I'm on my habitual Afternoon Walk, a 20-30 minute affair that takes me through the neighborhood closest to my office, and includes a portion of a trail that loops around a local park. I'm on the phone with my Mom, whom I haven't had a good conversation with in almost two weeks, so I have a lot that I'm blathering on about, both personal and business, all at a reasonable volume.
I'm not sure when, exactly, the blond man gets onto the path ahead of me- I'm not paying particularly close attention to him or any of the other half-dozen people in the park, most of whom appear to be itinerants. But I do notice him walking, ponytail swinging, maybe ten feet ahead of me. He takes a side trail out of the park into the neighborhood, the same one that I typically follow.
When I exit the park, now out of sight of the others, there he is- standing still, watching me intently. It's a little creepy, but hell- maybe he's meeting a friend. I walk past him, still talking loudly to my mom about mutual fund families (don't judge). As I pass him (within grabbing distance, I now realize, but I wasn't thinking in those terms at the time) he says, "You're really pretty."
"Thanks," I say, somewhat curtly. I appreciate the compliment, but I am, quite obviously, on the phone.
"What are you doing later?" he says to my back.
"Working," I say, with more of an edge of my voice. It's 3pm and I am wearing a business suit.
"Hey, can I get your number?" He calls, now that I'm over a block away.
"I don't think my husband would like that," I say, not turning, but raising my left hand to let my ring flash in the sun. One the other end of the phone my mother says, somewhat incredulous, "Are you being harassed right now?"
"Yep," I say, teeth gritted. He doesn't say anything else, and he doesn't follow me, so that's the end of that, fortunately.
Sort of.
Because, you see, now I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed at the guy for being so rude as to talk to me when I'm already having a conversation, but mostly I'm annoyed with myself.
Why did I even answer him when he asked what I was doing? And if I was going to continue to respond out of some bizarre sense of politeness, why did I fall back on the coward's excuse of a male partner's displeasure? Why didn't I just say, "No." like the independent, unapologetic woman I am?
Why why why.
I mean, I know why. Because if you say "No" they want to know why not. Always. Or maybe they just call you a bitch, thereby jumping ahead to the exchange's natural end. If you throw up a "hey-another-male-has-already-peed-on-this-object" excuse, they have a salve to their pride that lets them retreat gracefully (or sometimes they perceive it as a challenge, but that's another set of stories altogether). So yeah, I know why I did it, but if anything that only increases my annoyance with myself: what the hell, O. Way to take the coward's way out.
(Or, to put it another way, the safe way out.)
It's so hard, sometimes, to live up to our own ideals. I'll just have to try to do better, next time.
(Because, sadly, there's always a next time.)
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
3.21.2019
10.11.2016
Pissed Off Pussy
Let me be clear: I am not offended because a man used the word "pussy". Words are nothing more than sounds that we have assigned meaning to- they are not, in an of themselves, inherently offensive (or inoffensive) things. If you doubt this, all I have to do is point out that I am perfectly capable of telling someone (in a professional environment, mind you) to fuck right off by using the extremely bland phrase, "Have a great day." All I have to do is alter my tone and change which words I stress, and what should be a pleasantry becomes a verbal cudgel. Don't tell me you haven't ever done something similar.
No, what upsets me is not the vocabulary used, but rather the message sent. I am offended- nay, enraged- by the mindset that believes sexual assault is something to brag about, regardless of the terms used to describe it. Trump could have said, "Grab them by the vulva," and it would not have made one iota of difference to my reaction (although I might have been momentarily impressed that he actually knew the correct anatomical term). Why? Because he is bragging about a crime. And not a potentially harmless crime, like jaywalking in an empty street. No, he is bragging about committing a crime that straight up violates another person, an action which, in my personal moral code, is about as horrific as it gets.
Of course, he doesn't actually see women as people: he sees them as animals ("I moved on her like a bitch") or, worse, objects, things that he can do anything he wants to, because he has the power. And that's what's so wrong with him: not his vulgar vocabulary- his vile attitudes.
No, what upsets me is not the vocabulary used, but rather the message sent. I am offended- nay, enraged- by the mindset that believes sexual assault is something to brag about, regardless of the terms used to describe it. Trump could have said, "Grab them by the vulva," and it would not have made one iota of difference to my reaction (although I might have been momentarily impressed that he actually knew the correct anatomical term). Why? Because he is bragging about a crime. And not a potentially harmless crime, like jaywalking in an empty street. No, he is bragging about committing a crime that straight up violates another person, an action which, in my personal moral code, is about as horrific as it gets.
Of course, he doesn't actually see women as people: he sees them as animals ("I moved on her like a bitch") or, worse, objects, things that he can do anything he wants to, because he has the power. And that's what's so wrong with him: not his vulgar vocabulary- his vile attitudes.
8.24.2016
Supplies
I'm standing in Fred Myers at nine o'clock at night, glancing back and forth between a little list and an enormous wall of school supplies. I'm on a mission to fill up a backpack for the School Supply Drive that our church is having, and the list is very specific, which is baffling to me, because when I was in school nobody dictated the brand of pencils or colors of folders we got: we were given a basic list of this, that, and the other, and then we went crazy getting whatever Truly Represented Us (that our parents would actually spring for).
I finally manage to cross the last item off the list, and pop into line behind a small family that is also buying school supplies, most likely for the school-aged child that is part of the group. I smile at the baby. She crosses her eyes at me. Babies are like that.
They finish, and now the cashier is ringing me up. In classic Cashier Form, he says the most obvious thing possible,
"Back to school shopping, eh?"
"Yep!" (I don't feel like explaining what I'm actually doing, but I'm game to small-talk.) "It sure has changed since I was a kid! They're very specific about things now."
"I'll say," his voice is bitter. "I hate that my kid will use like one glue stick but I still have to get five."
"Oh," I say cheerfully, since he's obviously misconstrued my consternation. "I don't mind providing extra for those kids who might not have-"
"It's not that," he interrupts. "I was one of those underprivileged kids who couldn't afford supplies. People should totally help out. They just shouldn't make it mandatory."
"Mmm," I say, and we finish my transaction in silence, which is good because what I want to say is,
"Oh, it's exactly 'that'. You think 'people' should totally help the underprivileged. Just as long as it's other people. In other words people who aren't you."
It makes my blood boil. He knows what it's like to be a kid who can't afford a glue stick, he benefited from people who gave a little extra, and yet he begrudges doing the same for this new generation. It would be one thing if he couldn't afford to spring for extra supplies, but to be able to do it and then just complain about it? I don't understand people, I really don't.
I finally manage to cross the last item off the list, and pop into line behind a small family that is also buying school supplies, most likely for the school-aged child that is part of the group. I smile at the baby. She crosses her eyes at me. Babies are like that.
They finish, and now the cashier is ringing me up. In classic Cashier Form, he says the most obvious thing possible,
"Back to school shopping, eh?"
"Yep!" (I don't feel like explaining what I'm actually doing, but I'm game to small-talk.) "It sure has changed since I was a kid! They're very specific about things now."
"I'll say," his voice is bitter. "I hate that my kid will use like one glue stick but I still have to get five."
"Oh," I say cheerfully, since he's obviously misconstrued my consternation. "I don't mind providing extra for those kids who might not have-"
"It's not that," he interrupts. "I was one of those underprivileged kids who couldn't afford supplies. People should totally help out. They just shouldn't make it mandatory."
"Mmm," I say, and we finish my transaction in silence, which is good because what I want to say is,
"Oh, it's exactly 'that'. You think 'people' should totally help the underprivileged. Just as long as it's other people. In other words people who aren't you."
It makes my blood boil. He knows what it's like to be a kid who can't afford a glue stick, he benefited from people who gave a little extra, and yet he begrudges doing the same for this new generation. It would be one thing if he couldn't afford to spring for extra supplies, but to be able to do it and then just complain about it? I don't understand people, I really don't.
2.13.2015
The Return of LittleWing
Look, it's been entirely too much Real Life around here lately, and not nearly enough Fiction. So I aim to remedy that, by revisiting a story seed from a couple years back. I've been poking and prodding at it, trying to draw a plot out from the concept, and in the meantime I wrote about the Aftermath to that other scene- and this time around I actually gave out some names!
***
***
At last LittleWing was sated. She let out a final triumphant shriek as she wheeled above the smoking ruins of the village, then came at last to settle on the charred remains of the temple. Ketsia could not help but notice that her heartbeast's orange-edged scales blended perfectly with the glowing embers. The dragon gave one satisfied glance around at the wreckage, then curled herself into a ball and closed her golden eyes.
There was no one left to scream.
Grandmother Ona worked silently on Eolyn’s wounds, face white and strained, but jaw set in a way that Ketsia recognized. If the old woman had been born with a heartbeast, Ketsia thought numbly, it would have been a creature made of stone. Eolyn herself had long since fainted, from pain or shock or both, and part of Ketsia envied her sister the escape.
Ketsia looked down at her hands, streaked with soot and covered in burn marks from the tiny sparks that continued to dance in the air like sadistic fairies. Her hands were so... small, compared to LittleWing’s talons. So powerless. She looked back up at her dragon, who had draped her spiked tail across her long snout in her sleep, much as Grandmother Ona’s cats did.
Does she do that because I watched the cats all those years, or does she just… do that? Ketsia was no longer sure how much LittleWing was an extension of her Self, and how much LittleWing was simply her own creature. Would she return now, if Ketsia tried to call her? She was afraid to try.
Instead Ketsia turned her eyes to the devastation that spread out from her dragon, trying to feel remorse- but she couldn’t. She was glad they were dead. She only wished she could bring them back to life so they could die again.
The corner of her lip began to twitch up into a smile, and LittleWing let out a noise like a purr.
Ketsia’s head snapped back as Grandmother Ona grabbed her by the arm and jerked her around to face her.
“You,” the old woman hissed, and slapped her across the face with more force than Ketsia had ever had applied to her person. “Don’t you dare take joy in this. Don’t you dare! Don’t you give that dragon any more evil to feed on!”
“Evil?” Ketsia cried, too stunned to do more than hold her burning face in shock. LittleWing’s head came up in confusion. “They were the evil ones! They-”
“They? Which they?” Spat Grandmother Ona. “Them men that did this to Eolyn, I won’t deny that maybe they had evil in ‘em. But the others?”
Ketsia’s anger flared, and LittleWing snarled from her smoldering nest. “Well they should have protected her! Da always said evil flourishes when men stand aside and do nothing-”
“Even the children? The babies?” Grandmother Ona grabbed Ketsia by the arms and shook her. “Them that couldn’t even roll over to run away? And what about the animals, eh? All those cats and geese and horses. What did they do to Eolyn?”
This brought Ketsia to a halt, the seething lump of rage in her chest turning suddenly to ice. “I… the… the babies…” she felt sick as she remembered little Aylin’s bright blue eyes and laughing, gummy grin. “I… I…”
Grandmother Ona’s gray eyes were cold as the winter sky. “Is this the part where you tell me that they’d have grown up to be just as evil, that you had to destroy them before they had the chance? Is that what you believe, child?”
For a moment- one dark, horrible moment, something deep inside Ketsia nodded, whispering, It’s only logical... and LittleWing began to unfurl, hissing. But then-
“No!” she said, tearing herself away from her grandmother. “No, I… I never meant to hurt the babies! Or the animals! Or, or... I didn’t… I didn’t mean...” Ketsia’s chest felt ripped open with grief, and the pain of it caused her to stumble. “I am evil, I am,” she started sobbing, clutching helplessly at her own arms. More than anything she wanted to turn to her grandmother for comfort, as she always had before. But she knew she didn’t deserve comfort, didn’t deserve anything but to die like Aylin had died: helpless, suffering. LittleWing let out a long, heart-rending shriek of anguish, and in that moment Ketsia thought the only answer was for her to let the dragon consume her, and end both of their agony...
But then Grandmother Ona was kneeling next to Ketsia, strong hands gathering her close and pressing Ketsia tightly to her breast. “No, child. No,” she murmured, stroking Ketsia’s hair and rocking back and forth. “You’re not evil. You… you’ve helped an evil thing to happen, it’s true, but maybe that’s as much my fault as yours. When I knew what you were… when I knew how powerful your heartbeast was… I should have sent you away, long ago. It was selfishness that made me keep you close, and we’re all paying for that selfishness now. All of us." Ketsia felt her grandmother glance at Eolyn.
2.11.2015
Dark Joy and Other Ways We Mourn
First things first, for those of you not interested in my tendency to dwell on The Depressing Things In Life, I present the two books I've most recently finished:
10% Happier by Dan Harris- The subtitle on this one was, "How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduce Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Actually Works- A True Story", which is quite a mouthful, but also satisfyingly specific in its description. I came across it on NPR (dangerous, dangerous site), and liked the author's writing style enough to give it a try. One of my nascent sort of New Year's Resolution-y Thoughts was to maybe pick my meditation practice back up, and this seemed a good way to kick-start it. For that purpose the book really only needs it's Appendix, which is what contains the "instructions". Not that I don't remember how to meditate- I do- but I was looking to try a new (to me) method. Or maybe just reassure myself that I was remembering correctly- who knows the inner workings of Anal Retentive Mind? Anyway, that means that only about 1/30th of the book was what I was specifically looking for, but the truth is that the rest of the book- a newscaster's memoir of looking for a way to chill the fuck out- was a really enjoyable read, especially in the way that his Inner Skeptic sounded a hell of a lot like my own. So yeah- I'd recommend it, especially if you're looking to get into (/back into) meditation. I even tried my hand at metta today, the thought of which has always filled me with a sort of scoffing horror, but let's face it- I could stand to be a more compassionate person, so why not give it a shot?
The Slow Regard of Silent Things by Patrick Rothfuss- Rothfuss is one of my all-time favorite authors, primarily because his word craft is so exquisite. As such, I was fully expecting to love this novella, and my expectations were right on: it was an absolute lovely gem of a thing, perfectly cut and polished, full of bright flash and deep glimmer. If you haven't read the first two novels in the Kingkiller Chronicles, you'll want to start there (specifically with The Name of the Wind), because Slow Regard was merely the beautiful fleshing out of a side character, and probably confusing as hell if you're not already familiar with the world. The story is, as Rothfuss mentions in his afterwords, a story for broken people. Needless to say, I was immensely fond of it, and I felt that, odd and fey-like as it was, it actually revealed a great deal about a character who cannot help but play her cards close to the chest. Three thumbs up!
Speaking of broken people (/things) here is where we turn to the more macabre. Feel free to exit now, if you're not feeling up to it.
I had an excellent moment the other morning, when I finally, finally paid off the first miscarriage. Hooray! No, that's not sarcasm. I was genuinely pretty fucking stoked about it. And only about six more months to pay off the second miscarriage, so really I was feeling quite jolly all around. Normally I post about my happy moments on the FaceSpace, but for some reason I felt like me cheering for paying of a depressing medical debt would be... well, more depressing than cheerful. For other people. But I am happy about it, so again- hooray!
In less cheerful (but perhaps darker) news, a friend of mine committed suicide last week. Which, you know, more or less sucks. I'm pretty pissed at him, actually. Anger-as-default, and all that. But it's got me thinking a lot about suicide, lately, and what it takes to actually push someone over the edge. (as it were)
(Nothing is better than black humor! Nothing!)
Now, I hesitate to say that I was ever suicidal- but I did have my suicide planned out. In retrospect, however, I feel the details of the plan itself were a pretty good indicator that I wasn't going to do it, because I was still taking other people's feelings into account. I wanted to make my death as convenient and easy to clean up as possible for those who were left behind.
Obviously things never got that far.
I used to have so much rage- so much towering, fiery, fuck-you rage- for people who committed suicide (aaaaand in general, but that's beside the point). Because I knew how much it hurt when my dad died (against his will) and the idea that someone would knowingly inflict that pain on someone they cared about, on children... well, it just took my breath away with the sheer ass-holeryness of it all. I could not imagine anything more selfish, more hateful, more horrible and weak and stupid, than killing yourself*. To the point where I got a bit, "Well good riddance then, you fucking jerk," about it.
My rage has been tempered a bit in recent years by me coming to terms with the fact that, generally speaking, people who actually kill themselves aren't making a choice at all. They're ill. They're fucked up in the brain just like you can be fucked up in your joints or stomach or lungs. And it makes them do stupid, horrible things, but it's not actually their fault. So yeah- I'm still pissed at my friend. But I don't hate him. And I don't think less of him. I'll get over it, eventually. The anger, I mean. Mostly.
In the meantime, this is the point where I say, if you find yourself planning out the best, least-inconvenient ways to kill yourself, maybe bring it up to someone you trust. Because chances are, they're probably thinking more clearly than you are.
*(I'm not talking about terminally ill people choosing a death with dignity- that's something else entirely, something that I am 100% on board with)
10% Happier by Dan Harris- The subtitle on this one was, "How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduce Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Actually Works- A True Story", which is quite a mouthful, but also satisfyingly specific in its description. I came across it on NPR (dangerous, dangerous site), and liked the author's writing style enough to give it a try. One of my nascent sort of New Year's Resolution-y Thoughts was to maybe pick my meditation practice back up, and this seemed a good way to kick-start it. For that purpose the book really only needs it's Appendix, which is what contains the "instructions". Not that I don't remember how to meditate- I do- but I was looking to try a new (to me) method. Or maybe just reassure myself that I was remembering correctly- who knows the inner workings of Anal Retentive Mind? Anyway, that means that only about 1/30th of the book was what I was specifically looking for, but the truth is that the rest of the book- a newscaster's memoir of looking for a way to chill the fuck out- was a really enjoyable read, especially in the way that his Inner Skeptic sounded a hell of a lot like my own. So yeah- I'd recommend it, especially if you're looking to get into (/back into) meditation. I even tried my hand at metta today, the thought of which has always filled me with a sort of scoffing horror, but let's face it- I could stand to be a more compassionate person, so why not give it a shot?
The Slow Regard of Silent Things by Patrick Rothfuss- Rothfuss is one of my all-time favorite authors, primarily because his word craft is so exquisite. As such, I was fully expecting to love this novella, and my expectations were right on: it was an absolute lovely gem of a thing, perfectly cut and polished, full of bright flash and deep glimmer. If you haven't read the first two novels in the Kingkiller Chronicles, you'll want to start there (specifically with The Name of the Wind), because Slow Regard was merely the beautiful fleshing out of a side character, and probably confusing as hell if you're not already familiar with the world. The story is, as Rothfuss mentions in his afterwords, a story for broken people. Needless to say, I was immensely fond of it, and I felt that, odd and fey-like as it was, it actually revealed a great deal about a character who cannot help but play her cards close to the chest. Three thumbs up!
Speaking of broken people (/things) here is where we turn to the more macabre. Feel free to exit now, if you're not feeling up to it.
I had an excellent moment the other morning, when I finally, finally paid off the first miscarriage. Hooray! No, that's not sarcasm. I was genuinely pretty fucking stoked about it. And only about six more months to pay off the second miscarriage, so really I was feeling quite jolly all around. Normally I post about my happy moments on the FaceSpace, but for some reason I felt like me cheering for paying of a depressing medical debt would be... well, more depressing than cheerful. For other people. But I am happy about it, so again- hooray!
In less cheerful (but perhaps darker) news, a friend of mine committed suicide last week. Which, you know, more or less sucks. I'm pretty pissed at him, actually. Anger-as-default, and all that. But it's got me thinking a lot about suicide, lately, and what it takes to actually push someone over the edge. (as it were)
(Nothing is better than black humor! Nothing!)
Now, I hesitate to say that I was ever suicidal- but I did have my suicide planned out. In retrospect, however, I feel the details of the plan itself were a pretty good indicator that I wasn't going to do it, because I was still taking other people's feelings into account. I wanted to make my death as convenient and easy to clean up as possible for those who were left behind.
Obviously things never got that far.
I used to have so much rage- so much towering, fiery, fuck-you rage- for people who committed suicide (aaaaand in general, but that's beside the point). Because I knew how much it hurt when my dad died (against his will) and the idea that someone would knowingly inflict that pain on someone they cared about, on children... well, it just took my breath away with the sheer ass-holeryness of it all. I could not imagine anything more selfish, more hateful, more horrible and weak and stupid, than killing yourself*. To the point where I got a bit, "Well good riddance then, you fucking jerk," about it.
My rage has been tempered a bit in recent years by me coming to terms with the fact that, generally speaking, people who actually kill themselves aren't making a choice at all. They're ill. They're fucked up in the brain just like you can be fucked up in your joints or stomach or lungs. And it makes them do stupid, horrible things, but it's not actually their fault. So yeah- I'm still pissed at my friend. But I don't hate him. And I don't think less of him. I'll get over it, eventually. The anger, I mean. Mostly.
In the meantime, this is the point where I say, if you find yourself planning out the best, least-inconvenient ways to kill yourself, maybe bring it up to someone you trust. Because chances are, they're probably thinking more clearly than you are.
*(I'm not talking about terminally ill people choosing a death with dignity- that's something else entirely, something that I am 100% on board with)
7.15.2014
We Shall Bear It No More
Rotten, miserable mood all day today. Not even bubble wrap could help.
 |
| so sad |
6.22.2014
Breaking
This is a narrative about an unexpected, natural miscarriage in the second trimester.
It's graphic.
Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it. If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here. If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.
***
The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.
I'm not pleased, obviously. There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night. But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.
Well, there are a few things. I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping. Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides. Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...
After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower. The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them. It's shower time. Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time. Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.
I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need. Which I do often. The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently. Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.
I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.
There's no thinking during contractions, not really. There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow". Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts. But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,
"This is fucking bullshit. Unfair, god damn bullshit."
At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what? One baby is good. One perfect baby. No need to go through this again."
For real. This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.
Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body. Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it. But I don't know that. The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night. But it doesn't stop.
I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery. They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.
"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."
But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you. I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"
"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony. "Pain won't kill me. The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."
Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry. I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it. Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this? This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in. Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.
This is wrong.
Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me. Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.
"Let me up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice. He does, and I scramble to the toilet. A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.
The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,
More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.
The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is. And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...
The pain subsides almost immediately.
"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears. "It's over now. It's over."
And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer. Now I have to pass the placenta. I have to collect the samples. I have to be very cold, and logical about this. I don't have time to break down. I can do that later.
I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus. At first I don't want to. I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed. But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see. So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.
I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.
But then I look and... it's not terrible. It's not terrible at all. There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack. Fourteen weeks, three days. I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago. I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow. And relief. She is not a monster. She just... is.
It's graphic.
Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it. If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here. If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.
***
The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.
I'm not pleased, obviously. There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night. But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.
Well, there are a few things. I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping. Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides. Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...
After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower. The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them. It's shower time. Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time. Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.
I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need. Which I do often. The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently. Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.
I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.
There's no thinking during contractions, not really. There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow". Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts. But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,
"This is fucking bullshit. Unfair, god damn bullshit."
At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what? One baby is good. One perfect baby. No need to go through this again."
For real. This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.
Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body. Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it. But I don't know that. The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night. But it doesn't stop.
I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery. They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.
"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."
But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you. I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"
"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony. "Pain won't kill me. The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."
Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry. I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it. Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this? This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in. Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.
This is wrong.
Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me. Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.
"Let me up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice. He does, and I scramble to the toilet. A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.
The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,
More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.
The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is. And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...
The pain subsides almost immediately.
"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears. "It's over now. It's over."
And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer. Now I have to pass the placenta. I have to collect the samples. I have to be very cold, and logical about this. I don't have time to break down. I can do that later.
I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus. At first I don't want to. I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed. But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see. So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.
I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.
But then I look and... it's not terrible. It's not terrible at all. There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack. Fourteen weeks, three days. I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago. I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow. And relief. She is not a monster. She just... is.
1.15.2014
Piercing
It was a rage-y sort of day, and for no good reason.
I was in a good mood this morning, but sometime around eleven it all came crashing down, down, down. Actually the emphasis should be on crashing, because that's the sort of rage it was. Violent rage. And again- for no particular reason, let alone a good one.
The mood was not helped by my lunch break, which was spent dashing home to let the dog out (because Nathan, who typically works from home, is out of town). Letting the dog out (and feeding her lunch) wasn't so bad- no, what kicked me into "I'm going to strangle this stupid animal" mode was that she finally got wise to the liverwurst trick. So rather than take her flea medicine (which I really need her to do, because I found fleas on the cat last night) she just ate all the liverwurst and spat the pill back out.
Multiple times.
(Please don't give me any tips on how to get her to take her pill- as I told multiple people today, "Let's just assumed I've already tried everything and am still really pissed off.")
So. My mood worsened, and I returned to work, and continued to feel general hatred towards humanity, the world, and just everything for the next two or three hours, at which point I just felt exhausted. I'd already decided that I wasn't going to go climbing, since I was pretty sure that the only thing that would accomplish was me being bitchy towards people who love me.
...buuuuut I ended up going anyway, because Nathan mentioned I might feel better if I had chocolate, and I thought, "...maybe," and then I thought, "I can get a gluten-free cookie on the way to the gym, and if I don't feel any better I can just say hello and then leave. And even if I don't leave, I'll only climb easy routes, so that I won't get frustrated."
(There is a kind of rage that can be constructively channeled into a challenge: this was not that. This was the kind of rage that just gets further inflamed by a challenge.)
So I walked to the gym and got my cookie (and was grudgingly pleased that the cafe owner remembered me), and had a nice chat with a fellow climber who was also in a Pissed Off Mood, and we decided maybe it was a combination of last week's solar flare and tomorrow's full moon, because why not?
And then I found Bridge, and I'm pretty sure it's because he's a cat owner that he knows how to handle bitchy females by giving them their space and letting them be pissy, because he did that. And I climbed my easy warm-up route, and then, because I was like, "I don't even efifn' care," I tried my current project.
I fell on the first attempt, in the exact same spot I've been falling in for the past week or so, but Bridge didn't try to give me any advice: he just let me swing back and forth, finding my breath and contemplating my movements. And then I just... did it. Very calmly, very smoothly. I reached the top and he lowered me down, and there was this beautiful techno music playing so I closed my eyes and let myself be lost in the smell of chalk and the feel of the rope, and I felt infinitely better about life.
("You always feel better when you climb," says my husband, and he's right.)
So yeah. It was a good climbing session.
I came home and did some cleaning (which also helps me feel better about life), and then I settled down to work on some embroidery,
I feel like the alone time helped as much as anything else... and now it's time for bed.
I was in a good mood this morning, but sometime around eleven it all came crashing down, down, down. Actually the emphasis should be on crashing, because that's the sort of rage it was. Violent rage. And again- for no particular reason, let alone a good one.
The mood was not helped by my lunch break, which was spent dashing home to let the dog out (because Nathan, who typically works from home, is out of town). Letting the dog out (and feeding her lunch) wasn't so bad- no, what kicked me into "I'm going to strangle this stupid animal" mode was that she finally got wise to the liverwurst trick. So rather than take her flea medicine (which I really need her to do, because I found fleas on the cat last night) she just ate all the liverwurst and spat the pill back out.
Multiple times.
(Please don't give me any tips on how to get her to take her pill- as I told multiple people today, "Let's just assumed I've already tried everything and am still really pissed off.")
So. My mood worsened, and I returned to work, and continued to feel general hatred towards humanity, the world, and just everything for the next two or three hours, at which point I just felt exhausted. I'd already decided that I wasn't going to go climbing, since I was pretty sure that the only thing that would accomplish was me being bitchy towards people who love me.
...buuuuut I ended up going anyway, because Nathan mentioned I might feel better if I had chocolate, and I thought, "...maybe," and then I thought, "I can get a gluten-free cookie on the way to the gym, and if I don't feel any better I can just say hello and then leave. And even if I don't leave, I'll only climb easy routes, so that I won't get frustrated."
(There is a kind of rage that can be constructively channeled into a challenge: this was not that. This was the kind of rage that just gets further inflamed by a challenge.)
So I walked to the gym and got my cookie (and was grudgingly pleased that the cafe owner remembered me), and had a nice chat with a fellow climber who was also in a Pissed Off Mood, and we decided maybe it was a combination of last week's solar flare and tomorrow's full moon, because why not?
And then I found Bridge, and I'm pretty sure it's because he's a cat owner that he knows how to handle bitchy females by giving them their space and letting them be pissy, because he did that. And I climbed my easy warm-up route, and then, because I was like, "I don't even efifn' care," I tried my current project.
I fell on the first attempt, in the exact same spot I've been falling in for the past week or so, but Bridge didn't try to give me any advice: he just let me swing back and forth, finding my breath and contemplating my movements. And then I just... did it. Very calmly, very smoothly. I reached the top and he lowered me down, and there was this beautiful techno music playing so I closed my eyes and let myself be lost in the smell of chalk and the feel of the rope, and I felt infinitely better about life.
("You always feel better when you climb," says my husband, and he's right.)
So yeah. It was a good climbing session.
I came home and did some cleaning (which also helps me feel better about life), and then I settled down to work on some embroidery,
 |
| It's not what you think it is... or is it? |
9.11.2013
Speaking Up at the Dentist
There are certain days that I know I'm going to have an experience that will be at least moderately entertaining: entertaining enough for me to twist into a story for the blog, anyway. And I was pretty sure that today was one of those days- I mean, come on, the dentist! To get drilled and filled! It practically writes itself!
What I did not realize, however, was just how "entertaining" (for lack of a better word) today's visit would be.
***
I'm sitting in the chair, listening to my music via my earbuds, and texting Nathan.
[Topical anesthetic. Weeeeeeeiiiird.]
I carefully plug my non-numb nostril, so that I can prove to myself that I am so getting air through the other one, and there is no need for the panic that is trying to claw its way up my throat.
[A little freaky. Guess I'm not as cool as a cucumber as I'd thought...]
The truth is that I am having mini-flashbacks to times when drugs have gone wrong for me. Like the time they gave me epinephrine before a surgery, and my body went into a very scary over-drive, arching up and off the table, completely out of my control. So yeah, I'm trying not to think about that. Trying to be subjectively amazed at how quickly this topical took effect.
The doc comes in and I crack a joke that it's a good thing he's here, since the numbness is wearing off. Except it's not really a joke, because it is wearing off.
"Oh, it'll still be numb where it counts," he says. "I promise."
"Awesome. I reserve the right to scream and hit you, then."
"Fair enough."
Banter, see? Banter is good. But just in case, I add,
"I promise not to hit you. But I may scream."
And then he gives me the first of two shots, and you know what? Not fucking numb. A little numb, yeah, but I am definitely feeling the needle go in, and the subsequent flow of liquid. I make grunty pain-noises, because MythBusters has taught me that's a good way to manage pain.
And then he gives me the second shot, in my lower jaw, and you know how before I was all, "not fucking numb"? Well now I'm really not numb, not even a little bit, and I actually make the effort to more fully articulate the swear words I'd been grunting, and this shot just keeps going and going in spite of the nails I am digging into my palms. But hey- better than the alternative, which is getting drilled with no drugs.
They leave me for a bit, while the numbness starts to creep into place. Through my jaw, into my tongue- and then into my eye. It's... not pleasant. But hell- it's the dentist. It's not supposed to be pleasant.
They return, and he starts working, and at first everything is fine. I've turned my music down to very soft, because when it's loud I can't hear him telling me what to do, and I figure me obeying his directions probably trumps my desire to dampen the drill-sound. And then the assistant (who has already proven herself to be not the sharpest crayon in the box by repeating, "It's topical," when I'd asked what sort of drug they'd used to act so quickly) says,
"So what do you think will happen with Syria?"
And the doctor replies,
"Well, we all know Obama is a closest Muslim..."
::mental record scratch::
What? I think. Oh, ha hah, he must be setting up a joke okay no, he's still talking... aaaaany minute now, he's going to roll his eyes and no? Still... still talking. About... Obama supporting the Brotherhood of Muslims to ensure as many Christians die as possible. Wow. He said that. This... this conversation is happening. Across my head. Right now. And... I can't argue. Or correct any of their misconceptions about the implications of Syria using chemical weapons. How is it possible that an educated person genuinely holds beliefs like this? And what kind of judgement calls does this guy make that he thinks it's appropriate to talk about this in a professional environment, and... holy shit, he keeps harping on about how they're killing Christians. Did he- yes he did just imply that Christian babies being killed is a bigger deal than non-Christian babies getting killed. Isn't it pretty much horrific no matter what kind of baby gets killed? Also, preeeeetty sure babies aren't religious. Wow, I'm so uncomfortable right now, and I don't mean just physically. I can't believe how unprofessional this is. I can't believe how angry I am, but I don't dare move, because he's got all sorts of very dangerous tools in my mouth, plus I'm drugged. Fuck I'm glad he doesn't know I'm not a Christian. And fuck, it pisses me off that I'm seriously in a position right now where I just had to have that thought. How long are they going to keep talking about- oh, awesome. Now we're on to Obama causing the next World War. The draft? Really? Do these people not know anything about the military at all? Okay, stupid question, obviously, man how long can this possibly did he just make a sexist joke?! Did I seriously just hear him say something about "How to tell a woman not to wag her tongue so much?" I must have misheard that. There's no way- who am I kidding. He totally said that, just like he totally said all that other bat-shit insane crap. Please let this be over soon...
...at least I'll get a good blog entry out of this.
I was shaking by the end of it. He left, and the assistant brought me to a seated position and asked if I had any questions.
"No," I said, in the best icy-calm voice I could manage with half my face numb. "But I do want to say that it is extremely unprofessional for you to be discussing politics over a patient like that. The things... it's not even about my personal beliefs, it was unprofessional, and I was extremely uncomfortable."
She looked as though I'd struck her, and in a way I guess I had. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the first patient to call them out on that bullshit. Which only my made me angrier, because I am a very assertive person, very sure of myself, very capable of stepping up and saying, "This is wrong", and if I felt threatened in that experience, how much worse for someone whose inner core isn't so bolstered? The thought of anyone meeker or gentler than I am being put in that situation just made me even more livid.
So I told the people at the desk, too. And changed my follow-up appointments to a different doctor. And then lodged a written complaint. Because, as a wise man once said, the standard you walk past is the standard you accept.
In a way I find the whole experience funny- funny in that, "This is so surreally inappropriate, any moment now Ashton Kutcher is going to step out from behind the pillar," way. You know, funny in the, "If I don't laugh about this I'm going to punch someone in the nuts via their throat," way.
Funny in the, "At least I got a blog entry out of this," way.
What I did not realize, however, was just how "entertaining" (for lack of a better word) today's visit would be.
***
I'm sitting in the chair, listening to my music via my earbuds, and texting Nathan.
[Topical anesthetic. Weeeeeeeiiiird.]
I carefully plug my non-numb nostril, so that I can prove to myself that I am so getting air through the other one, and there is no need for the panic that is trying to claw its way up my throat.
[A little freaky. Guess I'm not as cool as a cucumber as I'd thought...]
The truth is that I am having mini-flashbacks to times when drugs have gone wrong for me. Like the time they gave me epinephrine before a surgery, and my body went into a very scary over-drive, arching up and off the table, completely out of my control. So yeah, I'm trying not to think about that. Trying to be subjectively amazed at how quickly this topical took effect.
The doc comes in and I crack a joke that it's a good thing he's here, since the numbness is wearing off. Except it's not really a joke, because it is wearing off.
"Oh, it'll still be numb where it counts," he says. "I promise."
"Awesome. I reserve the right to scream and hit you, then."
"Fair enough."
Banter, see? Banter is good. But just in case, I add,
"I promise not to hit you. But I may scream."
And then he gives me the first of two shots, and you know what? Not fucking numb. A little numb, yeah, but I am definitely feeling the needle go in, and the subsequent flow of liquid. I make grunty pain-noises, because MythBusters has taught me that's a good way to manage pain.
And then he gives me the second shot, in my lower jaw, and you know how before I was all, "not fucking numb"? Well now I'm really not numb, not even a little bit, and I actually make the effort to more fully articulate the swear words I'd been grunting, and this shot just keeps going and going in spite of the nails I am digging into my palms. But hey- better than the alternative, which is getting drilled with no drugs.
They leave me for a bit, while the numbness starts to creep into place. Through my jaw, into my tongue- and then into my eye. It's... not pleasant. But hell- it's the dentist. It's not supposed to be pleasant.
They return, and he starts working, and at first everything is fine. I've turned my music down to very soft, because when it's loud I can't hear him telling me what to do, and I figure me obeying his directions probably trumps my desire to dampen the drill-sound. And then the assistant (who has already proven herself to be not the sharpest crayon in the box by repeating, "It's topical," when I'd asked what sort of drug they'd used to act so quickly) says,
"So what do you think will happen with Syria?"
And the doctor replies,
"Well, we all know Obama is a closest Muslim..."
::mental record scratch::
What? I think. Oh, ha hah, he must be setting up a joke okay no, he's still talking... aaaaany minute now, he's going to roll his eyes and no? Still... still talking. About... Obama supporting the Brotherhood of Muslims to ensure as many Christians die as possible. Wow. He said that. This... this conversation is happening. Across my head. Right now. And... I can't argue. Or correct any of their misconceptions about the implications of Syria using chemical weapons. How is it possible that an educated person genuinely holds beliefs like this? And what kind of judgement calls does this guy make that he thinks it's appropriate to talk about this in a professional environment, and... holy shit, he keeps harping on about how they're killing Christians. Did he- yes he did just imply that Christian babies being killed is a bigger deal than non-Christian babies getting killed. Isn't it pretty much horrific no matter what kind of baby gets killed? Also, preeeeetty sure babies aren't religious. Wow, I'm so uncomfortable right now, and I don't mean just physically. I can't believe how unprofessional this is. I can't believe how angry I am, but I don't dare move, because he's got all sorts of very dangerous tools in my mouth, plus I'm drugged. Fuck I'm glad he doesn't know I'm not a Christian. And fuck, it pisses me off that I'm seriously in a position right now where I just had to have that thought. How long are they going to keep talking about- oh, awesome. Now we're on to Obama causing the next World War. The draft? Really? Do these people not know anything about the military at all? Okay, stupid question, obviously, man how long can this possibly did he just make a sexist joke?! Did I seriously just hear him say something about "How to tell a woman not to wag her tongue so much?" I must have misheard that. There's no way- who am I kidding. He totally said that, just like he totally said all that other bat-shit insane crap. Please let this be over soon...
...at least I'll get a good blog entry out of this.
I was shaking by the end of it. He left, and the assistant brought me to a seated position and asked if I had any questions.
"No," I said, in the best icy-calm voice I could manage with half my face numb. "But I do want to say that it is extremely unprofessional for you to be discussing politics over a patient like that. The things... it's not even about my personal beliefs, it was unprofessional, and I was extremely uncomfortable."
She looked as though I'd struck her, and in a way I guess I had. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the first patient to call them out on that bullshit. Which only my made me angrier, because I am a very assertive person, very sure of myself, very capable of stepping up and saying, "This is wrong", and if I felt threatened in that experience, how much worse for someone whose inner core isn't so bolstered? The thought of anyone meeker or gentler than I am being put in that situation just made me even more livid.
So I told the people at the desk, too. And changed my follow-up appointments to a different doctor. And then lodged a written complaint. Because, as a wise man once said, the standard you walk past is the standard you accept.
In a way I find the whole experience funny- funny in that, "This is so surreally inappropriate, any moment now Ashton Kutcher is going to step out from behind the pillar," way. You know, funny in the, "If I don't laugh about this I'm going to punch someone in the nuts via their throat," way.
Funny in the, "At least I got a blog entry out of this," way.
8.20.2012
Frothy Rage and Also Dresses
I'd done a beautifully intricate drawing of a steam-punk winged-elf lady, complete with lots of fancy gears and costume and hair and tattoos and tiny adorable baby, and just as I was ready to start laying in colors my expletive deleted computer shut down with no warning, and I lost everything.
I was, to put it mildly, full of rage.
And then when I tried to draw a stick figure me flipping off the computer, I discovered my Cintique pen had stopped working.
It is possible I was on the verge of frustrated rage tears, because I've sort of reached my limit for letting shit roll off my back this week. Yes, rolling-off-back limit had been achieved, and I could not let go.
So I got out my nail polish remover and began woefully cleaning up my toenails on the stairs that I'd so laboriously climbed for what turned out to be no purpose, which is where Nathan found me. I asked what color I should paint them and he said green, so I did (with sparkles!), while he did what he could to salvage the situation (not much, but at least he got the Cintique working again and hooked up to my non-senile machine).
And then I came down stairs and had a long conversation with my brother about happy things, which helped to soothe the rage, and then I did a doodle which is not so awesome as the my earlier drawing, but it will do.
And maybe someday I will attempt to recreate my awesome drawing from earlier, but not today. Today I am just tired and still a little sad.
I was, to put it mildly, full of rage.
And then when I tried to draw a stick figure me flipping off the computer, I discovered my Cintique pen had stopped working.
It is possible I was on the verge of frustrated rage tears, because I've sort of reached my limit for letting shit roll off my back this week. Yes, rolling-off-back limit had been achieved, and I could not let go.
So I got out my nail polish remover and began woefully cleaning up my toenails on the stairs that I'd so laboriously climbed for what turned out to be no purpose, which is where Nathan found me. I asked what color I should paint them and he said green, so I did (with sparkles!), while he did what he could to salvage the situation (not much, but at least he got the Cintique working again and hooked up to my non-senile machine).
And then I came down stairs and had a long conversation with my brother about happy things, which helped to soothe the rage, and then I did a doodle which is not so awesome as the my earlier drawing, but it will do.
 |
| I'm pretty sure my scanner settings are all wonky now. Sigh. |
And maybe someday I will attempt to recreate my awesome drawing from earlier, but not today. Today I am just tired and still a little sad.
7.24.2012
On the Quality of My Melons
Let's be blunt here: when you look like I do, you get used to Unsolicited Comments Upon Your Physical Qualities. Most of the time they do not bother me- I choose to take them in the flattering manner they are most often intended. Wolf-whistles or appreciative stares don't get my back up- on the contrary, often times they please me. I may not have had anything to do with my genetic makeup or the symmetry of my features, but I have plenty to do with my physical fitness, clothing, makeup, and hairstyle. So it's nice for my efforts to be appreciated.
However.
As I was riding home from work today, a cluster of boys (I'd say they ranged in age from about 14 to 17) who were conversing in Spanish (a language which I have a tentative grasp on) deliberately switched to English long enough to comment on my "huge melons" as I zipped past.
Readers, it pissed me off.
And I spent the rest of the ride home trying to figure out why. Why did that particular remark make me so angry, when other incidents have not? I mean, I understand and appreciate the culture of piropos (goes back to that whole, "studied Spanish" thing) but this- this was not that. But why wasn't it? Was it just the crude phrasing? (Piropos ought to be poetic, and I'll admit there was a tinge of insult to my anger- a sort of, "Screw you, my breasts are worthy of far better compliments than that!") After much thought and furious pedaling, however, I think I figured it out.
The incident pissed me off because those boys weren't trying to show their appreciation, or make me feel beautiful or good about myself- they were expressing their power over me by intimidating me. A group large enough that I certainly didn't feel comfortable stopping and confronting them (as I have been known to do if just one or two males are being inappropriate), deliberately switching to a language they figured was my native tongue, to make absolutely certain that I understood the rude thing they were saying about my body.
Melons, indeed.
However.
As I was riding home from work today, a cluster of boys (I'd say they ranged in age from about 14 to 17) who were conversing in Spanish (a language which I have a tentative grasp on) deliberately switched to English long enough to comment on my "huge melons" as I zipped past.
Readers, it pissed me off.
 |
| Those are supposed to be cantaloupes, in case you were wondering. |
The incident pissed me off because those boys weren't trying to show their appreciation, or make me feel beautiful or good about myself- they were expressing their power over me by intimidating me. A group large enough that I certainly didn't feel comfortable stopping and confronting them (as I have been known to do if just one or two males are being inappropriate), deliberately switching to a language they figured was my native tongue, to make absolutely certain that I understood the rude thing they were saying about my body.
Melons, indeed.
7.03.2012
My Problems Tell Me My Life is Good
Because the biggest problems in my life right now include things like this:
Nathan is far more rage-y about this than I am. The truth of the matter, however, is that getting rage-y will not help. And yes, I feel a little sick when I think about all the data I lost (in terms of notes about stories and Crossfit times, etc), but quite frankly I spent some time being rage-y this morning about something else (equally unimportant, in the long run), and I don't have it in me to be rage-y any more. It's all ephemeral, anyway.
I feel like I've gotten better about this, over the years- better about being able to shrug off the stuff that's really not worth getting upset over (::coughcoughaccidentscough::) About letting go, in general, and accepting that sometimes things are lost, and that's okay- because nothing can take away the fact that they were there in the first place.
I do try not to argue with the Tao.
 |
| So basically not a problem so much as an annoyance. |
Nathan is far more rage-y about this than I am. The truth of the matter, however, is that getting rage-y will not help. And yes, I feel a little sick when I think about all the data I lost (in terms of notes about stories and Crossfit times, etc), but quite frankly I spent some time being rage-y this morning about something else (equally unimportant, in the long run), and I don't have it in me to be rage-y any more. It's all ephemeral, anyway.
I feel like I've gotten better about this, over the years- better about being able to shrug off the stuff that's really not worth getting upset over (::coughcoughaccidentscough::) About letting go, in general, and accepting that sometimes things are lost, and that's okay- because nothing can take away the fact that they were there in the first place.
I do try not to argue with the Tao.
5.10.2012
6.24.2011
An Open Letter to Delta, Whom I Hate
In response to the laughable question, "How can we help?" on Delta's complaint form:
"You know what? You can't help. Or perhaps I should say, you WON'T help. You never have in the past, and I don't know why you even bother to use that term on your website, or anywhere else in your literature. Nor do I understand your insistence on using the phrase “customer care”, when it’s so obvious you DON’T. I chose to stop VOLUNTARILY flying Delta over three years ago, in large part because of how bad your “customer service” had become (also because at least 25% of the time- and I’m being GENEROUS- you seem to be incapable of getting a flight to any given destination on schedule) but there are times when I, or my family members, MUST fly, and Delta is unfortunately the only option. Such is the current scenario, wherein my husband, who had to go to the east coast for work, is currently stuck in Columbus, Georgia. Now don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not your fault Atlanta closed due to weather. I get that. What I do NOT get is why, even though his flight was diverted and landed in Columbus FIRST, the other two flights that arrived AFTER him were gotten out of there before him (his flight is still trapped there, over three hours later). Even more than that, I don't understand why you had over 100 people milling around the airport (with only ONE agent) for OVER AN HOUR before ANY sort of announcement was made. Furthermore, I don't understand why, when a Delta agent FINALLY called my husband back after an hour, the man told him that his system was "locked up" and then HUNG UP ON HIM. Weather happens, and you have no control over it- but the fact that you tolerate such unprofessional and callous behavior amongst your employees is INEXCUSABLE.
Would you like to hear more?
I expressed my displeasure via a post on FaceBook, and a friend responded by sharing her most recent experience (also from today). She was flying in to New York from Tennessee: her travel time should have been three hours, according to her tickets, but it turned into eight. First they sat on the runway for a long, inexplicable while, only to find out there was electric generator failure. So they taxied back to the tarmac and deplaned, waited on another plane, and once it arrived proceeded to wait on the crew. Finally she had the pleasure of circling three turbulent holding patterns. Again- we understand that mechanical failures aren't REALLY your fault. But the way you treat passengers while they wait IS.
Another story that was shared with me today was about Delta shafting my 70+ year old grandparents. I did not hear this from them, of course; they’re too old school to complain about that sort of thing. I heard this from my mother, who related to me that AFTER she had paid for FIRST CLASS TICKETS for her parents, you guys decided to bump them off their flight, and then pressure them to take coach seats on another flight. The agent told them that if they took the coach then they'd be reimbursed the difference in price, and since my mother was the one who had paid they went ahead and took the coach seats (the promise of reimbursement is the ONLY reason they even mentioned this heinous treatment to my mother). Well after three months of your "help", my mother finally gave up trying to get her money back. And you know what? It's not even about the money. It's about the fact that you bullied a pair of senior citizens (one of whom is a WAR VETERAN, if that means anything to you) because YOU overbooked a flight, and then refused to take responsibility for it. I guess it’s good to know that not even paying more can make you care about your customers. At least you’re egalitarian in your abuse.
If you want to be the great company you USED to be twenty or more years ago, you need to re-evaluate the kinds of people you let work for you. These bullies, cowards, and unfeeling louts are representing your brand, and they're doing it poorly. People HATE your company. The phrase “I’ve been Delta’d” is commonly understood amongst my social set to mean “I’ve been screwed over.” Go ahead and google "I hate Delta" or "Delta sucks" or "Delta is evil". Go on, do it- see how many hits you get. Why? Not because of weather delays, I assure you. It's because of the way your employees are allowed treat people. Maybe you should take some lessons from SouthWest or Chick-fil-A, two companies I NEVER hesitate to do business with: they treat people not just well but RIGHT. They have their share of mistakes and delays as well, but they actually APOLOGIZE, and try to MAKE IT RIGHT. They treat people like PEOPLE, and not like dumb sheep to be herded from one location to the next with kicks and scorn. It's called taking responsibility for (and pride in) what you do, and maybe it's about time Delta remembered how to do that.
But you know what? You probably stopped reading this about seven hundred words ago, and I'll probably just get a form letter response saying, "Delta apologizes for you unfortunate experience. We hope to see you soon!" and that will be the end of it. If there's still a human being reading this, prove me wrong. Prove to me that Delta hires more than just bullies, thugs, and sociopaths. Prove to me that SOMEONE in this company actually gives a damn at how much they’re hated. I dare you."
EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days. We'll see.
EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days. We'll see.
10.09.2010
Fumble
There must be something in the Southern Air that especially nourishes whatever it is in humans that leads them toward worship and devotion. Something that compels them to lay all their faith and energy upon a single cause.
I am referring, of course, to college football.
Yes, college football (as much of a religion around here as any of the myriad manifestations of Protestantism), that holy of holies which conveniently calls its followers to mass on Saturday rather than Sunday. Of the two holy rival houses, my families claim allegiance to the University of Alabama (Roll Tide Roll!), which for the past couple of years has been pretty rewarding in terms of bragging rights.
But today, gentle readers, all that came crashing down.
Now, you have to understand that I am not, as the majority of people in these parts tend to measure these things, a particularly good football fan. I have only come to appreciate the game over the past three seasons, so my grasp of the intricacies is still somewhat shakey, and my invented sports vernacular has been known to send a room into spasms of hilarity. Furthermore, I am the kind of person who just gets a kick out of seeing a well-executed play, no matter what color jersey the executor is wearing. I also am the kind of person who wants the other team to play well- because I feel it means more for us to win against a team that is not making a bunch of mistakes. And, perhaps worst of all, I am the kind of person who holds no animosity toward our traditional rival, Auburn- in fact I will root for them every day of the year save one (that being the Iron Bowl). In short, I am the kind of person who is a fan of an excellent game rather than the idea of an immaculate team- which garners me a lot of dirty looks from people more devoted than I.
My husband, on the other hand, tends to get... well, emotionally involved might be understating it, but it works. Although his views on Auburn mirror mine, he tends to get so wrapped up in an oridnary game that if our team is performing poorly he has to leave the room. (This being an exponential improvement over a couple years ago, where he would stay in the room and become so enraged I'd fear for his heart). His father and at least one of his brothers are the same way, so I'm pretty sure there's some nature/nuture stuff going on there. Of course I, too, get aggravated when we aren't playing well, but I am the sort of fan who retains faith to the bitter end that there might be a turn-around... which means that when it came right down to the final four minutes of today's game (we were down fourteen points) it was just me and my sister-in-law left in the living room at my in-law's house.
My faith was not rewarded with victory in this instance, but I don't mind. I love my team nonetheless (and I do not envy them the tongue-lashing Coach Saban is sure to be unleashing). And as it turns out, Nathan got to watch a much more emotionally satisfying game, anyway:
(Catch)
I am referring, of course, to college football.
Yes, college football (as much of a religion around here as any of the myriad manifestations of Protestantism), that holy of holies which conveniently calls its followers to mass on Saturday rather than Sunday. Of the two holy rival houses, my families claim allegiance to the University of Alabama (Roll Tide Roll!), which for the past couple of years has been pretty rewarding in terms of bragging rights.
But today, gentle readers, all that came crashing down.
Now, you have to understand that I am not, as the majority of people in these parts tend to measure these things, a particularly good football fan. I have only come to appreciate the game over the past three seasons, so my grasp of the intricacies is still somewhat shakey, and my invented sports vernacular has been known to send a room into spasms of hilarity. Furthermore, I am the kind of person who just gets a kick out of seeing a well-executed play, no matter what color jersey the executor is wearing. I also am the kind of person who wants the other team to play well- because I feel it means more for us to win against a team that is not making a bunch of mistakes. And, perhaps worst of all, I am the kind of person who holds no animosity toward our traditional rival, Auburn- in fact I will root for them every day of the year save one (that being the Iron Bowl). In short, I am the kind of person who is a fan of an excellent game rather than the idea of an immaculate team- which garners me a lot of dirty looks from people more devoted than I.
My husband, on the other hand, tends to get... well, emotionally involved might be understating it, but it works. Although his views on Auburn mirror mine, he tends to get so wrapped up in an oridnary game that if our team is performing poorly he has to leave the room. (This being an exponential improvement over a couple years ago, where he would stay in the room and become so enraged I'd fear for his heart). His father and at least one of his brothers are the same way, so I'm pretty sure there's some nature/nuture stuff going on there. Of course I, too, get aggravated when we aren't playing well, but I am the sort of fan who retains faith to the bitter end that there might be a turn-around... which means that when it came right down to the final four minutes of today's game (we were down fourteen points) it was just me and my sister-in-law left in the living room at my in-law's house.
My faith was not rewarded with victory in this instance, but I don't mind. I love my team nonetheless (and I do not envy them the tongue-lashing Coach Saban is sure to be unleashing). And as it turns out, Nathan got to watch a much more emotionally satisfying game, anyway:
(Catch)
7.07.2010
When Exactly Did I Develop Problems With Authority?
::sigh::
So I actually have a plethora of topics to pick from for this evening's post. In fact I had already begun crafting an excellent one inspired by my friend Tavish (he of the endless ideas). But in light of this afternoon's Events, I think I'll table that one for another day and instead talk about Me Bobbling My Temper. Not losing it entirely, mind you- but not having the best grip in the world, either.
The long and short of it is that I told off a doctor today. Yes, you read that correctly. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes gave a medical professional a tongue lashing. Let's not get into how or why (or even the specific words used)... I'd rather address the fact that it happened it all, and the subsequent emotional fallout.
The worst part about it is that I don't feel better. I'm not proud of what I did, and I really want to be. It ought to make an awesome story- "That doctor thought she could just keep steamrolling me, but I gave her what-for!". And while yes, that is what happened... I'm not proud. I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I seem to be back-sliding in my spiritual development. Yes, the doctor needed to be told that her demeanor/words/actions were unacceptable- but I probably could have found a better way to do it. In fact, I shouldn't even have let it escalate to the point that it did- I should have stopped seeing her after my initial confrontation with her. I knew nine months ago that I did not like her- but for some reason I didn't feel I could change doctors. I will admit that the civilian medical world makes me feel timid- it's very confusing after you've grown up on military bases. But that's no excuse- I'm a big girl, and I should have just sucked it up and found a different specialist, rather than letting it get out of hand.
Again I say, ::sigh::
And like I said- I don't feel better. And if you don't feel better after telling someone off, then what's the point? If I thought my words might have had an impact- that she would suddenly realize she can't treat people that way- then maybe I could feel righteous. But the fact of the matter is that I don't think that. I think that she is the sort of arrogant person to whom the opinion of others (let alone their feelings) makes no difference.
So once again I'm feeling lost and disillusioned with the world. Growing up we're taught to respect the men and women in fields like law enforcement and medicine- that they are good and just people who will use their power, knowledge, and authority to take care of us. But that's not true... at least, it's not universally true. Many of them are bullies, and I don't know why it continues to break my heart, but it does. I feel so frustrated, so helpless, when confronted by people who abuse their power. I don't know what to do about it. They say you have to stand up to bullies, and I do, but in the end... what difference does it make? I have no power, I have no influence. That doctor doesn't care what I think about her- she didn't even care enough about medicine to do her job properly. So I stood up to her, told her off- but so what? It doesn't change anything, except making me sick to my stomach for sinking to her level.
That being said, the best part of my day became coming home to Nathan, and having him be 100% on my side. Being able to let everything come tumbling out- all the rage, and the shame, and the frustration, and the despair... and having it be okay. Having him think I'm a worthwhile human being, anyway. I put the entire rotten experience out there (and here) and now I'm going to let it go- and he's helping me do that. So yeah, there are shitty people in the world- but there are also good people. And for that I'm grateful.
(PS I guess the answer to the subject of this post is- "When people started abusing it.")
So I actually have a plethora of topics to pick from for this evening's post. In fact I had already begun crafting an excellent one inspired by my friend Tavish (he of the endless ideas). But in light of this afternoon's Events, I think I'll table that one for another day and instead talk about Me Bobbling My Temper. Not losing it entirely, mind you- but not having the best grip in the world, either.
The long and short of it is that I told off a doctor today. Yes, you read that correctly. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes gave a medical professional a tongue lashing. Let's not get into how or why (or even the specific words used)... I'd rather address the fact that it happened it all, and the subsequent emotional fallout.
The worst part about it is that I don't feel better. I'm not proud of what I did, and I really want to be. It ought to make an awesome story- "That doctor thought she could just keep steamrolling me, but I gave her what-for!". And while yes, that is what happened... I'm not proud. I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I seem to be back-sliding in my spiritual development. Yes, the doctor needed to be told that her demeanor/words/actions were unacceptable- but I probably could have found a better way to do it. In fact, I shouldn't even have let it escalate to the point that it did- I should have stopped seeing her after my initial confrontation with her. I knew nine months ago that I did not like her- but for some reason I didn't feel I could change doctors. I will admit that the civilian medical world makes me feel timid- it's very confusing after you've grown up on military bases. But that's no excuse- I'm a big girl, and I should have just sucked it up and found a different specialist, rather than letting it get out of hand.
Again I say, ::sigh::
And like I said- I don't feel better. And if you don't feel better after telling someone off, then what's the point? If I thought my words might have had an impact- that she would suddenly realize she can't treat people that way- then maybe I could feel righteous. But the fact of the matter is that I don't think that. I think that she is the sort of arrogant person to whom the opinion of others (let alone their feelings) makes no difference.
So once again I'm feeling lost and disillusioned with the world. Growing up we're taught to respect the men and women in fields like law enforcement and medicine- that they are good and just people who will use their power, knowledge, and authority to take care of us. But that's not true... at least, it's not universally true. Many of them are bullies, and I don't know why it continues to break my heart, but it does. I feel so frustrated, so helpless, when confronted by people who abuse their power. I don't know what to do about it. They say you have to stand up to bullies, and I do, but in the end... what difference does it make? I have no power, I have no influence. That doctor doesn't care what I think about her- she didn't even care enough about medicine to do her job properly. So I stood up to her, told her off- but so what? It doesn't change anything, except making me sick to my stomach for sinking to her level.
That being said, the best part of my day became coming home to Nathan, and having him be 100% on my side. Being able to let everything come tumbling out- all the rage, and the shame, and the frustration, and the despair... and having it be okay. Having him think I'm a worthwhile human being, anyway. I put the entire rotten experience out there (and here) and now I'm going to let it go- and he's helping me do that. So yeah, there are shitty people in the world- but there are also good people. And for that I'm grateful.
(PS I guess the answer to the subject of this post is- "When people started abusing it.")
7.01.2010
Incoherent, Enraged Ranting
I have been full of rage all day today: my idiot-tolerance seems to be at an all-time low. Many things have set me off since nine o'clock this morning, but I choose to vent about the most recent. I was listening to the radio as I drove home from second-job, when on comes this woman who wants "America to decide" who is right in the argument she is having with her husband. Leaving aside my feelings about people who air their marital problems in a national forum, let us consider the disagreement:
The woman home-schools their children (a lifestyle choice I am theoretically supportive of). But this woman also gives her children all A's, whether they earn them or not. Her position? That she's helping them out, "because in this economy you need any edge you can get", and she's "helping them get into good colleges so they can get good jobs and make good money". Her husband, unsurprisingly, thinks this is a bad idea.
Um, you think?
For the second time today I found myself choking with rage over a lack of basic logic. Who is this woman?! Why doesn't her brain work? Does she earnestly believe she's helping her children by giving them A's rather than making them learn the material? Seriously?! I wanted to scream at the radio- more than that, I wanted to take this woman's children away from her before she screws them over for life. Does she not understand that you don't get into college based on GPA alone? Does she not realize that even if they did manage to get into college after she fakes their grades, they'll never be able to stay there, because they never learned the proper study habits and discipline necessary to actually carry a 4.0? ARGH!
I swear, if I could make one class required teaching in every school in the world, it would be logic. If A, then B; if B then C; therefore if A then C damn it it's not that hard. Logic, and moral responsibility, damn it. My favorite Heinlein quote is, "I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do." I truly believe that if more people were taught this from an impressionable age, the world would be a lot better off. But oh no- instead our society teaches them nothing is their fault, because of their crappy childhoods, and everything should be given to them because they "deserve" it. I hate that word so much. Soooo much. I wish I could take it right out of common vernacular, because of the way it gets so utterly abused.
("Bad credit? It's not your fault! Come see us and get the car you deserve!" This is literally the wording of a commercial around here and it makes me want to vomit and bitch-slap people every time I hear it. I hate the world sometimes, I really do.)
I ought to be in a better mood- I worked out this evening, so where are my friggin' endorphins? I just don't know.
In more cheerful news, I read the book Zahrah the Windseeker today, and I liked it a great deal. So at least there are talented authors in the world, which is something. ::sigh:: And actually, I've started Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix again (my mom and I are going through all the HP books for our re-Reading Club) so possibly my surly mood will make me more sympathetic to Harry this time around...
(PS because of today I've had to change my position on home-schooling to, "It's a great idea to home-school your kids if you're actually smarter than a goldfish. Which you are probably not.")
The woman home-schools their children (a lifestyle choice I am theoretically supportive of). But this woman also gives her children all A's, whether they earn them or not. Her position? That she's helping them out, "because in this economy you need any edge you can get", and she's "helping them get into good colleges so they can get good jobs and make good money". Her husband, unsurprisingly, thinks this is a bad idea.
Um, you think?
For the second time today I found myself choking with rage over a lack of basic logic. Who is this woman?! Why doesn't her brain work? Does she earnestly believe she's helping her children by giving them A's rather than making them learn the material? Seriously?! I wanted to scream at the radio- more than that, I wanted to take this woman's children away from her before she screws them over for life. Does she not understand that you don't get into college based on GPA alone? Does she not realize that even if they did manage to get into college after she fakes their grades, they'll never be able to stay there, because they never learned the proper study habits and discipline necessary to actually carry a 4.0? ARGH!
I swear, if I could make one class required teaching in every school in the world, it would be logic. If A, then B; if B then C; therefore if A then C damn it it's not that hard. Logic, and moral responsibility, damn it. My favorite Heinlein quote is, "I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do." I truly believe that if more people were taught this from an impressionable age, the world would be a lot better off. But oh no- instead our society teaches them nothing is their fault, because of their crappy childhoods, and everything should be given to them because they "deserve" it. I hate that word so much. Soooo much. I wish I could take it right out of common vernacular, because of the way it gets so utterly abused.
("Bad credit? It's not your fault! Come see us and get the car you deserve!" This is literally the wording of a commercial around here and it makes me want to vomit and bitch-slap people every time I hear it. I hate the world sometimes, I really do.)
I ought to be in a better mood- I worked out this evening, so where are my friggin' endorphins? I just don't know.
In more cheerful news, I read the book Zahrah the Windseeker today, and I liked it a great deal. So at least there are talented authors in the world, which is something. ::sigh:: And actually, I've started Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix again (my mom and I are going through all the HP books for our re-Reading Club) so possibly my surly mood will make me more sympathetic to Harry this time around...
(PS because of today I've had to change my position on home-schooling to, "It's a great idea to home-school your kids if you're actually smarter than a goldfish. Which you are probably not.")
6.03.2010
OMG Serenity Fanfic!!!11!1!one!!
!!!!!SPOILERS FOR SERENITY AND THE TIE IN COMIC FLOAT OUT!!!!!
(In other words, Mom, you're not allowed to read this one yet. I mean it.)
Okay, so what you need to know is that this highly unusual posting came about in a fit of rage. Wait- let me give you some background.
I am a huge Joss Whedon fan. This should come as a suprise to exactly zero percent of you. One of Whedon's best works is the show Firefly and it's follow-up movie, Serenity. If you haven't seen them, you should stop reading this at the end of this paragraph, go buy the dvds of everything (it's worth every penny and then some), watch them, and get back to me. I'll wait.
*
**
***
**
*
Okay, so, now you understand my love, and also you know that Wash is dead (feel free to cry. A lot. I still do.) So you might also understand why I was more than a little excited to get my paws on the Wash-centered Float Out, which I managed to do today.
Man, what a load of steaming disapointment. The story was crap (moreover it was confusing crap- I had to keep going back to re-read to try to figure out what the hell was going on), and the art was whatever excrement crap produces. And it just... it just really pissed me off. And all I could think was, "Man, I could do so much better than this!" And then I couldn't stand it a moment longer- I whipped out my netbook and threw down a far more fitting tribute to Wash (one which included the same "big reveal" as the comic- which, come on- was not that big of a friggin' reveal).
I rewrote it and did the thumbnails, then came home and rewrote it a third time, and did thumbnails for that. And you, gentle readers, now get script and thumbnails, and will eventually get the finished product (which I don't expect to be longer than two pages- more likely one, because I was trying to write something I could finish in a reasonable span of time- and it will be b&w unless I get totally carried away) because hot damn Wash deserved better than that.
I'm just sayin'.
I don't have a title for it yet- feel free to suggest. And for those of you who love the Firefly universe as much as I do, please give me your honest feedback- was I true to the characters?
(note- you'll notice this is an exceptionally loose script- that's 'cos I don't have to worry about explaining the layout for another artist)
(obligatory disclaimer- all characters are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon, who doesn't even know I exist, let alone that I'm toying with his creation- in other words, this is done without knowledge or approval. Furthermore, I'm not doing this for money or glory or to infringe on anybody's copyanything- I'm just doing it because I'm pissed off about bad storytelling and worse art.) (please don't sue me, kthnxbye)
"Working Title: Better Than Float Out"
We begin with a field of stars, then pull back enough to reveal a woman’s profile- it’s Zoe, face turned upwards, eyes closed. A further pull back reveals that she is not outside- she’s in Serenity’s cockpit, specifically in Wash’s old chair. One hand rests on her flat stomach, the other holds a toy dinosaur. One more pull back reveals River, Kaylee, and Simon watching from the door.
(In other words, Mom, you're not allowed to read this one yet. I mean it.)
Okay, so what you need to know is that this highly unusual posting came about in a fit of rage. Wait- let me give you some background.
I am a huge Joss Whedon fan. This should come as a suprise to exactly zero percent of you. One of Whedon's best works is the show Firefly and it's follow-up movie, Serenity. If you haven't seen them, you should stop reading this at the end of this paragraph, go buy the dvds of everything (it's worth every penny and then some), watch them, and get back to me. I'll wait.
*
**
***
**
*
Okay, so, now you understand my love, and also you know that Wash is dead (feel free to cry. A lot. I still do.) So you might also understand why I was more than a little excited to get my paws on the Wash-centered Float Out, which I managed to do today.
Man, what a load of steaming disapointment. The story was crap (moreover it was confusing crap- I had to keep going back to re-read to try to figure out what the hell was going on), and the art was whatever excrement crap produces. And it just... it just really pissed me off. And all I could think was, "Man, I could do so much better than this!" And then I couldn't stand it a moment longer- I whipped out my netbook and threw down a far more fitting tribute to Wash (one which included the same "big reveal" as the comic- which, come on- was not that big of a friggin' reveal).
I rewrote it and did the thumbnails, then came home and rewrote it a third time, and did thumbnails for that. And you, gentle readers, now get script and thumbnails, and will eventually get the finished product (which I don't expect to be longer than two pages- more likely one, because I was trying to write something I could finish in a reasonable span of time- and it will be b&w unless I get totally carried away) because hot damn Wash deserved better than that.
I'm just sayin'.
I don't have a title for it yet- feel free to suggest. And for those of you who love the Firefly universe as much as I do, please give me your honest feedback- was I true to the characters?
(note- you'll notice this is an exceptionally loose script- that's 'cos I don't have to worry about explaining the layout for another artist)
(obligatory disclaimer- all characters are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon, who doesn't even know I exist, let alone that I'm toying with his creation- in other words, this is done without knowledge or approval. Furthermore, I'm not doing this for money or glory or to infringe on anybody's copyanything- I'm just doing it because I'm pissed off about bad storytelling and worse art.) (please don't sue me, kthnxbye)
"Working Title: Better Than Float Out"
We begin with a field of stars, then pull back enough to reveal a woman’s profile- it’s Zoe, face turned upwards, eyes closed. A further pull back reveals that she is not outside- she’s in Serenity’s cockpit, specifically in Wash’s old chair. One hand rests on her flat stomach, the other holds a toy dinosaur. One more pull back reveals River, Kaylee, and Simon watching from the door.
“Why do you think she does that?” Simon asks. Kaylee give a little shrug.
“It makes her joyful…” says River, hand hovering near her abdomen.
“Zoe’s joyful?” asks Kylie, wrapping an arm around Simon’s. “Seems mighty unlikely, what with Wash so recently… well, what with Wash bein’ gone, and all.”
“Not Zoe. The baby.”
“What baby?” says Simon, looking sharply at River.
Kaylee looks at Zoe’s hand resting on her stomach. Her eyes go wide. “Ohhhh…”
“But, but…” stammers Simon.
“I wonder why it makes her joyful…” says River.
Kaylee looks at Zoe, then at the dinosaur. “I don’t,”
Full shot of Zoe smiling gently, still face-up to the stars, with ghostly Wash face smiling amongst them.
(Click to Embiggen) (Totally stole that phrase, yes I did.)
(PS don't hurt your brain trying to figure out what's in the third-to-last panel: it's a scribbled-out screw up)
5.25.2010
We'll Drink to That!
This day took an interesting twist.
It started out really good- Nathan and I got up early and hoofed it down to the castle to beat the queues, which we did manage to do.
(Would you change this guard?)
Edinburgh Castle was really interesting, but the fact remains that I really preferred Stirling (Nathan agrees, as does Curt). Probably the best part of it was St. Margaret’s chapel, which was tiny and lovely and coincidently the oldest building in Scotland.
(Tiny building with tiny windows.)
The funniest part came when we were making our way through the old prisons, and they had voices of “prisoners” piped in. Suddenly this really absurd, nasally accent came on and I looked at Nathan and said, “Is that supposed to be American?” and he stopped and listened and said, “Yeah, I think so…” and we burst into peals of laughter. So now I guess we know what we sound like to the Scots! I must admit, I mourn the fact that no one thinks and American accent is sexy… ah well…
(Look carefully- that's prison grafitti of an American flag: old-school star-formation, but Ameican nonetheless.)
(Know who does have a sexy accent? This guy.)
It took us three hours to get through the castle (and the “well stocked gift shop”, as pointed out by our audio guide) at which point we headed for what we had dubbed the “Skeksis Tower” (actually the Scott Monument) intent on climbing its 287 stairs to the top.
(
It cost £3 to go in, but considering the fact that they gave us a super-sweet print of the tower (each), we thought it was a deal! The structure is carved of sandstone*, which strikes me as a particularly poor choice seeing as how it barely made it 150 years before its first major restoration. It makes a body wonder why anyone would bother carving anything in any substance less hard than marble… I tell you what, when it comes to carving my mausoleum, diamond all the way! Anyway, we went up four winding, progressively narrowing stairwells (by the last one Nathan had to take off his backpack and squeeze through sideways) but were rewarded with a pretty sweet 360° view of the city.
(See?)
By the time we inched our way back down, we decided it was more than time for a small smackeral- not to mention the fact that we both felt it was high time for us to indulge in the beloved “wee dram” of Scotland. So we hiked back up to the Lonely Planet recommended Malt Shovel, found a table, ordered food, and then took the bartender’s advice on some whisky.
(Wee in stature, not potency.)
I had a superbly smooth 12-year-old single malt, whereas Nathan went for a smoky 16-year-old single malt that had been locally distilled (yes, yes- I am kicking myself for not having written down names…). And let me tell you, friend- it was smoky. I took a small sip, and had to suck on lemons to get the flavor out of my mouth (only because I wanted to appreciate my whisky untainted, not because it was a disagreeable flavor)- it was, as Nathan put it, like having a bonfire made of autumn leaves in your mouth. In a good way. Furthermore, I could still smell the fumes on him well after we’d left the pub…
(Delicious!)
But back to the food. Nathan had the roast beef, and I the chicken pie, and both of us made sounds of squirmy happiness as we dug in. Wonderful, beautiful city with its tasty comfort food…
(Here is an iconic shot of the castle from down below)
Our bellies filled and my mind pleasantly humming, we made our way over to the National Gallery of Scotland. There we saw the typical offerings of Italian dudes with questionable knowledge of actual female anatomy, but I also learned a thing about my husband- I learned that he likes the work of the Impressionists, most especially that of Monet. It was surprising to me because his own work is so meticulous and tight (dare I say anal retentive?) that I never would have guessed him to be a fan of their loose style… but this discovery led into a wonderful discussion of what we do and don’t like about Impressionism (I find that many of them are just sloppy and lazy- although I will agree to Monet’s superiority, because I feel he was truly working with ways to represent light, rather than looking for a way around having to paint the details of things…). All of my favorite works at this gallery, however, were located in the Scottish artists’ wing. The art-nouveau, gold-leafed Diana and Her Nymphs (Robert Burns), was originally done as part of a restaurant motif. The larger-than-life The Progress of the Soul: The Victory (Phoebe Anna Traquair) is silk and gold thread embroidered on linen, which absolutely blew my mind (I am a bit hapless at the fiber arts- not totally incompetent, but not likely to ever produce anything a fraction of that quality) (they don't have a link to The Victory, so I linked to The Entrance, which gives you the general idea). And my absolute favorite, Saint Bride 1913 (John Duncan) was actually done in friggin’ tempra, if you can believe it. I adored that one so much that I’ve a mind to order up a good sized reproduction of it (I managed to snag postcards of all three, but my soul cries out for larger pieces…)
We eventually wandered over to another exhibition that had just delightful pen and ink watercolors by two contemporary illustrators (Catherine Rayner and James Mayhew), then decided that the time had come for us to wander in the general direction of our temporary home. On the way we stopped by St. Mary’s Cathedral, not two blocks from the house. I must say, that is one of the best things about cities in the UK: cathedrals or monuments on every corner.
Once home our little cat herd made up its mind about where to go for dinner (not the Thai place, sadly) and set out. Indigo Yard was okay, I guess, but the truth of the matter is that it wasn’t as cool as it thought it was, and the food was only so-so. My burger was good, but Nathan said it was the least-delicious fish-and-chips he’d had on the trip, and the others seemed pretty equally unimpressed with their food. Oh well- at least we got a decent walk in.
It was after dinner that the storm struck. And by storm I don’t mean literal rainy storm, I mean people reaching their “I’ve-been-in-the-company-of-others-for-almost-two-weeks” breaking points. Long story short, I ended up needing to take a Very. Long. Walk.
Alone.
It turned out to be for the best, however, as my rage-fueled wanderings brought me down to the Water of Leith, where I found some stinging nettle (how’s that for a genuine UK experience- I now have even more sympathy for the sister-of-swans...) but also St. Bernard’s Well, and eventually some peace (coincidence? Perhaps not…). I stayed quite a while down there, bird-watching and ruminating, until I finally decided to head back to the house, where things were soon resolved.
All the same, I think we’re all more than ready to be heading home.
* (Yeah, I know the Wikipedia entry says it's shale- but the literature from the monument itself says sandstone. Just goes to show, kiddos- you can't always believe what you read on the interwebs. Unless it's on my blog, of course.)
It started out really good- Nathan and I got up early and hoofed it down to the castle to beat the queues, which we did manage to do.
(Would you change this guard?)
Edinburgh Castle was really interesting, but the fact remains that I really preferred Stirling (Nathan agrees, as does Curt). Probably the best part of it was St. Margaret’s chapel, which was tiny and lovely and coincidently the oldest building in Scotland.
(Tiny building with tiny windows.)
The funniest part came when we were making our way through the old prisons, and they had voices of “prisoners” piped in. Suddenly this really absurd, nasally accent came on and I looked at Nathan and said, “Is that supposed to be American?” and he stopped and listened and said, “Yeah, I think so…” and we burst into peals of laughter. So now I guess we know what we sound like to the Scots! I must admit, I mourn the fact that no one thinks and American accent is sexy… ah well…
(Look carefully- that's prison grafitti of an American flag: old-school star-formation, but Ameican nonetheless.)
(Know who does have a sexy accent? This guy.)
It took us three hours to get through the castle (and the “well stocked gift shop”, as pointed out by our audio guide) at which point we headed for what we had dubbed the “Skeksis Tower” (actually the Scott Monument) intent on climbing its 287 stairs to the top.
(
It cost £3 to go in, but considering the fact that they gave us a super-sweet print of the tower (each), we thought it was a deal! The structure is carved of sandstone*, which strikes me as a particularly poor choice seeing as how it barely made it 150 years before its first major restoration. It makes a body wonder why anyone would bother carving anything in any substance less hard than marble… I tell you what, when it comes to carving my mausoleum, diamond all the way! Anyway, we went up four winding, progressively narrowing stairwells (by the last one Nathan had to take off his backpack and squeeze through sideways) but were rewarded with a pretty sweet 360° view of the city.
(See?)
By the time we inched our way back down, we decided it was more than time for a small smackeral- not to mention the fact that we both felt it was high time for us to indulge in the beloved “wee dram” of Scotland. So we hiked back up to the Lonely Planet recommended Malt Shovel, found a table, ordered food, and then took the bartender’s advice on some whisky.
(Wee in stature, not potency.)
I had a superbly smooth 12-year-old single malt, whereas Nathan went for a smoky 16-year-old single malt that had been locally distilled (yes, yes- I am kicking myself for not having written down names…). And let me tell you, friend- it was smoky. I took a small sip, and had to suck on lemons to get the flavor out of my mouth (only because I wanted to appreciate my whisky untainted, not because it was a disagreeable flavor)- it was, as Nathan put it, like having a bonfire made of autumn leaves in your mouth. In a good way. Furthermore, I could still smell the fumes on him well after we’d left the pub…
(Delicious!)
But back to the food. Nathan had the roast beef, and I the chicken pie, and both of us made sounds of squirmy happiness as we dug in. Wonderful, beautiful city with its tasty comfort food…
(Here is an iconic shot of the castle from down below)
Our bellies filled and my mind pleasantly humming, we made our way over to the National Gallery of Scotland. There we saw the typical offerings of Italian dudes with questionable knowledge of actual female anatomy, but I also learned a thing about my husband- I learned that he likes the work of the Impressionists, most especially that of Monet. It was surprising to me because his own work is so meticulous and tight (dare I say anal retentive?) that I never would have guessed him to be a fan of their loose style… but this discovery led into a wonderful discussion of what we do and don’t like about Impressionism (I find that many of them are just sloppy and lazy- although I will agree to Monet’s superiority, because I feel he was truly working with ways to represent light, rather than looking for a way around having to paint the details of things…). All of my favorite works at this gallery, however, were located in the Scottish artists’ wing. The art-nouveau, gold-leafed Diana and Her Nymphs (Robert Burns), was originally done as part of a restaurant motif. The larger-than-life The Progress of the Soul: The Victory (Phoebe Anna Traquair) is silk and gold thread embroidered on linen, which absolutely blew my mind (I am a bit hapless at the fiber arts- not totally incompetent, but not likely to ever produce anything a fraction of that quality) (they don't have a link to The Victory, so I linked to The Entrance, which gives you the general idea). And my absolute favorite, Saint Bride 1913 (John Duncan) was actually done in friggin’ tempra, if you can believe it. I adored that one so much that I’ve a mind to order up a good sized reproduction of it (I managed to snag postcards of all three, but my soul cries out for larger pieces…)
We eventually wandered over to another exhibition that had just delightful pen and ink watercolors by two contemporary illustrators (Catherine Rayner and James Mayhew), then decided that the time had come for us to wander in the general direction of our temporary home. On the way we stopped by St. Mary’s Cathedral, not two blocks from the house. I must say, that is one of the best things about cities in the UK: cathedrals or monuments on every corner.
(They had lots of nice stained glass.)
Once home our little cat herd made up its mind about where to go for dinner (not the Thai place, sadly) and set out. Indigo Yard was okay, I guess, but the truth of the matter is that it wasn’t as cool as it thought it was, and the food was only so-so. My burger was good, but Nathan said it was the least-delicious fish-and-chips he’d had on the trip, and the others seemed pretty equally unimpressed with their food. Oh well- at least we got a decent walk in.
It was after dinner that the storm struck. And by storm I don’t mean literal rainy storm, I mean people reaching their “I’ve-been-in-the-company-of-others-for-almost-two-weeks” breaking points. Long story short, I ended up needing to take a Very. Long. Walk.
Alone.
It turned out to be for the best, however, as my rage-fueled wanderings brought me down to the Water of Leith, where I found some stinging nettle (how’s that for a genuine UK experience- I now have even more sympathy for the sister-of-swans...) but also St. Bernard’s Well, and eventually some peace (coincidence? Perhaps not…). I stayed quite a while down there, bird-watching and ruminating, until I finally decided to head back to the house, where things were soon resolved.
All the same, I think we’re all more than ready to be heading home.
* (Yeah, I know the Wikipedia entry says it's shale- but the literature from the monument itself says sandstone. Just goes to show, kiddos- you can't always believe what you read on the interwebs. Unless it's on my blog, of course.)
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