I'm not in charge. Did I mention that? Lift me up!
Friday, November 30, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Ra-pa-pum-pum...
Yes. I will go out on a limb. I've noticed that many who profess to live a pious life protest too much and are probably hiding something behind all that sugar. Don't quote me on that. It's just a theory I have.
Most of the time, these types don't swear, miss church or have road rage, but they won't do you a favor either. Bless their heart. I think many of these people are hiding the fact that deep down inside they are just self-centered misers who need a God-cover to make themselves feel better in some way. None of it makes any sense to me but I am becoming cynical... ooooh so cynical taking that dogma for a walk. I'd rather pet a real dog, smile at a stranger, strike up a conversation with the tired UPS guy, over-tip a waiter, make soup for a random neighbor, or play cards with a child too young to know how to shuffle.
In my own way, I am quite spiritual... in the sense that I'm sure that there is a bigger picture here that I can't understand, but knowing that reminds me hourly of the responsibility to honor that moral code. Don't get me wrong, I like the candles, the kneeling and the sacrifice towards a greater good, but it is the overwhelming hypocrisy that is killing it for me. Over and over, I am a witness to this nasty, self-absorbed church-going mass of people who are the embodiment of everything I don't want to be. And yet... they feel sorry for me because I will be going to their HELL.
Blasphemer, they say!
Nope. Sorry to the judgmental throngs pointing the finger at the white-haired lady who is traveling down the roguery of East meets West... celebrating a certain sort of Kwanza-mas-ukah this month, and will never (ever) be quite sure at this point who she is. I may not know what I am... but I know what I'm not.
I don't want any part of a club who listens to cashmere-wearing Pearly Gate judges as they bake Fire and Brimstone cupcakes thrown at anyone who doesn't join in.
Out.
Most of the time, these types don't swear, miss church or have road rage, but they won't do you a favor either. Bless their heart. I think many of these people are hiding the fact that deep down inside they are just self-centered misers who need a God-cover to make themselves feel better in some way. None of it makes any sense to me but I am becoming cynical... ooooh so cynical taking that dogma for a walk. I'd rather pet a real dog, smile at a stranger, strike up a conversation with the tired UPS guy, over-tip a waiter, make soup for a random neighbor, or play cards with a child too young to know how to shuffle.
In my own way, I am quite spiritual... in the sense that I'm sure that there is a bigger picture here that I can't understand, but knowing that reminds me hourly of the responsibility to honor that moral code. Don't get me wrong, I like the candles, the kneeling and the sacrifice towards a greater good, but it is the overwhelming hypocrisy that is killing it for me. Over and over, I am a witness to this nasty, self-absorbed church-going mass of people who are the embodiment of everything I don't want to be. And yet... they feel sorry for me because I will be going to their HELL.
Blasphemer, they say!
Nope. Sorry to the judgmental throngs pointing the finger at the white-haired lady who is traveling down the roguery of East meets West... celebrating a certain sort of Kwanza-mas-ukah this month, and will never (ever) be quite sure at this point who she is. I may not know what I am... but I know what I'm not.
I don't want any part of a club who listens to cashmere-wearing Pearly Gate judges as they bake Fire and Brimstone cupcakes thrown at anyone who doesn't join in.
Out.
I am not afraid. I am not in charge, and neither are you.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
funnybone...
I'm not sure when it began, but it was probably when I was a small child. My brother and I find everything to have a touch of hilarity. Was it a defense mechanism? Was everything so serious with Mummy that we had to just giggle our way through the drama?
I don't know.
It hit me in the hospital when I realized that I was gaining quite the reputation as I was sprawled out in a hospital gown with cramps and the runs from a bout with E coli. I'm not sure why I find the need to be friendly with everyone but I guess people intrigue me, and I find great sport in breaking them in (or down).
Perhaps I do it out of boredom or the inner fear that this whole cancer-thing will get me eventually. It will, but at least I know how I'm going to die... and most likely... where. I feel the need to keep things cancer-light. I will probably die on that same oncology ward which is where they put me now even if I have an ingrown toenail. There are advantages to this. My lymphoma CT scan found that I had ingested E coli.
Curses.
The first thing I noticed was that I was on the oncology ward with all of the pink signs, and happy bulletin boards as if any of those would make a difference to one's mood. The next thing were the day nurses who looked like spray-tanned cheerleaders, painted nails-noir, pinky scrubs; a bubbly bunch of waitresses (my denial of the severity of the moment - again). I felt bad that I had to give the tanned, cheery beauties samples of everrrrrything inside my body including... well, I won't go on. My son was appalled that I would consider ordering the food there afterwards, but I don't over-think things, and just dial up "room service."
Denial.
The funnybone aspect of the nurses was the change of the shifts nightly. There is a switcheroo of staff around 7PM and there was a pow-wow at the vestibule of my five-star room-with-a-view. One of the cheerleaders turned to me and whispered, "wait 'til you meet the night staff."
In anticipation and dread, I looked at the doorway not knowing what to expect. Sure enough, there were no more cheerleaders. Quasi-moto-ini with acne and Wicked Nurse of the Midwest with bad hair and a weight problem were there to take care of my every need apres-dusk. Was this just a coincidence? Uh... no - this was every night, different nurses. Apparently, pretty women are recommended for daytime and badly-groomed skags are hired for when you are asleep. Weird.
I found this offensive. I had to admit that the babes were accommodating enough but I understood immediately this this was not just something minor. This is a reflection of our society, and the HR at St.Vincents Hospital was no different. This trickles down from politics to school districts. It is in our Kindergartens where pretty girls get the attention - early. As a culture, our values are much more interested in Kardashian bodies, clear skin, toned abs and silky hair... not so interested in brains or skill anymore. I didn't have either as a child. I was never one of the beauty queens and my SAT's were on the low side. If my parents had given me something more it would have been to have MUCH better discipline with my grades, giving me a curfew, and not just concentrating all their effort on my brilliant older brother. My protege-brother was encouraged, but I was left to draw and play my xylophone.
I guess none of this was so funny, but at least I can play the xylophone.
I don't know.
It hit me in the hospital when I realized that I was gaining quite the reputation as I was sprawled out in a hospital gown with cramps and the runs from a bout with E coli. I'm not sure why I find the need to be friendly with everyone but I guess people intrigue me, and I find great sport in breaking them in (or down).
Perhaps I do it out of boredom or the inner fear that this whole cancer-thing will get me eventually. It will, but at least I know how I'm going to die... and most likely... where. I feel the need to keep things cancer-light. I will probably die on that same oncology ward which is where they put me now even if I have an ingrown toenail. There are advantages to this. My lymphoma CT scan found that I had ingested E coli.
Curses.
The first thing I noticed was that I was on the oncology ward with all of the pink signs, and happy bulletin boards as if any of those would make a difference to one's mood. The next thing were the day nurses who looked like spray-tanned cheerleaders, painted nails-noir, pinky scrubs; a bubbly bunch of waitresses (my denial of the severity of the moment - again). I felt bad that I had to give the tanned, cheery beauties samples of everrrrrything inside my body including... well, I won't go on. My son was appalled that I would consider ordering the food there afterwards, but I don't over-think things, and just dial up "room service."
Denial.
The funnybone aspect of the nurses was the change of the shifts nightly. There is a switcheroo of staff around 7PM and there was a pow-wow at the vestibule of my five-star room-with-a-view. One of the cheerleaders turned to me and whispered, "wait 'til you meet the night staff."
In anticipation and dread, I looked at the doorway not knowing what to expect. Sure enough, there were no more cheerleaders. Quasi-moto-ini with acne and Wicked Nurse of the Midwest with bad hair and a weight problem were there to take care of my every need apres-dusk. Was this just a coincidence? Uh... no - this was every night, different nurses. Apparently, pretty women are recommended for daytime and badly-groomed skags are hired for when you are asleep. Weird.
I found this offensive. I had to admit that the babes were accommodating enough but I understood immediately this this was not just something minor. This is a reflection of our society, and the HR at St.Vincents Hospital was no different. This trickles down from politics to school districts. It is in our Kindergartens where pretty girls get the attention - early. As a culture, our values are much more interested in Kardashian bodies, clear skin, toned abs and silky hair... not so interested in brains or skill anymore. I didn't have either as a child. I was never one of the beauty queens and my SAT's were on the low side. If my parents had given me something more it would have been to have MUCH better discipline with my grades, giving me a curfew, and not just concentrating all their effort on my brilliant older brother. My protege-brother was encouraged, but I was left to draw and play my xylophone.
I guess none of this was so funny, but at least I can play the xylophone.
Shelby and Dana have PhD's, but we don't really care. Just look at those tits.
Friday, November 16, 2012
nobody knows the trouble I've seen...
I was scheduled for chemo yesterday. It was canceled because I was hospitalized for E. coli on Tuesday. Are you kidding me? And I thought my forties were challenging.
I own an important trait. I know how to grit my teeth and take anything.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I'm thinkin' the GOP had better work on a different image and get people like Donald Trump and Richard Mourdock to stfu. The Republican image is not inspiring the masses, and digging themselves out of this hole is not going to be easy - even in four years when Rubio does the flamenco.
He will have to really feel it, not just learn some steps at the corner dance studio.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
family truckster...
Ah, the road to Thanksgiving...
The pushing and pulling of the in-laws, the out-laws, the rubes, the big-mouths, the gnashing of teeth, the snide remarks, the heartbreak of "O.P.S." - other people's stuffing, the gravy-making fiascos, the goofy aprons, and, most of all, the inability to remember the real reason for the holiday: gratitude and family.
Oh, God... a Norman Rockwell moment.
Roles change as we go from a being single to being married.. and (make no mistake about it) when you are standing in front of a clergyman, you are NOT marrying one person ----at all. You think when you are on your cute little honeymoon that this is your only partner in this union. Nope. Sorry. You are marrying an entire community of their relatives. You can't tell any youngster this when they are tying the knot because at twenty-six years-old... after all...
they.know.everything.
Yes. I was brilliant too until I turned around thirty-eight years-old and I realized that not only was I a complete imbecile, but I had much to learn. As a sixty-something, I have to be very careful not to wax poetic all over everyone around me and give them my information diarrhea.
okay, I'm doing it now...
Going through life's stages and bursting forth through this cocoon of my formerly-brillllliant-human-self is terribly painful as I analyze my plethora of foibles, my horde of insecurities, my gibber gabber, my lack of self-discipline and the legendary bouts of depression that I've exhibited all over America. The only trick now is to come out the other side with humility rather than spread the hot molten lava of my opinions (that erupts ever so regularly) from this irresponsible fissure called my big mouth. I do have a certain amount wisdom but mustn't let my ego ruin the moment by shoving all this knowledge up the asses of those youngsters around me - including the forty-somethings. It's so damn tempting, but I must refrain.
It's hard to hold back this kind of... mmm... enlightenment.
Having said this (another expression I despise), I must give up the family truckster because as a unit we are not on that road anymore. I am not the rudder of this ship at this juncture nor am I the one in charge of time schedules, for whom they vote, what they name their kids, how they discipline, whether or not they show up for Thanksgiving, Christmas or any other family event or holiday.
I did my bit. I must admit that at times I seethe over their decisions but most of the time they are little versions of myself and do fine without me altogether. That was my goal after all - to die knowing that they are just fine. Hell, they don't even have any tattoos yet, so all in all, I'm pretty happy. I must admit, I drove that last one home or (shall I say) down their little throats.
God, it's so damn hard being old and knowing absolutely everything.
kidding.
The pushing and pulling of the in-laws, the out-laws, the rubes, the big-mouths, the gnashing of teeth, the snide remarks, the heartbreak of "O.P.S." - other people's stuffing, the gravy-making fiascos, the goofy aprons, and, most of all, the inability to remember the real reason for the holiday: gratitude and family.
Oh, God... a Norman Rockwell moment.
Roles change as we go from a being single to being married.. and (make no mistake about it) when you are standing in front of a clergyman, you are NOT marrying one person ----at all. You think when you are on your cute little honeymoon that this is your only partner in this union. Nope. Sorry. You are marrying an entire community of their relatives. You can't tell any youngster this when they are tying the knot because at twenty-six years-old... after all...
they.know.everything.
uh... no.
okay, I'm doing it now...
Going through life's stages and bursting forth through this cocoon of my formerly-brillllliant-human-self is terribly painful as I analyze my plethora of foibles, my horde of insecurities, my gibber gabber, my lack of self-discipline and the legendary bouts of depression that I've exhibited all over America. The only trick now is to come out the other side with humility rather than spread the hot molten lava of my opinions (that erupts ever so regularly) from this irresponsible fissure called my big mouth. I do have a certain amount wisdom but mustn't let my ego ruin the moment by shoving all this knowledge up the asses of those youngsters around me - including the forty-somethings. It's so damn tempting, but I must refrain.
It's hard to hold back this kind of... mmm... enlightenment.
Having said this (another expression I despise), I must give up the family truckster because as a unit we are not on that road anymore. I am not the rudder of this ship at this juncture nor am I the one in charge of time schedules, for whom they vote, what they name their kids, how they discipline, whether or not they show up for Thanksgiving, Christmas or any other family event or holiday.
I did my bit. I must admit that at times I seethe over their decisions but most of the time they are little versions of myself and do fine without me altogether. That was my goal after all - to die knowing that they are just fine. Hell, they don't even have any tattoos yet, so all in all, I'm pretty happy. I must admit, I drove that last one home or (shall I say) down their little throats.
God, it's so damn hard being old and knowing absolutely everything.
kidding.
~actually, Im dead serious~
;)
Friday, November 2, 2012
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