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shalannaI thought about doing the currently hot meme, filling out that survey that appears as boxes with an "X" for each statement you agree with, but ultimately it felt too much like one of those employment pre-screening psychological tests on which you never know whether or not to answer "Yes" to "I have disturbing dreams," because MY idea of a disturbing dream is one in which Boy Wonder, my one-time Love of My Life, appears in some form and says to me some variation of "Everyone's the same, so it doesn't matter whether you love me or someone else, you still fulfill your purpose," and THEIR idea of a disturbing dream is one in which monsters pursue you across a vast desert hellpit with sandworms popping up helter-skelter and the sky turns into blood and drips down your nostrils and they keep chopping you into little bits that then turn into demons. Therefore, I didn't fill out that survey. And you probably shouldn't, either.
That survey has some really incriminating questions.
Who would admit to having been the psycho ex in a relationship, anyhow? Well, maybe *I* was when Boy Wonder said that he didn't really love me like he should and that he wanted to get out there and see if there was somebody better, and I said sure, go on out there and see if you can get someone else (ya loser), and he said, but how? And I said, ask some girl out (ya moron), and he said, but a date? Where would I take her on a date? (Since he hadn't really taken me anywhere on a real date for over a year) And I proceeded to give suggestions, thinking (with the false confidence of one who believes she has found The One) that he would ultimately find out that they weren't like me and that he really loved me and would return, yadda yadda, suggestions such as "Take her to the Shakespeare in the Park and take a picnic lunch" and "Take her to the flea market and tell her you are searching for a particular LP that your dad used to have, and try on the old-timey clothes" and "Take her to the top of Reunion Tower and look out over Dallas." These suggestions backfried (typo hell) on me and he ended up making some dumb girl fall in love with him, and they had sex, and she got pregnant, and they got married in a big white wedding at church within the year. Until I realized that God had taken Boy Wonder away from me (or had allowed me to sabotage myself along with the relationship), I continued to try to "be friends" and find out whether those two were really serious. We acted out that "Patrick and Daphne" scene in the first chapter of my novel, where he knocks her down with his car door. I even called him a couple of times after that and actually called her to finally find out whether she was for real (he was a homely little thing and I couldn't imagine her liking him That Way because all of MY friends were just this side of grossed out and often made Jughead jokes behind his back because he had buck teeth and knock-knees).
Stalking? To be fair, they both went to my church (or should I say that I went to THEIR church, as I joined HIS church and it became MY church . . . y'know), so this was not a stalker call to her out of the blue, but a call from a vague acquaintance with whom she had attended group functions, but still. Maybe I was the psycho ex. At any rate, as soon as his mother came by my house the day before I graduated from college (the same college he left in order to go off to the new woman's college to be with her) and told me that they were getting married and going to live here in this very town and continue to go to my church, I accepted the situation and even decided that I would leave and find another church, as the idea of having to run into one or the other of them constantly erased my sanity. I told my friends at the church (who numbered many) and the lay preacher who had baptized me into that very church and everyone who would listen that I was going to leave so no one would laugh at me any more over this and there would be no awkwardness. It hurt a lot to leave the people I loved and the church I loved, but the avoidance was that important. So . . . psycho? I don't know.
And that was over 25 YEARS ago, kids. But I probably shouldn't admit to it, either way.
I wouldn't even be typing all this if I weren't depressed, I'm sure.
I knew that when I lost my coping mechanism (stuffing down pieces of bread or handfuls of peanut butter crackers or whatever vegetable was handy), I would spiral downward. The compensatory mechanism of eating and/or snacking/grazing and ultimately overeating is now gone, because this diet (Medifast with the Green and Lean option of one meal a day, or two smaller meals of the same amount) makes you not-hungry by having you eat just about every three hours. And you have semi-anorexia and aren't really tempted by outside foods, unlike with outer diets. Besides, I'm committed to not being the fattest extra in Dennis's movie next year. So . . . anyway, now I don't have any way to subdue the feelings of hopelessness and craptasmicness. I haven't sent anything out to agents or editors because, really, what's the point? I don't write the kind of stuff that gets published now. Agents always hate me. I hate them. If I met one right now, I would probably say something insulting. Editors fare somewhat better . . . until I descend to a lower Circle.
Which will happen. My mother still makes cutting remarks all the time. Yesterday I was sitting at the dinner table writing out the checks for a few bills, having just finished my 1/2 cup serving of "veggie chili" and one dill pickle for lunch, when she limped past and noticed that the dog had tinkled on the leg of his playpen at some point (yes, my Pom has a playpen in the breakfast nook . . . he goes in there when we need to keep him up off the floor or when we feed him . . . his bed is in there and his squeakies and water dish.) She looked at me as if I should be taken to Iraq wearing a sign that said "Blow My Ass Up NOW And Win Extra Virgins!!" "Why didn't you wipe that up? You are a worthless creature," she said, tossing one of my best bath towels over the spot. I had not noticed the tiny puddle because I live in my mind and don't really SEE the details of the house and so forth when I am thinking of other stuff. This is one quality of an INTP personality. She feels that the INTP personality is evil and always has. This leads to some tension now and then. She can't get her mind around the fact that I am now the homeowner, that SHE lives with US, that I pay for EVERYthing (her food, her clothing, everything but her medicine and the occasional gift she buys), that SHE is supposed to now take the secondary role in running the household . . . that it's OK if my house is not constantly spotless, that artistic pursuits are laudable even if the carpet could use a good vacuuming beneath my feet while I practice Chopin's "Raindrop" prelude on the baby grand . . . y'know, the usual mother/daughter conflicts.
Yes, I know . . . I do give her a break because she IS older, she DOES have infirmities, we love her, etc. I never say anything nasty back. I always murmur some soft answer, but it never turneth away wrath. She always snorts and makes some cutting remark. My brain is still wired such that this comes across as a Parental Directive, so it always hurts. I sometimes say things like, "That can wait, can't it?" or "Oh, well, you know I'm working on something else and will take care of it later," but they never work, because they elicit putdowns of their own. Hubby avoids this whole situation by either agreeing with her or getting into a long argument that they call a "discussion" (but the Pom puts his ears back and makes sad eyes, because he can tell it's a cursefight in disguise.) Afterward, each of them is convinced that he or she won, and each comes up behind me (at different times) and gives me an earful about how awful the other one is. I have given up defending each one to the other and just murmur platitudes, but I can't tune it completely out in case there really is an issue to resolve. For instance . . .
. . . on Monday she needed to go to the doctor and get antibiotics. He nagged at me to do something about that. She nagged at me to shut up about her doing anything and not to boss her around. Finally I had him tell her that HE was worried and thought she should go. She put on her shoes and a brassiere (under her customary long-sleeved top and wench pants) and said, "Doc is going to work me in. Let's go."
So sometimes they can actually work together. How do people with children live? When is it going to be my turn? Is it selfish to even ask that? Am I supposed to serve by serving and be content, like Mother Teresa? Is there an "h" in her first name? Why do they call it a "first" name and not something else?
Ahem. Anyway, I really shouldn't even think about filling out those kinds of surveys.
I do wish I could become immersed in working on my "new" novel or working on a revision of another, but there's SO MUCH to do now that we're trying to organize the house. It was tougher the last couple of weeks with hubby and Mama having the "Dallas flu" one after the other (and hers turned into a lung infection, and she slashed her leg with her toenail and it looks really bad). I am also trying to go through all these clothes in all sizes that I've bought and stacked up in the closets. Since I am only slightly taller than Herve Villiachaise ("Da Plane!! Da Plane!!") and am long-waisted with short legs, most of the stuff made for Goddess-Sized Queen-Sized Big Fat Mamas looks ridiculous or worse on me . . . but I still bought a lot of stuff that "should look good on me." I also bought stuff in smaller sizes as an incentive. (Lest ye believe we be rich(e) and/or bankrupt, be it known that I surfed the Target clearance racks and got stuff for $3 at WallyWorld on final clearance, as well as going to the Penneys twofer sale and hitting Mervyn's as they closed all their Texas stores and withdrew to the paradise that is their native California, meaning that I paid very very little for Shelly What's her Name Laundry and Jones New York items.) I also kept all the stuff that I "outgrew." SOME of that is still in style, but other stuff should never have been in style. You can imagine what a chore is before me. However . . .
I *have* gone down at least one dress size, and I have only been on this diet for just short of three weeks. Now the jeans that were an inch away from buttoning at the waist actually fall off my butt. I wore my jeans skirt and a white tee to the mall yesterday and the skirt played as a Low Rider (it really ISN'T) and I kept having to pull the tee down over my butt, but that was OK because the shirt is suddenly a lot longer. My ta-tas are not overflowing the cuppes, and I can see my feet! And I am wearing my rings again!! I had taken off my wedding/engagement bands and my trusty Frog ring some time ago because I had to butter them and take off the first layer of skin to get them on and off . . . I was afraid they'd get stuck. I lost all that water I was carrying around, and now I can just slip 'em on and off. This ring is actually a size seven and a half, and IT FITS! ! ! (I was retaining the Dead Sea, apparently. So THAT was where it had gone!)
This should make me happy. It does, a little. But I have this overweening sense of blackpit because I can't get published and it really doesn't seem as if I ever can and it's such a lot of labor to even send stuff out and who really cares anyway because nobody reads. The Black Dog sits on the hilltop looking down into my valley. And I think, I don't care if I die. But I am such a weenie yellowdog coward that I then shout, Yes I Do, because I want to sit here and look out the window at the doves taking a dirt bath under my birdbath and see the PassionFlower trying to bloom as the butterfly lays eggs all over its leaves and hold my Pom on his leash as he tinkles on the mailbox post and we bark at the kids riding their bikes down the street toward the splashy country club Texas-shaped pool. It is fun to bang on the keyboard (piano or typer) and to lie on the couch and to websurf and to cook these measly meals. Even if that's all I do with my life, I am selfish and I want to do it as long as I can. So sue me.
But I'd really rather be able to make a contribution.
(Cue: pass the collection plates)
That survey has some really incriminating questions.
Who would admit to having been the psycho ex in a relationship, anyhow? Well, maybe *I* was when Boy Wonder said that he didn't really love me like he should and that he wanted to get out there and see if there was somebody better, and I said sure, go on out there and see if you can get someone else (ya loser), and he said, but how? And I said, ask some girl out (ya moron), and he said, but a date? Where would I take her on a date? (Since he hadn't really taken me anywhere on a real date for over a year) And I proceeded to give suggestions, thinking (with the false confidence of one who believes she has found The One) that he would ultimately find out that they weren't like me and that he really loved me and would return, yadda yadda, suggestions such as "Take her to the Shakespeare in the Park and take a picnic lunch" and "Take her to the flea market and tell her you are searching for a particular LP that your dad used to have, and try on the old-timey clothes" and "Take her to the top of Reunion Tower and look out over Dallas." These suggestions backfried (typo hell) on me and he ended up making some dumb girl fall in love with him, and they had sex, and she got pregnant, and they got married in a big white wedding at church within the year. Until I realized that God had taken Boy Wonder away from me (or had allowed me to sabotage myself along with the relationship), I continued to try to "be friends" and find out whether those two were really serious. We acted out that "Patrick and Daphne" scene in the first chapter of my novel, where he knocks her down with his car door. I even called him a couple of times after that and actually called her to finally find out whether she was for real (he was a homely little thing and I couldn't imagine her liking him That Way because all of MY friends were just this side of grossed out and often made Jughead jokes behind his back because he had buck teeth and knock-knees).
Stalking? To be fair, they both went to my church (or should I say that I went to THEIR church, as I joined HIS church and it became MY church . . . y'know), so this was not a stalker call to her out of the blue, but a call from a vague acquaintance with whom she had attended group functions, but still. Maybe I was the psycho ex. At any rate, as soon as his mother came by my house the day before I graduated from college (the same college he left in order to go off to the new woman's college to be with her) and told me that they were getting married and going to live here in this very town and continue to go to my church, I accepted the situation and even decided that I would leave and find another church, as the idea of having to run into one or the other of them constantly erased my sanity. I told my friends at the church (who numbered many) and the lay preacher who had baptized me into that very church and everyone who would listen that I was going to leave so no one would laugh at me any more over this and there would be no awkwardness. It hurt a lot to leave the people I loved and the church I loved, but the avoidance was that important. So . . . psycho? I don't know.
And that was over 25 YEARS ago, kids. But I probably shouldn't admit to it, either way.
I wouldn't even be typing all this if I weren't depressed, I'm sure.
I knew that when I lost my coping mechanism (stuffing down pieces of bread or handfuls of peanut butter crackers or whatever vegetable was handy), I would spiral downward. The compensatory mechanism of eating and/or snacking/grazing and ultimately overeating is now gone, because this diet (Medifast with the Green and Lean option of one meal a day, or two smaller meals of the same amount) makes you not-hungry by having you eat just about every three hours. And you have semi-anorexia and aren't really tempted by outside foods, unlike with outer diets. Besides, I'm committed to not being the fattest extra in Dennis's movie next year. So . . . anyway, now I don't have any way to subdue the feelings of hopelessness and craptasmicness. I haven't sent anything out to agents or editors because, really, what's the point? I don't write the kind of stuff that gets published now. Agents always hate me. I hate them. If I met one right now, I would probably say something insulting. Editors fare somewhat better . . . until I descend to a lower Circle.
Which will happen. My mother still makes cutting remarks all the time. Yesterday I was sitting at the dinner table writing out the checks for a few bills, having just finished my 1/2 cup serving of "veggie chili" and one dill pickle for lunch, when she limped past and noticed that the dog had tinkled on the leg of his playpen at some point (yes, my Pom has a playpen in the breakfast nook . . . he goes in there when we need to keep him up off the floor or when we feed him . . . his bed is in there and his squeakies and water dish.) She looked at me as if I should be taken to Iraq wearing a sign that said "Blow My Ass Up NOW And Win Extra Virgins!!" "Why didn't you wipe that up? You are a worthless creature," she said, tossing one of my best bath towels over the spot. I had not noticed the tiny puddle because I live in my mind and don't really SEE the details of the house and so forth when I am thinking of other stuff. This is one quality of an INTP personality. She feels that the INTP personality is evil and always has. This leads to some tension now and then. She can't get her mind around the fact that I am now the homeowner, that SHE lives with US, that I pay for EVERYthing (her food, her clothing, everything but her medicine and the occasional gift she buys), that SHE is supposed to now take the secondary role in running the household . . . that it's OK if my house is not constantly spotless, that artistic pursuits are laudable even if the carpet could use a good vacuuming beneath my feet while I practice Chopin's "Raindrop" prelude on the baby grand . . . y'know, the usual mother/daughter conflicts.
Yes, I know . . . I do give her a break because she IS older, she DOES have infirmities, we love her, etc. I never say anything nasty back. I always murmur some soft answer, but it never turneth away wrath. She always snorts and makes some cutting remark. My brain is still wired such that this comes across as a Parental Directive, so it always hurts. I sometimes say things like, "That can wait, can't it?" or "Oh, well, you know I'm working on something else and will take care of it later," but they never work, because they elicit putdowns of their own. Hubby avoids this whole situation by either agreeing with her or getting into a long argument that they call a "discussion" (but the Pom puts his ears back and makes sad eyes, because he can tell it's a cursefight in disguise.) Afterward, each of them is convinced that he or she won, and each comes up behind me (at different times) and gives me an earful about how awful the other one is. I have given up defending each one to the other and just murmur platitudes, but I can't tune it completely out in case there really is an issue to resolve. For instance . . .
. . . on Monday she needed to go to the doctor and get antibiotics. He nagged at me to do something about that. She nagged at me to shut up about her doing anything and not to boss her around. Finally I had him tell her that HE was worried and thought she should go. She put on her shoes and a brassiere (under her customary long-sleeved top and wench pants) and said, "Doc is going to work me in. Let's go."
So sometimes they can actually work together. How do people with children live? When is it going to be my turn? Is it selfish to even ask that? Am I supposed to serve by serving and be content, like Mother Teresa? Is there an "h" in her first name? Why do they call it a "first" name and not something else?
Ahem. Anyway, I really shouldn't even think about filling out those kinds of surveys.
I do wish I could become immersed in working on my "new" novel or working on a revision of another, but there's SO MUCH to do now that we're trying to organize the house. It was tougher the last couple of weeks with hubby and Mama having the "Dallas flu" one after the other (and hers turned into a lung infection, and she slashed her leg with her toenail and it looks really bad). I am also trying to go through all these clothes in all sizes that I've bought and stacked up in the closets. Since I am only slightly taller than Herve Villiachaise ("Da Plane!! Da Plane!!") and am long-waisted with short legs, most of the stuff made for Goddess-Sized Queen-Sized Big Fat Mamas looks ridiculous or worse on me . . . but I still bought a lot of stuff that "should look good on me." I also bought stuff in smaller sizes as an incentive. (Lest ye believe we be rich(e) and/or bankrupt, be it known that I surfed the Target clearance racks and got stuff for $3 at WallyWorld on final clearance, as well as going to the Penneys twofer sale and hitting Mervyn's as they closed all their Texas stores and withdrew to the paradise that is their native California, meaning that I paid very very little for Shelly What's her Name Laundry and Jones New York items.) I also kept all the stuff that I "outgrew." SOME of that is still in style, but other stuff should never have been in style. You can imagine what a chore is before me. However . . .
I *have* gone down at least one dress size, and I have only been on this diet for just short of three weeks. Now the jeans that were an inch away from buttoning at the waist actually fall off my butt. I wore my jeans skirt and a white tee to the mall yesterday and the skirt played as a Low Rider (it really ISN'T) and I kept having to pull the tee down over my butt, but that was OK because the shirt is suddenly a lot longer. My ta-tas are not overflowing the cuppes, and I can see my feet! And I am wearing my rings again!! I had taken off my wedding/engagement bands and my trusty Frog ring some time ago because I had to butter them and take off the first layer of skin to get them on and off . . . I was afraid they'd get stuck. I lost all that water I was carrying around, and now I can just slip 'em on and off. This ring is actually a size seven and a half, and IT FITS! ! ! (I was retaining the Dead Sea, apparently. So THAT was where it had gone!)
This should make me happy. It does, a little. But I have this overweening sense of blackpit because I can't get published and it really doesn't seem as if I ever can and it's such a lot of labor to even send stuff out and who really cares anyway because nobody reads. The Black Dog sits on the hilltop looking down into my valley. And I think, I don't care if I die. But I am such a weenie yellowdog coward that I then shout, Yes I Do, because I want to sit here and look out the window at the doves taking a dirt bath under my birdbath and see the PassionFlower trying to bloom as the butterfly lays eggs all over its leaves and hold my Pom on his leash as he tinkles on the mailbox post and we bark at the kids riding their bikes down the street toward the splashy country club Texas-shaped pool. It is fun to bang on the keyboard (piano or typer) and to lie on the couch and to websurf and to cook these measly meals. Even if that's all I do with my life, I am selfish and I want to do it as long as I can. So sue me.
But I'd really rather be able to make a contribution.
(Cue: pass the collection plates)
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 05:46 pm (UTC)Oops *grin*
Date: 2006-07-09 07:05 pm (UTC)I probably should have cloaked that one a bit more--what if Boy Wonder reads weblogs and runs across mine and . . . nah, not unless his personality has changed ENTIRELY. (GRIN)
Re: Oops *grin*
Date: 2006-07-09 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 09:20 pm (UTC)Nope. Never happened to me.
;-D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 12:37 pm (UTC)Hey, I'm back online, Shalanna, and looking forward to seeing you next week.
-Candace
no subject
Date: 2006-07-20 10:03 am (UTC)Yes, parents <> perfect. And you've met the Toxic One herself, even. Doesn't seem the least bit dangerous to strangers. And probably isn't! (grin) A number of people have gotten good humor columns out of having families like mine.
We had a very good meeting today. Sorry I had to rush to the bathroom as we were winding things up--I drank 3 bottles of water (one mixed with the Medifast powder, to boot) and a can of Diet RC while I was sitting there. It's what they tell me I'm supposed to do to "flush out the fat particles." Whee! It doesn't make sense science-wise, as I'm told that fat cells only shrink and never actually disappear (think deflating your wading pool), but I suppose it's some kind of metaphor. Hope my remarks helped everyone in some way. I think everyone's subject matter is extremely marketable (except mine, as usual--I need to think of a technothriller plot).
Keep cool out there! The next time I'm scheduled to even venture out is Saturday night for a "piano party" (at which several Dallas-area pianists and piano students gather at the home of somebody with a huge shiny grand piano to show off their latest stuff), and it's supposed to have cooled off by then. I haven't played anything for a couple of weeks. Hope they're into a by-ear rendition of the "Jeopardy" theme.