, self-absorbed shits, with no respect for others' feelings and the empathy of a serial killer. To put it another way, I have bad taste in men, and worse taste in friends, at least lately.
This friend of mine, the one who always has a 'suggestion' of what I should do, who's so eager to help me... I have a four-month-old son she's never even seen. 2 weeks after he was born, 10 stitches in my ass, unable to sit down for a 2-hour stretch, I managed to make it to her wedding, and in the 3+ months since, she hasn't managed to drop by my house for an hour to meet my newest arrival. It's like she's so pissed off that I left her house--long story short, I briefly left my partner and then returned home last year--she doesn't want to have anything to do with any of the results of my return home (i.e. my youngest child).
She can fuck right off. She can just sit on a tack. No matter what she says about her own pathetically simple and meaningless problems (boo hoo, I eat 3,000 Calories a day, I want to kill myself because I'm a lard-ass) I offer support and encouragement, while she berates me for not making the choices SHE thinks I should make. She backs me into a corner until I feel I really have to defend myself against her slander, and then she bitches me out for daring to disagree with her make-believe version of events. Every time we have a disagreement, she not only refuses to try to understand my point of view, but insist that she's absolutely right in her opinion, regardless of how misinformed it is.
Sometimes I really think she's just thick as pigshit. Then I realise, no, she's bright enough to overcome her erratic, illogical, insulting, hurtful, narrow-minded behaviour--she just chooses not to.
Well fuck her, then.
I've been talking to one of my 'friends' again. She's been giving me grief for not leaving my insignificant other. Worse, she insinuated I was a liar when I said I couldn't get a council house.
So I basically told her she has no idea what she's talking about, nor any idea what it's like to be in my position--she doesn't, she's both surrounded by family and from a financially-comfortable background, and also has the advantage of being a citizen of this country--and bam, I get an abusive text full of 'shite's and 'fuck's and 'piss off's.
I am beginning to see a pattern developing here. The majority of 'friends' I have made in this country are selfish, self-serving, self-absorbed shits, with no respect for others' feelings and the empathy of a serial killer. To put it another way, I have bad taste in men, and worse taste in friends, at least lately.
This friend of mine, the one who always has a 'suggestion' of what I should do, who's so eager to help me... I have a four-month-old son she's never even seen. 2 weeks after he was born, 10 stitches in my ass, unable to sit down for a 2-hour stretch, I managed to make it to her wedding, and in the 3+ months since, she hasn't managed to drop by my house for an hour to meet my newest arrival. It's like she's so pissed off that I left her house--long story short, I briefly left my partner and then returned home last year--she doesn't want to have anything to do with any of the results of my return home (i.e. my youngest child).
She can fuck right off. She can just sit on a tack. No matter what she says about her own pathetically simple and meaningless problems (boo hoo, I eat 3,000 Calories a day, I want to kill myself because I'm a lard-ass) I offer support and encouragement, while she berates me for not making the choices SHE thinks I should make. She backs me into a corner until I feel I really have to defend myself against her slander, and then she bitches me out for daring to disagree with her make-believe version of events. Every time we have a disagreement, she not only refuses to try to understand my point of view, but insist that she's absolutely right in her opinion, regardless of how misinformed it is.
Sometimes I really think she's just thick as pigshit. Then I realise, no, she's bright enough to overcome her erratic, illogical, insulting, hurtful, narrow-minded behaviour--she just chooses not to.
Well fuck her, then.
Monday 17 November 2008
A Moment of Silence
I am speechless.
I am speechless, not in the good way, by what I read on the BBC News webpage today. I don't know the words to express my own sad hopelessness, my own quiet despair, at the death of the little toddler thus far referred to as, 'Baby P.' I will pray for his father, and for his nan. I will take comfort that I have never doubted, even at times of spiritual crisis in my life, that there is a wonderful, eternal Heaven awaiting anyone who dies before a certain age (the age may vary depending on the individual's abilities and upbringing, but it's certainly always greater than 17 months).
I will pray for myself, that I don't give into the utter vicarious misery that I feel, when I think of that poor, suffering little boy. And I will thank the God I was taught to believe in, that whatever my personal failings, whatever emotional and spiritual instabilities have plagued me, I know it is not in me to willingly allow my children to be harmed. I don't understand Baby P's mother, and indeed, if I understood her better I would be sick to my stomach. I don't know that I could live, if I thought that I had the same kind of tendencies within me.
Which is not to say I don't have violent tendencies of my own. If I had been Baby P's mother, I might well be headed to prison now, but for an entirely different reason. I'd be off to HM prisons because the second he laid a hand on my son, I'd have ripped out my partner's entrails and choked him to death with them.
Ahem. And on that fiercely protective note--I'm glancing over at my babies even at this moment, making sure they are well--I'll resume my efforts to obtain peace through prayer. And I invite anyone who reads this (if anyone ever does) to join me in a moment of prayerful silence, on behalf of Baby P and those who loved him. I'm not bothered if you don't believe in the Judeo-Christian God I claim as my own. Pray to any god or goddess you like. I'm not even concerned if you don't believe in any god at all. By all means, light a white candle and send out your own inner goodness to his family. I'm just requesting that you take the time to remember a little boy who shouldn't have to be remembered at all.
He should be being experienced, for the next 60 or 70 years or so.
Let us pray.
I am speechless, not in the good way, by what I read on the BBC News webpage today. I don't know the words to express my own sad hopelessness, my own quiet despair, at the death of the little toddler thus far referred to as, 'Baby P.' I will pray for his father, and for his nan. I will take comfort that I have never doubted, even at times of spiritual crisis in my life, that there is a wonderful, eternal Heaven awaiting anyone who dies before a certain age (the age may vary depending on the individual's abilities and upbringing, but it's certainly always greater than 17 months).
I will pray for myself, that I don't give into the utter vicarious misery that I feel, when I think of that poor, suffering little boy. And I will thank the God I was taught to believe in, that whatever my personal failings, whatever emotional and spiritual instabilities have plagued me, I know it is not in me to willingly allow my children to be harmed. I don't understand Baby P's mother, and indeed, if I understood her better I would be sick to my stomach. I don't know that I could live, if I thought that I had the same kind of tendencies within me.
Which is not to say I don't have violent tendencies of my own. If I had been Baby P's mother, I might well be headed to prison now, but for an entirely different reason. I'd be off to HM prisons because the second he laid a hand on my son, I'd have ripped out my partner's entrails and choked him to death with them.
Ahem. And on that fiercely protective note--I'm glancing over at my babies even at this moment, making sure they are well--I'll resume my efforts to obtain peace through prayer. And I invite anyone who reads this (if anyone ever does) to join me in a moment of prayerful silence, on behalf of Baby P and those who loved him. I'm not bothered if you don't believe in the Judeo-Christian God I claim as my own. Pray to any god or goddess you like. I'm not even concerned if you don't believe in any god at all. By all means, light a white candle and send out your own inner goodness to his family. I'm just requesting that you take the time to remember a little boy who shouldn't have to be remembered at all.
He should be being experienced, for the next 60 or 70 years or so.
Let us pray.
Sunday 16 November 2008
Picky Eaters
Right. This is getting depressing. I think it's time for a good old-fashioned rant. Today's topic is entitled, 'Picky Eaters' a.k.a., 'Would You Like Some Raw Coconut and Monkey Steak Tartare with That?'.
I genuinely despise people who won't eat what's set before them. I loathe them so much more than you'd ever believe. It's such a waste of time, being a fussy eater. I find it mildly annoying in a young child, and in an adult, it's thoroughly unacceptable. If I were the President of the World, the first people my Death Squads would take out, would be the ones who turn up their noses at perfectly edible food they 'don't like'.
First of all, let me make it clear that I'm not referring to individuals who abstain from eating certain foods on religious or moral grounds. You're Jewish, you don't want a bite of my juicy and delicious lobster? Fair point, and I won't eat my juicy and delicious lobster in front of you, we can have bagels instead. You're Muslim, and you turn up your nose at my delectable pork barbecue? Turn off the grill, and let's have some halal kebab meat instead. You're a vegan, because you wholeheartedly believe that it's wrong to use animal products to sustain your own life? Come to my house, I have a selection of fresh fruit and vegetables available any time of day, any day of the week.
Because that's the point, you see. I have no religious or moral objections to eating anything, aside from human flesh (and that aversion could be overcome, if necessary) and so if I come to your house or you go to mine, there will always be something acceptable for us both to eat. I have learned, at a fairly late point in my life (post-childhood, anyway) to appreciate a wide variety of foods that I grew up without experiencing. I was pleased, when I moved here, to sample as many different types of cuisine as I could easily obtain, even the ones that were nutrionally dubious in origin (pot noodles, chip butties, any number of sickly-sweet, custard-or-treacle drowned puddings, etc). In my personal opinion, if an entire nation of people eats a food, that food is probably okay. Regardless of how foreign or strange or unlikely it seems to me, I'll give anything a try.
To date, I cannot think of a single food I dislike. Some I prefer to others, of course, but I love eating a huge variety of food from many vastly dissimilar cultures. Everyone loves their mother's cooking, and I'm no exception to that rule; but after growing up on a diet of fried chicken, potato salad, sweet iced tea and every fruit and vegetable common to my part of the world, I am very happy to state that I count Yorkshire Puddings, Rogan Joshes, cream-cheese-and-jalapeno poppers, and seafood paella among some of my favourite things to eat. And it's not just good food I'll eat.
I have adapted to this country's ludicrous treatment of beef (it's meant to be pink on the inside, not tough and grey and dried out). I have overcome my objection to vinegar being poured all over every food known to man (it's a natural cleaning agent, not a seasoning for everything from a pot-roast to fried potatoes). I have learned to 'eat' vegetables that could more easily be drunk (broccoli is supposed to be green and slightly crisp, not boiled until it dissolves of its own accord in one's mouth).
And yet, if I ask someone to try a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I get outright hostility. People tell me that's disgusting, without even letting me make a sandwich, nevermind taking a bite themselves.
I asked a friend of mine if she likes fruit pies, once (to an American, there's virtually no other kind of pie) and she said, ignorant and proud of it, "I don't like mixing sweet with savoury."
Mixing sweet with savoury? What the fuck has that got to do with anything? Did I ask her to run to the oven, pull the top off a Fray Bentos pie, and pour cherry filling inside, to mingle with the gravy and mushrooms? A half a second of contemplation, or a basic knowledge of other cultures, would have clued her in to the fact that piecrust for fruit pies is sweet itself, and not salty/savoury. Duh. The first time I heard of corned-beef pie, my eyebrows nearly disappeared into my hairline for the same reason (from the opposite perspective--why would you stick meat inside a piecrust, which anyone knows is sweet???) but I kept my apprehension to myself, assumed I had the wrong idea about that particular culinary delight, and waited to try it.
And I liked it. But then, I usually do. Because I have a tolerant and questing mind, I'm usually able to chuck my preconceptions out the proverbial window, no matter how ingrained they are. And it's particularly easy with food--to my mind, no matter how odd it sounds to me, if 50 million people like it, can it really be that bad?
Not that 50 million people is the benchmark. If you came up to me and told me that you'd created a new recipe, and it was a bit strange but you thought it was nice, then I'd be happy to try it. Why not? What does it hurt to have an open mind about food, for godsake?
Food prejudice is nearly as bad as ethnic/racial perjudice, for exactly the same reason. Lack of understanding should never be the reason for turning away from a new situation or experience. Bad enough that people who turn away mindlessly are denying themselves potentially rewarding experiences, but even worse, those are the same sort of people who tend to castigate others for their uniqueness.
I once had a friend of mine jump down my throat for eating cold food out of the tin. Not once did she mention that that's a good way to contract food poisoning--a logical statement that would've at least made me consider stopping--she just went on and on about how gross it was, and how it was a waste of time cooking for me, since I eat crap anyway.
Not so. I greatly appreciate virtually any style of home-cooking, no doubt more thoroughly than someone who only eats the five basic Anglo-Continental meals her mother cooked when she was growing up. But liking a nice, hot serving of, let's say, beef lasagne with spring vegetables, doesn't mean I turn my nose up at cold spaghetti and sausages (another bizarre combination that I've grown to enjoy, in the last few years).
At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say that claiming not to like any general type of food, really ticks me off. You know what I mean. I know a guy who won't eat legumes of any sort, another who refuses to eat any type of nut, someone who won't eat anything with mayonnaise, someone else who won't try mushrooms because, "they're a fungus," loads of people who won't try Indian or Chinese food because they don't like 'spicy' food (so I guess that cinnamon they just sprinkled on their French Toast has to be wiped off before they'll eat it)...
Basically, my attitude is this. If you have an attitude regarding food, either the way I eat it or foreign food in general, I sincerely hope you wind up stranded on a deserted island, with nothing to eat but raw coconut and monkey steak tartare. You'll soon learn to appreciate food other than your mother's Yorkshire Puddings and gravy.
But I genuinely don't understand. Why does it have to come to imminent starvation before you'll take a chance on something new?
I genuinely despise people who won't eat what's set before them. I loathe them so much more than you'd ever believe. It's such a waste of time, being a fussy eater. I find it mildly annoying in a young child, and in an adult, it's thoroughly unacceptable. If I were the President of the World, the first people my Death Squads would take out, would be the ones who turn up their noses at perfectly edible food they 'don't like'.
First of all, let me make it clear that I'm not referring to individuals who abstain from eating certain foods on religious or moral grounds. You're Jewish, you don't want a bite of my juicy and delicious lobster? Fair point, and I won't eat my juicy and delicious lobster in front of you, we can have bagels instead. You're Muslim, and you turn up your nose at my delectable pork barbecue? Turn off the grill, and let's have some halal kebab meat instead. You're a vegan, because you wholeheartedly believe that it's wrong to use animal products to sustain your own life? Come to my house, I have a selection of fresh fruit and vegetables available any time of day, any day of the week.
Because that's the point, you see. I have no religious or moral objections to eating anything, aside from human flesh (and that aversion could be overcome, if necessary) and so if I come to your house or you go to mine, there will always be something acceptable for us both to eat. I have learned, at a fairly late point in my life (post-childhood, anyway) to appreciate a wide variety of foods that I grew up without experiencing. I was pleased, when I moved here, to sample as many different types of cuisine as I could easily obtain, even the ones that were nutrionally dubious in origin (pot noodles, chip butties, any number of sickly-sweet, custard-or-treacle drowned puddings, etc). In my personal opinion, if an entire nation of people eats a food, that food is probably okay. Regardless of how foreign or strange or unlikely it seems to me, I'll give anything a try.
To date, I cannot think of a single food I dislike. Some I prefer to others, of course, but I love eating a huge variety of food from many vastly dissimilar cultures. Everyone loves their mother's cooking, and I'm no exception to that rule; but after growing up on a diet of fried chicken, potato salad, sweet iced tea and every fruit and vegetable common to my part of the world, I am very happy to state that I count Yorkshire Puddings, Rogan Joshes, cream-cheese-and-jalapeno poppers, and seafood paella among some of my favourite things to eat. And it's not just good food I'll eat.
I have adapted to this country's ludicrous treatment of beef (it's meant to be pink on the inside, not tough and grey and dried out). I have overcome my objection to vinegar being poured all over every food known to man (it's a natural cleaning agent, not a seasoning for everything from a pot-roast to fried potatoes). I have learned to 'eat' vegetables that could more easily be drunk (broccoli is supposed to be green and slightly crisp, not boiled until it dissolves of its own accord in one's mouth).
And yet, if I ask someone to try a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I get outright hostility. People tell me that's disgusting, without even letting me make a sandwich, nevermind taking a bite themselves.
I asked a friend of mine if she likes fruit pies, once (to an American, there's virtually no other kind of pie) and she said, ignorant and proud of it, "I don't like mixing sweet with savoury."
Mixing sweet with savoury? What the fuck has that got to do with anything? Did I ask her to run to the oven, pull the top off a Fray Bentos pie, and pour cherry filling inside, to mingle with the gravy and mushrooms? A half a second of contemplation, or a basic knowledge of other cultures, would have clued her in to the fact that piecrust for fruit pies is sweet itself, and not salty/savoury. Duh. The first time I heard of corned-beef pie, my eyebrows nearly disappeared into my hairline for the same reason (from the opposite perspective--why would you stick meat inside a piecrust, which anyone knows is sweet???) but I kept my apprehension to myself, assumed I had the wrong idea about that particular culinary delight, and waited to try it.
And I liked it. But then, I usually do. Because I have a tolerant and questing mind, I'm usually able to chuck my preconceptions out the proverbial window, no matter how ingrained they are. And it's particularly easy with food--to my mind, no matter how odd it sounds to me, if 50 million people like it, can it really be that bad?
Not that 50 million people is the benchmark. If you came up to me and told me that you'd created a new recipe, and it was a bit strange but you thought it was nice, then I'd be happy to try it. Why not? What does it hurt to have an open mind about food, for godsake?
Food prejudice is nearly as bad as ethnic/racial perjudice, for exactly the same reason. Lack of understanding should never be the reason for turning away from a new situation or experience. Bad enough that people who turn away mindlessly are denying themselves potentially rewarding experiences, but even worse, those are the same sort of people who tend to castigate others for their uniqueness.
I once had a friend of mine jump down my throat for eating cold food out of the tin. Not once did she mention that that's a good way to contract food poisoning--a logical statement that would've at least made me consider stopping--she just went on and on about how gross it was, and how it was a waste of time cooking for me, since I eat crap anyway.
Not so. I greatly appreciate virtually any style of home-cooking, no doubt more thoroughly than someone who only eats the five basic Anglo-Continental meals her mother cooked when she was growing up. But liking a nice, hot serving of, let's say, beef lasagne with spring vegetables, doesn't mean I turn my nose up at cold spaghetti and sausages (another bizarre combination that I've grown to enjoy, in the last few years).
At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say that claiming not to like any general type of food, really ticks me off. You know what I mean. I know a guy who won't eat legumes of any sort, another who refuses to eat any type of nut, someone who won't eat anything with mayonnaise, someone else who won't try mushrooms because, "they're a fungus," loads of people who won't try Indian or Chinese food because they don't like 'spicy' food (so I guess that cinnamon they just sprinkled on their French Toast has to be wiped off before they'll eat it)...
Basically, my attitude is this. If you have an attitude regarding food, either the way I eat it or foreign food in general, I sincerely hope you wind up stranded on a deserted island, with nothing to eat but raw coconut and monkey steak tartare. You'll soon learn to appreciate food other than your mother's Yorkshire Puddings and gravy.
But I genuinely don't understand. Why does it have to come to imminent starvation before you'll take a chance on something new?
Saturday 15 November 2008
Jessica Rabbit
My children are off-limits, though. They are too young and too innocent for me to begin picking them apart on a webpage that anyone can read. Until I can be sure that what I say won't hurt them, I should say nothing at all about them, except for the fact that they are young and innocent and as yet undamaged by life. I will keep them so, for as long as I can.
So I'll talk about my sister, instead--the one I'm referring to as Jessica Rabbit.
I'm not sure where to begin. She writes about me all the time, and she is always effortlessly generous in her portrayal. I am always the brightest, the best, the most bountifully kind big sister who ever lived, a genius with words, a genie at granting wishes, everything she would like to be and is not, with all the coolest friends, and wittiest comments, and cleverest thoughts. She tells me I am beautiful, when I have always been squinty-eyed and chubby; she tells me I am good, when I have always been cruel and self-centred.
The reality is that my sister is, if not all, certainly many of the things I would like to be. She is tall and strong and evenly-formed, with long legs and pert breasts and a generally hourglass-shaped figure. Her skin is pale and perfect, well not perfect, but smooth and clean and soft, and she has big blue eyes that glitter like diamonds and bright soft hair that shines like the sun. Her lips are better than mine--fuller, plumper, less prone to frowning. The curve of her jaw and cheek has fascinated me for years; when I look in the mirror, I see my own slashing cheekbones and square-jawed intensity, and I long for the soft suppleness of my sister's features.
Growing up, we used to joke (in the tasteless way that children do) that she was a member of the German elite, and I was a fat (my word, not hers) little Jewish princess. I understood the compliment she was implying--she sees me as exotic, quirky, unique--but it was overwritten by her sheer physical superiority.
Yes. I am a little exotic-looking, in the right light and with a little make-up and if I'm at one of the slimmer stages of my life. And I have an odd sense of who I am, which makes me periodically attractive to a variety of interesting people.
She is genuinely lovely to look at, and curvy, and has better breasts and better legs and a better face and is generally more likable. She is sometimes something of a people-pleaser, and has mastered the art of sincere compliments and tactful let-downs; anyone can see that her heart is in the right place and that she is fiercely, overwhelmingly loyal to those she loves and faultlessly kind to those she's only just met. Everyone, common or cultured, base or blase, average or august, likes her.
I am known for saying what I think. Generous people think I'm honest; honest people think I'm blunt; harsh or sensitive people think I'm damn rude.
My sister, on the other hand, is known for saying what she should. What will make people feel better. What will help the situation.
We make a fine pair. I piss people off, she soothes their wounded egos. I bring friends into our circle, she makes sure they never want to leave. I come up with ideas, she brings them to fruition.
All this, and she has friends and ideas and thoughts of her own, and they're at least as good (and often better) than mine. It is her generosity of spirit that makes me into the intellectually superior of the two of us--and even her generosity can't make me the more physically attractive.
As usual, life has conspired to make the prettier of two sisters also the more popular, the more creative, the more musically-gifted, the more pleasant to be around. Oh I've got a little bit of something, I grant you that, and if you know me I'll bet you that you like me almost in spite of yourself, even though you don't know why... but there is nothing so sweet, so purely thoughtful, so simply enjoyable about me, as there is about her.
And let's not forget. Physically, she's a 5' 10" Jessica Rabbit type, and I'm more like the real-life embodiment of... of... there's not even a cartoon character that corresponds to me, I'm that boring.
Though, personality-wise, I'm like a cross between Droopy Dog, Garfield, and Ren. Which is interesting. Different. Unique.
These are the words you learn at a very young age, when you're as weird as I am.
But I'd so much rather be all the things I say about my sister. Kind-hearted. Attractive. Has groovy hair. Plays a musical instrument or three. Can read music, which after 8 years of chorus is still beyond my ability. Good at math. Good at lab sciences. Can actually draw/paint/sketch, at least enough to pass a highschool art class. Is outgoing. Sets people at ease, effortlessly.
And yet. There's still a hint of something broken, something not quite right, about my sister. She doubts herself, at a level that's so deep and so secret few of her friends would even realise it's there. Like me, like my parents, in spite of all her natural talents and qualities, my sister has not yet managed to attain the life she wants, largely due to her own inner demons.
Still. Out of the four of us, she's the youngest, and arguably the one with the most drive, the greatest determination. If there's hope for anyone, there's hope for her, and because of the person she is, she will eventually make the most of it. I hope.
So I'll talk about my sister, instead--the one I'm referring to as Jessica Rabbit.
I'm not sure where to begin. She writes about me all the time, and she is always effortlessly generous in her portrayal. I am always the brightest, the best, the most bountifully kind big sister who ever lived, a genius with words, a genie at granting wishes, everything she would like to be and is not, with all the coolest friends, and wittiest comments, and cleverest thoughts. She tells me I am beautiful, when I have always been squinty-eyed and chubby; she tells me I am good, when I have always been cruel and self-centred.
The reality is that my sister is, if not all, certainly many of the things I would like to be. She is tall and strong and evenly-formed, with long legs and pert breasts and a generally hourglass-shaped figure. Her skin is pale and perfect, well not perfect, but smooth and clean and soft, and she has big blue eyes that glitter like diamonds and bright soft hair that shines like the sun. Her lips are better than mine--fuller, plumper, less prone to frowning. The curve of her jaw and cheek has fascinated me for years; when I look in the mirror, I see my own slashing cheekbones and square-jawed intensity, and I long for the soft suppleness of my sister's features.
Growing up, we used to joke (in the tasteless way that children do) that she was a member of the German elite, and I was a fat (my word, not hers) little Jewish princess. I understood the compliment she was implying--she sees me as exotic, quirky, unique--but it was overwritten by her sheer physical superiority.
Yes. I am a little exotic-looking, in the right light and with a little make-up and if I'm at one of the slimmer stages of my life. And I have an odd sense of who I am, which makes me periodically attractive to a variety of interesting people.
She is genuinely lovely to look at, and curvy, and has better breasts and better legs and a better face and is generally more likable. She is sometimes something of a people-pleaser, and has mastered the art of sincere compliments and tactful let-downs; anyone can see that her heart is in the right place and that she is fiercely, overwhelmingly loyal to those she loves and faultlessly kind to those she's only just met. Everyone, common or cultured, base or blase, average or august, likes her.
I am known for saying what I think. Generous people think I'm honest; honest people think I'm blunt; harsh or sensitive people think I'm damn rude.
My sister, on the other hand, is known for saying what she should. What will make people feel better. What will help the situation.
We make a fine pair. I piss people off, she soothes their wounded egos. I bring friends into our circle, she makes sure they never want to leave. I come up with ideas, she brings them to fruition.
All this, and she has friends and ideas and thoughts of her own, and they're at least as good (and often better) than mine. It is her generosity of spirit that makes me into the intellectually superior of the two of us--and even her generosity can't make me the more physically attractive.
As usual, life has conspired to make the prettier of two sisters also the more popular, the more creative, the more musically-gifted, the more pleasant to be around. Oh I've got a little bit of something, I grant you that, and if you know me I'll bet you that you like me almost in spite of yourself, even though you don't know why... but there is nothing so sweet, so purely thoughtful, so simply enjoyable about me, as there is about her.
And let's not forget. Physically, she's a 5' 10" Jessica Rabbit type, and I'm more like the real-life embodiment of... of... there's not even a cartoon character that corresponds to me, I'm that boring.
Though, personality-wise, I'm like a cross between Droopy Dog, Garfield, and Ren. Which is interesting. Different. Unique.
These are the words you learn at a very young age, when you're as weird as I am.
But I'd so much rather be all the things I say about my sister. Kind-hearted. Attractive. Has groovy hair. Plays a musical instrument or three. Can read music, which after 8 years of chorus is still beyond my ability. Good at math. Good at lab sciences. Can actually draw/paint/sketch, at least enough to pass a highschool art class. Is outgoing. Sets people at ease, effortlessly.
And yet. There's still a hint of something broken, something not quite right, about my sister. She doubts herself, at a level that's so deep and so secret few of her friends would even realise it's there. Like me, like my parents, in spite of all her natural talents and qualities, my sister has not yet managed to attain the life she wants, largely due to her own inner demons.
Still. Out of the four of us, she's the youngest, and arguably the one with the most drive, the greatest determination. If there's hope for anyone, there's hope for her, and because of the person she is, she will eventually make the most of it. I hope.
Thursday 13 November 2008
Me - continued
So. I won't stop with saying I'm immature and broken, like a little glass teddy bear that's been dropped a hundred times and hasn't quite shattered, but rather been chipped and fragmented, leaving razor-sharp edges upon which the unwary can slice themselves open... I'll go one further, and try to explain why I'm this way. Not that you care, probably, but this is my blog. The whole point is to give me an outlet. I'm trying to make myself feel better. Your participation is not mandatory.
The main reason I am the way I am is, as with most personality traits, simple genetic predisposition. If you'd ever met my parents, or my sister... she's gonna need a name, really, and even though everyone who might ever read this knows who she is, I'm not going to put her actual name on the site. It's too personal. My sister shall be referred to as Jessica Rabbit, first of all because she is a long, slinky, red-headed Jessica Rabbit type, and secondly, because I can be generous with her. In real life, she's not bad--she's not even drawn that way--but I think she always wanted to be. So, in my blog, she can be bad, in exactly the nicest way a woman can be bad.
So. We'll start with my parents, and move onto my sister in a moment.
If you know my dad, you'll know that he's a sort of blustery, boisterous, aging Lothario, life-of-the-party type. His liveliness generally comes from alcohol, and later becomes belligerance (in that, he and I are very much alike--I'm like a church mouse unless I've had a few pints, then a party animal, then a crazy bitch with a chip on my shoulder) but in his natural state, my dad's actually kind of shy and sweet. He likes children, in the appropriate way. Coaches baseball. Has been, basically, a dog whisperer all his life, in spite of being bitten when he was quite young. Instead of giving him a phobia, it gave him a sort of transcendental calm. I have seen him place his hand on a snarling German Shepherd (the dog breed, not a blonde called Klaus who watches sheep) and within seconds, the dog is relaxed, friendly, tail wagging away, a slightly bewildered look on its face, as if to say, "Wait a second, I'm a finely-honed, well-trained, eat-small-children-for-breakfast attack dog. How the heck did that guy just come up and start rubbing my belly?" But by then, the battle has been lost, and the dog and my dad are friends for life. Seriously, life. If my dad disappears, then shows up two years later, the dog gets one sniff of him, and starts rolling around on his back, a playful puppy once more (I am not exaggerating, I have seen this with my own eyes).
So that's my dad, naturally. A lover of animals. A gentle man, who prefers coaching baseball and soccer, to having wild nights out. A melancholy soul, who chases women, not because he's a tart, but because he needs the affection and kindness that only women can provide; he needs the tenderness that was so absent from his own childhood.
But. The flip side of that, is an angry, bitter little boy, prone to temper tantrums and childish outbursts, who will never fully understand or accept the fact that life's not fair. His sensitive soul is continually buffeted by even the most minor storms, no insult or injury is beneath his notice, and with every passing day, he becomes more and more wounded by all the shit that life throws at him. He is self-destructive, prone to addiction, and desperate to escape the lonely confines of his own tortured thoughts (also, he has a chemical imbalance).
And my mother. She is so quiet, so shy, that she makes him seem like the party animal he tries so hard to portray. She believes in a loving God, who, if she were honest with herself, continually lets her down. He giveth, and He taketh away, and she refuses to assign blame, but instead, cries in the night and beats her breast and prays for a brighter tomorrow, and all the time, she is tormented by thoughts of her own failings and inadequacies. She claims to be a happy, easy-going person, but I know that deep down, my mother contemplates suicide every day. She is tired, and often feels defeated. Because she is so merciful and forgiving, people think she is emotionally resilient, and they just shit on her, all the time, never seeing that every time she lets another one of them step on her, a part of her soul is crushed into dust.
But she accepts it as her Christian duty, her struggle to be a good person, and she lets the entire world take advantage of her. She is not prone to rages, like Daddy, but she cries when she is all alone. My mother--Mama--is as wounded as my father, but in the way of a woman, a mother, she keeps her hurts to herself, nursing them silently, sometimes not nursing them at all.
It's hard to say which of them I worry about more. My dad, recklessly self-destructive, perfectly capable of accidentally committing suicide, or my mom, apparently patient, withdrawn, carrying around a festering internal hurt that no one ever thinks to ease.
And this combination, this myriad cesspool of dark and bright, of tears and wrath, of supreme selfishness and subservient selflessness, is the crockpot that simmered the stew of my sister's and my own DNA.
It is no wonder that we are the way we are. The wonder is that any of the four of us have managed to make it to adulthood and beyond. My parents are middle-aged now. I have children of my own. People who are, ostensibly, too fragile to live, have in their own way flourished, and even managed to breed.
But I look at my children, and I am so afraid. What if they turn out like me, like my mother, like my father? Worse yet, what if they turn out like their father?
And so, I am resigned to my mother's role in life. To pray, to forbear: to hope for better things for my children, than were given to me. And yet I know, we are at best only marginally better than the sum of our parts. More often, we are no greater than that, and usually less.
I look at the parts that have gone into making my own son and daughter, and I wonder; how will they rise above that? And I think of the parts that have gone into making me, and I wonder, how on earth will I give them anything better than the life that I had?
But the truth is, my life has been better than that of my parents. I am better off than they were, at my age. And so, with a little luck, my kids' lives will be better still.
And where they're concerned, at least, I will make every effort to smooth my own rough edges. I would not have them cut themselves on me. And maybe if they don't, they'll grow up softer, rounder, less abrasive than I did.
I do not want this trend to continue.
I want my children, at least, to be happy.
The main reason I am the way I am is, as with most personality traits, simple genetic predisposition. If you'd ever met my parents, or my sister... she's gonna need a name, really, and even though everyone who might ever read this knows who she is, I'm not going to put her actual name on the site. It's too personal. My sister shall be referred to as Jessica Rabbit, first of all because she is a long, slinky, red-headed Jessica Rabbit type, and secondly, because I can be generous with her. In real life, she's not bad--she's not even drawn that way--but I think she always wanted to be. So, in my blog, she can be bad, in exactly the nicest way a woman can be bad.
So. We'll start with my parents, and move onto my sister in a moment.
If you know my dad, you'll know that he's a sort of blustery, boisterous, aging Lothario, life-of-the-party type. His liveliness generally comes from alcohol, and later becomes belligerance (in that, he and I are very much alike--I'm like a church mouse unless I've had a few pints, then a party animal, then a crazy bitch with a chip on my shoulder) but in his natural state, my dad's actually kind of shy and sweet. He likes children, in the appropriate way. Coaches baseball. Has been, basically, a dog whisperer all his life, in spite of being bitten when he was quite young. Instead of giving him a phobia, it gave him a sort of transcendental calm. I have seen him place his hand on a snarling German Shepherd (the dog breed, not a blonde called Klaus who watches sheep) and within seconds, the dog is relaxed, friendly, tail wagging away, a slightly bewildered look on its face, as if to say, "Wait a second, I'm a finely-honed, well-trained, eat-small-children-for-breakfast attack dog. How the heck did that guy just come up and start rubbing my belly?" But by then, the battle has been lost, and the dog and my dad are friends for life. Seriously, life. If my dad disappears, then shows up two years later, the dog gets one sniff of him, and starts rolling around on his back, a playful puppy once more (I am not exaggerating, I have seen this with my own eyes).
So that's my dad, naturally. A lover of animals. A gentle man, who prefers coaching baseball and soccer, to having wild nights out. A melancholy soul, who chases women, not because he's a tart, but because he needs the affection and kindness that only women can provide; he needs the tenderness that was so absent from his own childhood.
But. The flip side of that, is an angry, bitter little boy, prone to temper tantrums and childish outbursts, who will never fully understand or accept the fact that life's not fair. His sensitive soul is continually buffeted by even the most minor storms, no insult or injury is beneath his notice, and with every passing day, he becomes more and more wounded by all the shit that life throws at him. He is self-destructive, prone to addiction, and desperate to escape the lonely confines of his own tortured thoughts (also, he has a chemical imbalance).
And my mother. She is so quiet, so shy, that she makes him seem like the party animal he tries so hard to portray. She believes in a loving God, who, if she were honest with herself, continually lets her down. He giveth, and He taketh away, and she refuses to assign blame, but instead, cries in the night and beats her breast and prays for a brighter tomorrow, and all the time, she is tormented by thoughts of her own failings and inadequacies. She claims to be a happy, easy-going person, but I know that deep down, my mother contemplates suicide every day. She is tired, and often feels defeated. Because she is so merciful and forgiving, people think she is emotionally resilient, and they just shit on her, all the time, never seeing that every time she lets another one of them step on her, a part of her soul is crushed into dust.
But she accepts it as her Christian duty, her struggle to be a good person, and she lets the entire world take advantage of her. She is not prone to rages, like Daddy, but she cries when she is all alone. My mother--Mama--is as wounded as my father, but in the way of a woman, a mother, she keeps her hurts to herself, nursing them silently, sometimes not nursing them at all.
It's hard to say which of them I worry about more. My dad, recklessly self-destructive, perfectly capable of accidentally committing suicide, or my mom, apparently patient, withdrawn, carrying around a festering internal hurt that no one ever thinks to ease.
And this combination, this myriad cesspool of dark and bright, of tears and wrath, of supreme selfishness and subservient selflessness, is the crockpot that simmered the stew of my sister's and my own DNA.
It is no wonder that we are the way we are. The wonder is that any of the four of us have managed to make it to adulthood and beyond. My parents are middle-aged now. I have children of my own. People who are, ostensibly, too fragile to live, have in their own way flourished, and even managed to breed.
But I look at my children, and I am so afraid. What if they turn out like me, like my mother, like my father? Worse yet, what if they turn out like their father?
And so, I am resigned to my mother's role in life. To pray, to forbear: to hope for better things for my children, than were given to me. And yet I know, we are at best only marginally better than the sum of our parts. More often, we are no greater than that, and usually less.
I look at the parts that have gone into making my own son and daughter, and I wonder; how will they rise above that? And I think of the parts that have gone into making me, and I wonder, how on earth will I give them anything better than the life that I had?
But the truth is, my life has been better than that of my parents. I am better off than they were, at my age. And so, with a little luck, my kids' lives will be better still.
And where they're concerned, at least, I will make every effort to smooth my own rough edges. I would not have them cut themselves on me. And maybe if they don't, they'll grow up softer, rounder, less abrasive than I did.
I do not want this trend to continue.
I want my children, at least, to be happy.
Me
Okay. I just have to explain something. It’s about my name on this site—Bitter Candle Girl.
Now, the bitter part should be fairly obvious. There’s a definite thread of acid running through most of what I write (and most of what I say in real life, so if we ever meet up, be prepared). And the candle part, although slightly less obvious, is still pretty reasonable—I’m letting my light shine, yadda yadda yadda. So I’m bitter, but I’ve got my candle out, burning away. Woot.
It’s the girl part that I wonder about. I am, I suppose, a little old to be referring to myself as a girl. I feel a need to justify this appellation.
First of all, ‘woman’ is such an earthy, sexy word. When I say the word ‘woman,’ I get a mental image of Betty Page, Marilyn Monroe, Beyonce Knowles: beautiful, curvaceous, confident-seeming women, who are just generally good enough to eat. I’m not saying that to be a woman, you have to be beautiful or sexy, but that’s part of my personal connation of the term. Or, on the other hand, you can be a woman by being strong, intelligent, and dynamic. Eleanor Roosevelt, Harper Lee, Maya Angelou, those are all women, and they’ve earned the title far more completely than I ever have.
Me, though. There’s a line from a Counting Crows song that describes me pretty well; “she had something breakable just under her skin…”. That does a good job of summing me up. There’s something a little bit fragile, a little bit sharp about me, and mind you don’t cut yourself on the edges of who I am. Whereas if I were a woman, a real, confident, sexy, powerful woman, I would be secure enough in myself to be a combination of velvety softness and soothing, warming heat (like the kind of heat you get from drinking whiskey. The kind that gives you a little, not unpleasant, kick in the gut).
Again. That’s not me. So until it is, I’ll have to forego calling myself a woman, and stick with girl. But please don’t read this expecting me to be some perky nineteen-year-old, because I’m not. I’m exactly what the sign says.
Bitter. Burning. And a little bit juvenile.
Now, the bitter part should be fairly obvious. There’s a definite thread of acid running through most of what I write (and most of what I say in real life, so if we ever meet up, be prepared). And the candle part, although slightly less obvious, is still pretty reasonable—I’m letting my light shine, yadda yadda yadda. So I’m bitter, but I’ve got my candle out, burning away. Woot.
It’s the girl part that I wonder about. I am, I suppose, a little old to be referring to myself as a girl. I feel a need to justify this appellation.
First of all, ‘woman’ is such an earthy, sexy word. When I say the word ‘woman,’ I get a mental image of Betty Page, Marilyn Monroe, Beyonce Knowles: beautiful, curvaceous, confident-seeming women, who are just generally good enough to eat. I’m not saying that to be a woman, you have to be beautiful or sexy, but that’s part of my personal connation of the term. Or, on the other hand, you can be a woman by being strong, intelligent, and dynamic. Eleanor Roosevelt, Harper Lee, Maya Angelou, those are all women, and they’ve earned the title far more completely than I ever have.
Me, though. There’s a line from a Counting Crows song that describes me pretty well; “she had something breakable just under her skin…”. That does a good job of summing me up. There’s something a little bit fragile, a little bit sharp about me, and mind you don’t cut yourself on the edges of who I am. Whereas if I were a woman, a real, confident, sexy, powerful woman, I would be secure enough in myself to be a combination of velvety softness and soothing, warming heat (like the kind of heat you get from drinking whiskey. The kind that gives you a little, not unpleasant, kick in the gut).
Again. That’s not me. So until it is, I’ll have to forego calling myself a woman, and stick with girl. But please don’t read this expecting me to be some perky nineteen-year-old, because I’m not. I’m exactly what the sign says.
Bitter. Burning. And a little bit juvenile.
Monday 10 November 2008
Catch-22
I love to play the, 'What if...?' Game. You know the one I mean, where you think about a choice you made, and go down all the different choices you might have made, and try to figure out how much your life might have changed as a result. I prefer doing it with fictional characters when I feel they've had too rough a time of it. In the Harry Potter series, for instance, my Severus Snape is saved from Voldemort's snake by an unrequited love spell, the spell-caster turns out to be one of his students who's actually a witch under an anti-aging spell, he learns to love again as a result of her unrequited love shielding him from death, at that point she begins to age normally once more, they marry, have a son, and the son grows up to marry Harry/Ginny's daughter named Lily... so Severus Snape's son marries Lily Potter, in a way allowing Severus to fall in love with Lily all over again, and finally giving him a legitimate way to become part of her family. Awww. And then, if I take the fantasy out a little further, that Lily has a daughter, with the same green Lily eyes, middle name also Lily, and Severus gets to fall in love with Lily for the third and final time, as his favourite grandchild. Super awww.
Now, that only even vaguely matters (or makes any sense to you) if you're a fan of Harry Potter, but you can still appreciate the general idea. I enjoy the game, and my primary purpose in playing it is to make the universe better for someone, albeit someone who doesn't exist.
I was playing it earlier, and I realised--and it may come as a shock that I had to 'realise' this, but bear with me--I realised that you can really only play the What if? Game in your imagination. You can't do it in real life, regardless of how good your intentions might be. You can't go back and undo things that you maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. You can't go back to the root of a problem, and correct things before they get out of hand.
What I mean is, take my parents. Now, they've been divorced for two decades, and that was my mother's attempt to fix something that she maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. The problem being, of course, that she couldn't erase it; my sister and I already existed. Not that my mother would have it any other way. I know, in the way that I know very few things, that she would never want to erase us, no matter the cost (and the cost to my mother was, in so many ways, unfathomably steep). But our existence means that her marriage to my father also continues to exist, on some level. She'll always be reminded of it. She'll always be stumbling upon some memory of that time, that makes her cringe or cry or feel ashamed. Because of us, she will never fully escape the memory of my father. A guy who, as a daddy, is usually above-par in a lot of ways. But as a husband... being married to him nearly destroyed my mother.
And now, she can never truly recover from those memories. She can never stop reliving, in the back of her mind, all the ways in which she and my father hurt each other.
I sympathise. Worse than that, I have reason to empathise, which I know breaks my mother's heart. But just like my mother, there's nothing I can do about it. No matter what I do, I cannot rectify my current situation. And even if I could, I wouldn't. I couldn't, for the same reason my mother wouldn't go back in time and avoid meeting Daddy, even if she could.
Sometimes life is nothing more than the perfect illustration of the phrase 'Catch-22'.
Now, that only even vaguely matters (or makes any sense to you) if you're a fan of Harry Potter, but you can still appreciate the general idea. I enjoy the game, and my primary purpose in playing it is to make the universe better for someone, albeit someone who doesn't exist.
I was playing it earlier, and I realised--and it may come as a shock that I had to 'realise' this, but bear with me--I realised that you can really only play the What if? Game in your imagination. You can't do it in real life, regardless of how good your intentions might be. You can't go back and undo things that you maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. You can't go back to the root of a problem, and correct things before they get out of hand.
What I mean is, take my parents. Now, they've been divorced for two decades, and that was my mother's attempt to fix something that she maybe shouldn't have done in the first place. The problem being, of course, that she couldn't erase it; my sister and I already existed. Not that my mother would have it any other way. I know, in the way that I know very few things, that she would never want to erase us, no matter the cost (and the cost to my mother was, in so many ways, unfathomably steep). But our existence means that her marriage to my father also continues to exist, on some level. She'll always be reminded of it. She'll always be stumbling upon some memory of that time, that makes her cringe or cry or feel ashamed. Because of us, she will never fully escape the memory of my father. A guy who, as a daddy, is usually above-par in a lot of ways. But as a husband... being married to him nearly destroyed my mother.
And now, she can never truly recover from those memories. She can never stop reliving, in the back of her mind, all the ways in which she and my father hurt each other.
I sympathise. Worse than that, I have reason to empathise, which I know breaks my mother's heart. But just like my mother, there's nothing I can do about it. No matter what I do, I cannot rectify my current situation. And even if I could, I wouldn't. I couldn't, for the same reason my mother wouldn't go back in time and avoid meeting Daddy, even if she could.
Sometimes life is nothing more than the perfect illustration of the phrase 'Catch-22'.
Friday 7 November 2008
J - continued
Well.
As you can see, the last post threw me a bit. Or not the post, so much as the email that prompted it. It's taken me a couple of days to get my head round it, and I can't help comparing my old friend to one of my newer friends. They're very similar, in that they both ALWAYS assume the worst about me.
This friend, the newer one--I've wanted to show her my blog since I started it, but I've been apprehensive. I know, as soon as she sees it, she'll think that she's the person mentioned in 'My Fat Friend'
Nevermind that I know 2 people on the Cambridge Diet (that's not even what she called it, so how'd I know the name of it, if she was the only one doing it?). Nevermind that she's not 3 inches shorter than me, or 30 lbs heavier. Nevermind that, to the best of my knowledge, she doesn't even wear glasses, much less glasses that I've seen so often I can describe them in detail.
When she sees that entry, she'll latch onto the fact that she's been on that diet and she is a little shorter than me, and she'll assume it's all about her. And she'll not speak to me for 3 weeks, or 6 months, or until the next time she bumps into me in town... you get the picture.
And the older friend, no doubt I've pissed him off with my response to his email, and soon I'll get the (10th or so) email bearing his favourite phrase; 'you're dead to me,' and it'll be another 6 months (at least) before I hear from him again.
The thing is, I don't see how they can't see that they're being ridiculous. They do this so often, and with so many people (they've each had numerous fallings out, with a wide variety of people--how can they think the problem's not their own?) I find it hard to believe that they don't enjoy it on some level. A low, nasty, horrible little level that we've probably all got inside of us, but most of us are aware of having, and try to suppress or at least understand.
I suppose when you're always right, it's hard to change your behaviour.
As you can see, the last post threw me a bit. Or not the post, so much as the email that prompted it. It's taken me a couple of days to get my head round it, and I can't help comparing my old friend to one of my newer friends. They're very similar, in that they both ALWAYS assume the worst about me.
This friend, the newer one--I've wanted to show her my blog since I started it, but I've been apprehensive. I know, as soon as she sees it, she'll think that she's the person mentioned in 'My Fat Friend'
Nevermind that I know 2 people on the Cambridge Diet (that's not even what she called it, so how'd I know the name of it, if she was the only one doing it?). Nevermind that she's not 3 inches shorter than me, or 30 lbs heavier. Nevermind that, to the best of my knowledge, she doesn't even wear glasses, much less glasses that I've seen so often I can describe them in detail.
When she sees that entry, she'll latch onto the fact that she's been on that diet and she is a little shorter than me, and she'll assume it's all about her. And she'll not speak to me for 3 weeks, or 6 months, or until the next time she bumps into me in town... you get the picture.
And the older friend, no doubt I've pissed him off with my response to his email, and soon I'll get the (10th or so) email bearing his favourite phrase; 'you're dead to me,' and it'll be another 6 months (at least) before I hear from him again.
The thing is, I don't see how they can't see that they're being ridiculous. They do this so often, and with so many people (they've each had numerous fallings out, with a wide variety of people--how can they think the problem's not their own?) I find it hard to believe that they don't enjoy it on some level. A low, nasty, horrible little level that we've probably all got inside of us, but most of us are aware of having, and try to suppress or at least understand.
I suppose when you're always right, it's hard to change your behaviour.
Tuesday 4 November 2008
J.
I have this friend. I wonder that I even call him that, sometimes. Since we've been children, it seems like we've devoted as much time to hurting each other as we have to being friends.
If you were to ask either one of us, we'd say that it's not our fault, that the other is too sensitive/insensitive, depending on the situation. He would argue that I say deliberately contemptuous things. I would insist that he never listens to what I'm saying, but hears everything through the shield of his own self-loathing. He would say that he has been one of my best friends, always. I feel that I have been as good a friend to him, as he has been to me.
If we were both honest, we would admit that for every kind deed we have offered, we have been repaid with cruelty. The very reason our acts of kindness to each other are so unexpected is not because they are rare--we have often been surprisingly kind and empathetic to each other--but because they are just as likely to turn into acts of malice before they are finished. We have apologised and made-up a hundred times, we have gone years without speaking, we have been reunited on half a dozen occasions; and at base, nothing ever changes.
I am not stupid. I KNOW the most prudent course of action is to just let him go. I know that if I hang onto him, he will continue to wound me, and I him. And I will do what I must.
And what I must do, is hold onto him all the more tightly. I have loved him all my life, and will not lose another friend. Not him. It's not worth it. I would rather eat humble pie every day for the rest of my life, I would rather field every tantrum he can throw at me, I would rather apologise for imagined slights every time I open my mouth, than to never speak to him again.
He is more dear to me that he could ever believe. I wish our relationship didn't have to be this way, but I accept that it is. I accept everything about him, because he is my friend.
I wish he believed, I wish he knew, I am his.
If you were to ask either one of us, we'd say that it's not our fault, that the other is too sensitive/insensitive, depending on the situation. He would argue that I say deliberately contemptuous things. I would insist that he never listens to what I'm saying, but hears everything through the shield of his own self-loathing. He would say that he has been one of my best friends, always. I feel that I have been as good a friend to him, as he has been to me.
If we were both honest, we would admit that for every kind deed we have offered, we have been repaid with cruelty. The very reason our acts of kindness to each other are so unexpected is not because they are rare--we have often been surprisingly kind and empathetic to each other--but because they are just as likely to turn into acts of malice before they are finished. We have apologised and made-up a hundred times, we have gone years without speaking, we have been reunited on half a dozen occasions; and at base, nothing ever changes.
I am not stupid. I KNOW the most prudent course of action is to just let him go. I know that if I hang onto him, he will continue to wound me, and I him. And I will do what I must.
And what I must do, is hold onto him all the more tightly. I have loved him all my life, and will not lose another friend. Not him. It's not worth it. I would rather eat humble pie every day for the rest of my life, I would rather field every tantrum he can throw at me, I would rather apologise for imagined slights every time I open my mouth, than to never speak to him again.
He is more dear to me that he could ever believe. I wish our relationship didn't have to be this way, but I accept that it is. I accept everything about him, because he is my friend.
I wish he believed, I wish he knew, I am his.
Monday 3 November 2008
Nazi Britain
Do you know, sometimes I can’t stand this fascist country. It’s beyond restrictive; it’s ridiculous. Appalling. Downright terrifying.
Everyone’s seen the whole Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand thing, right? If not, basically they made a prank phone call on the air, and it’s been blown out of proportion. Of course it’s not nice to leave an answer phone message saying you’ve fucked someone’s granddaughter, etc—but that’s what makes it so funny. How amusing would it be if the message went like this?
Jonathan Ross: Hi Andrew, just letting you know, we’ll be popping round later for a cup of tea with your granddaughter.
Russell Brand: Yes, Georgina’s a lovely girl. Really can’t wait to see her again.
JR: Right, that was it, thanks.
RB: Cheerio now.
WTF???
It’s not like this has never occurred before. Loads of ordinary folks get pranked on radio all the time, and most of them just laugh it off. I find it difficult to comprehend that anyone, especially someone who has a reasonable amount of money and a highly-respected position in the British television community, can’t just ignore a little fun being had at their expense. For godsake. It’s how he made his name in TV in the first place.
I suppose some people think it’s less degrading to be called an imbecile a thousand times in a comedy show, than it is to have your granddaughter paid the (admittedly base) compliment of being told Russell Brand would like to/has fucked her.
Personally, I’d be flattered. Especially if I went round looking, as it happens, like a satanic slut in the first place.
But that’s neither here nor there. The problem isn’t so much that Georgina Baillie was offended—it’s the response of the tens of thousands of people who belatedly jumped on the bandwagon and called in/wrote/etc, to say they were offended too, the mindless sheep. It’s Andrew Sachs, using his standing and influence to have Russell and Jonathan punished. It’s Ofcom calling the BBC and saying this will not be tolerated. FFS.
You can’t have a supersized McDonald’s because it’s bad for you, in this country. You can’t watch a naughty film before 9 p.m. In a few years, we’ll all have I.D. cards, which we’ll have to carry around everywhere with us, because you never know, EVERYONE might just be a terrorist.
When are we going to wake up and realise that we live in what is basically becoming Nazi Germany? With everything decided for us, our personal freedoms are just slipping away. It’s horrifying. I don’t know what can be done about it, but something should be.
Everyone’s seen the whole Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand thing, right? If not, basically they made a prank phone call on the air, and it’s been blown out of proportion. Of course it’s not nice to leave an answer phone message saying you’ve fucked someone’s granddaughter, etc—but that’s what makes it so funny. How amusing would it be if the message went like this?
Jonathan Ross: Hi Andrew, just letting you know, we’ll be popping round later for a cup of tea with your granddaughter.
Russell Brand: Yes, Georgina’s a lovely girl. Really can’t wait to see her again.
JR: Right, that was it, thanks.
RB: Cheerio now.
WTF???
It’s not like this has never occurred before. Loads of ordinary folks get pranked on radio all the time, and most of them just laugh it off. I find it difficult to comprehend that anyone, especially someone who has a reasonable amount of money and a highly-respected position in the British television community, can’t just ignore a little fun being had at their expense. For godsake. It’s how he made his name in TV in the first place.
I suppose some people think it’s less degrading to be called an imbecile a thousand times in a comedy show, than it is to have your granddaughter paid the (admittedly base) compliment of being told Russell Brand would like to/has fucked her.
Personally, I’d be flattered. Especially if I went round looking, as it happens, like a satanic slut in the first place.
But that’s neither here nor there. The problem isn’t so much that Georgina Baillie was offended—it’s the response of the tens of thousands of people who belatedly jumped on the bandwagon and called in/wrote/etc, to say they were offended too, the mindless sheep. It’s Andrew Sachs, using his standing and influence to have Russell and Jonathan punished. It’s Ofcom calling the BBC and saying this will not be tolerated. FFS.
You can’t have a supersized McDonald’s because it’s bad for you, in this country. You can’t watch a naughty film before 9 p.m. In a few years, we’ll all have I.D. cards, which we’ll have to carry around everywhere with us, because you never know, EVERYONE might just be a terrorist.
When are we going to wake up and realise that we live in what is basically becoming Nazi Germany? With everything decided for us, our personal freedoms are just slipping away. It’s horrifying. I don’t know what can be done about it, but something should be.
Sunday 2 November 2008
Just a Question
I have a question.
I was watching Barney and Friends with my kids the other day. No doubt you know of the show—it’s probably syndicated in, I don’t know, Iran, expedition scientists in Antarctica can probably get it on public TV channel 1—but if you’ve never watched it, the big purple dinodrone has little dino friends (much smaller dino friends—midgets?) who come over to play with the kids. And I was noticing, they all have attribute-specific names.
For example, there’s a little green dinosaur, and aside from her ear-splittingly squeaky voice and naff yellow security blanket, she also wears bright pink ballet shoes and has a tendency to break into spontaneous bouts of arrhythmic dancing. Her name is Baby Bop. Get it? And her cousin, Riff, an annoying orange fellow with a voice like sandpaper, is an apparent musical genius; he’s forever putting on impromptu concerts and writing gay songs and strumming solos on his neon plastic guitar.
I get why the creators of the show have done that. I even think it’s kind of cute, and I bet the children who watch the show think it’s thrillingly clever when they finally get it. But my question, and I think it’s a valid one, pertains to Baby Bop’s older brother. This little dinosaur doesn’t seem particularly keen on any one activity, isn’t really a singer or a dancer or an artist or anything, and has no obvious talents above and beyond being irritating.
His name is BJ.
I just have to wonder—what’s HIS special skill?
I was watching Barney and Friends with my kids the other day. No doubt you know of the show—it’s probably syndicated in, I don’t know, Iran, expedition scientists in Antarctica can probably get it on public TV channel 1—but if you’ve never watched it, the big purple dinodrone has little dino friends (much smaller dino friends—midgets?) who come over to play with the kids. And I was noticing, they all have attribute-specific names.
For example, there’s a little green dinosaur, and aside from her ear-splittingly squeaky voice and naff yellow security blanket, she also wears bright pink ballet shoes and has a tendency to break into spontaneous bouts of arrhythmic dancing. Her name is Baby Bop. Get it? And her cousin, Riff, an annoying orange fellow with a voice like sandpaper, is an apparent musical genius; he’s forever putting on impromptu concerts and writing gay songs and strumming solos on his neon plastic guitar.
I get why the creators of the show have done that. I even think it’s kind of cute, and I bet the children who watch the show think it’s thrillingly clever when they finally get it. But my question, and I think it’s a valid one, pertains to Baby Bop’s older brother. This little dinosaur doesn’t seem particularly keen on any one activity, isn’t really a singer or a dancer or an artist or anything, and has no obvious talents above and beyond being irritating.
His name is BJ.
I just have to wonder—what’s HIS special skill?
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