I don't hate anyone. Strongly dislike, sure, but hate - that's a level dedication to something you don't like that I don't really get. I generally don't spend much time thinking about people I don't like. Why would I? However, due to Facebook's suggestions, I have been recently inundated with special little reminders of people I don't like. One of these people had completely removed herself from my everyday memory. Then, like the appearance of mold in my shower, there she was. Facebook helpfully let me know that I might know her. I don't know if it works that because she's suggested to me that I'm suggested to her or not. Maybe she spied me through a mutual friend. I don't know. What I do know is that she sent me a friend request today.
Facebook is fun, but I find it irritating that I get requests from people who were never my friends. Just because we were in the same graduating class does not mean that I want to be your friend. I'm also quite suspicious of these requesters because I feel they're just fluffing their friend count. I don't need to have 4,000 Facebook friends to feel successful in my life, so leave me alone.
This person who sent the request today - we'll call her Madge - was someone I went to great lenghts to avoid because I so strongly detested her company. She has the personality of sandpaper. By the end of prolonged contact you're numb and/or bleeding. She even asked me once if I liked her. I said no.
Sure, it's been years. But really? Friends we will never were nor will ever be. We never had anything in common. Madge was one of those girls who went to college to get her MRS. She made fun of the wrong people. It's totally fair game to make fun of people you don't like. But it's out of bounds when it's directed a someone solely because they're retarded or have a physical handicap. I always felt like she was on par with Jake's bitchy girlfriend, Caroline, in Sixteen Candles. Rich girl gone wrong.
So I was sitting there, staring at her friend request, wishing her ill, when it occurred to me: 'Ignore' and wish Facebook's suggestion tool ill. So that's what I'm doing. I'm wishing the Facebook suggestion tool ill - very, very ill.
I enjoy a good meme. I don't usually publicly participate when they're sent my way, but I've complied a list of some of my favorite questions that you don't see on most memes.
List one name you wanted (besides the one you have): Diana - as in Diana Prince (a.k.a. Wonder Woman)
List two books you're ashamed to admit you've read: Flowers in the Attic and Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper - Case Closed
List three people you will see in the coming 7 days: Matt, Marty, Beth
List four things you don't like to talk about: my credit score, the recently deceased, my intelligence, cruelty
List five things on your floor right now: socks, sheets, lamp, sofa, laptop (and beneath it all - dirt)
List six things you've eaten this week: chicken breast, steak, eggs, bacon, toast, peas
List seven places you'd like to visit before you die: Giza, Great Barrier Reef, Canne, Iceland, Florence, The Maldives, A Rainforest
List eight of your favorite lyrics/quotes:
-"My city is still breathing, but barely, it's true, through buildings gone missing like teeth" - Weakerthans
-"I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true." - Dorothy Parker
-"I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other." - R.M. Rilke
-"When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain." - Shakespeare
-"You've made a big impression for a girl of your size." - Old 97s
-"There's no reality except the one contained within us. That's why so many people live an unreal life. They take images outside them for reality and never allow the world within them to assert itself." - Hermann Hesse
-"When the soul wants, the soul waits." - U2
-"Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not 'Every man for himself.' And the London Underground is not a political movement. Those are all mistakes, Otto. I looked them up." - A Fish Called Wanda
List nine things you're looking forward to: motherhood, my anniversary, U2 tour, red curry, reading Sunnyside, seeing my parents in August, Thanksgiving with the family, the first day at the beach, fireworks
List ten things that make your life better: Family, yoga, my MacBook, wireless internet, emusic, a gas stove, refrigeration, air-conditioning, telephones, indoor plumbing
Dr. Zhivago vs. Out of Africa (the motion pictures)
First of all, if you haven't seen both of these movies, you should. Although I hate Dr. Zhivago with the red-hot fiery hatred of 10,000 suns, it's an essential watch. I love Out of Africa. Why, you ask, are these two movies in a death match? Well, I'll tell you.
I have a long-standing disagreement with a friend of mine regarding Dr. Zhivago (herein after referred to as DZ for the sake of brevity). She loves it - thinks it's one of the most romantic tragic love stories ever. I think it's drivel - not at all romantic, cloying in spots and maddeningly misogynistic in others, and just plain irritating all the way through.
I mentioned Out of Africa (OA) in another post recently, though, and it made me think. I love that movie. I do. I love Meryl Streep. I love that Isak Dinesen actually made a life for herself in Africa at the beginning of the 20th century. I always cry at the end. Not because Denys is dead (he was a dick), but because her dream is dead and she has no choice but to go back to a life she didn't want. Plus, when she's at the train station with Farah and she tells him, "I want to hear you say my name," I always lose it.
So, my friend and lover of DZ called on the "love story" in OA as being equally sexist and shitty as the one in DZ. This is true - if you go with the conventional definition of "love story." So this cage match is for you, Shelly. A compare and contrast (in four paragraphs or less) that will prove that DZ still sucks and OA is awesome.
DZ's story revovles around Yuri Zhivago and his life. He's a doctor/poet. He's married to Tonya but falls for Lara - the wife of a revolutionary. Lara is, apparently, his muse. He (allegedly) loves both of these women. However, here I have to call bullshit. I realize that Russian literature of the era is fraught with these kinds of stories, but fuck them. This boils down to a dude unwilling to put himself out of his comfy life or make a decision and in the mean time uses and mistreats two women who love him and deserve better.
So, Shelly, I know you're argument is that he didn't have a choice. He was operating under the expectation and pressure of the time. I agree. But it doesn't make it okay. Hell, King Edward VIII gave up being the fucking KING to marry the woman he loved. It could have been done. So there. I win.
Okay, I'll do OA, just to be fair. Brief synopsis: Karen Blixen marries a friend to get out of a miserable life in Demark, goes to Africa to grow coffee and finds herself.
First of all - the real love story in OA is between Karen & AFRICA - not Denys. Yes, Denys is a dickwad. A serious one. He knew she loved him more than he loved her but refused to do the stand-up thing and say, 'Hey, I realize we're in a tricky situation. You want something I can't give you, so I'll be on my way.' No, he tortures her year after fucking year (she tortures herself, too. I KNOW!) unwilling to compromise on any point of his life. But - and it's a big one - the bigger thing was that she got to get out of the oppressive life she had in Denmark. She got to dictate what she would do with herself. Part of that was, I guess, to make herself miserable with a dickwad, but it was her choice. She had the information. She knew he was a dickwad and stayed. Not smart, I grant you, but informed nonetheless.
See? I still win. Dr. Zhivago is crap. Out of Africa is awesome. Accept it. Love it. Call me.
I've recently spent five glorious days visiting my parents in Northern California. I love the Bay Area. And it only underscored for me how much I do not belong in the desert.
I think you sort of have to be born a desert person. I don't think you have to be born in the desert to be born a desert person (although I imagine it helps), but I think there's something inherent to loving the desert.
I don't love the desert. I don't mean to say that there's nothing to like about it, but I'm not a desert person. I don't like the dry and dust. I hate that my nose bleeds almost every day. I hate that it's so hot for so much of the year. On the up side, there's almost no traffic. I love that I can go 20 miles in 20 minutes. I appreciate the lack of State tax. Parking is plentiful and free. The cost of living is really reasonable. I miss trees, though. I miss green. I miss the ocean, too, but I'd settle for a lake somewhere with trees.
I love Wordle. It's flippin' sweet. I have word clouds of all of my emails to and from Matt, of stories I've written, and now, of my blog.
This one is the whole blog from beginning to end (apparently I use the word 'know' a lot):
And this one is for the last couple of weeks:
It's just fun.
It is raining here in Las Vegas. It doesn't happen very often, so when it does, I'm surprised. More surprising, though, is the lack of rainbows. I feel like there should be rainbows galore considering that it always seems like the sun is behind the rain. The dark clouds are almost always lined with the bright seam of light from a nearly irrepressible sun and the field of vision is vast. Still, I've never seen a rainbow here. I'll keep looking.
I found out today that a girl I knew in junior high died of cancer a few months ago. She and I weren't friends. We were, at best, frienemies. We were part of the same group of friends, but we had a tacit hatred for one another. We tolerated each other and always included the other in party invitations and social events because of our common friends, but we would never have been alone together under any circumstance.
As an adult, I realize we were a lot alike and that was why we didn't like each other. At the time, though, I just didn't like her and she didn't like me. I think the last time I saw her was 18 years ago at a party.
I never anticipated that hearing about her death would make me cry. But it did. I cried pretty hard for a little while.
I'm not, by nature, a crier. So the unexpected immediacy of the tears that poured out of me was (and is) really disconcerting. I still don't quite know what it was all about.
I don't mean that I don't feel sad for her family. I do. I am sad that her parents outlived their only daughter. I'm sorry that her husband is left with two little boys who won't remember their mother. But those are abstract feelings. It doesn't justify sobs. I have experienced no loss. This is a woman I didn't know at all anymore and hadn't even really thought about for almost two decades.
Obviously, I wasn't crying for Therese. I was crying about something the knowledge of her death touched inside of me. But what that something is eludes me. It is much on my mind, though. Matt has suggested that it was because of the "it-could-have-been-me" syndrome. I don't think it is, though.
I'm well aware of my own mortality. From the time I can remember, I have contemplated my death. I won't go so far as to say I'm ready to die, but I have come to terms with the fact that I will die and that that day could come today. Still, here I sat bawling, my body shaking, upon learning of the death of a virtual stranger.
I guess I can safely attribute some of it to the fact that I needed to cry. Since Matt and I have been together again, I haven't observed my old crying rituals. I used to make myself cry - not shaking sobs, but free-flowing tears. Once a month of so, I would watch Out of Africa (one of the greatest movies ever), or listen to Les Mis, or read the end of A Prayer for Owen Meany, or do some other tear-jerking thing and I would just cry.
I still don't know why I broke open so abruptly and forcefully today, though. I'll keep working on the why and comfort myself with the knowledge that it was what I needed to do.
What human beings don’t know about our own brains is staggering. No one knows why we’re self-aware. No one can say for certain why we sleep, if we can really “sleep too much,” or if we even need to sleep. I speak in terms of science. In terms of experience, I have no idea why we’re self-aware, if we can sleep too much, or why we need sleep, but I know that we need sleep. Without question.
For most of my years on earth I was an insomniac. I am told by my parents and sisters, all, that, in my infancy, I almost never slept. I don’t remember ever sleeping through the night as a child.
As I got older I would have bouts of literal sleeplessness - a day or two, no big deal, really. Especially considering I lived my life in a state of constant sleep deprivation.
I tried sleeping pills. Sleeping pills today are different than the sleeping pills of yore. Now they try to regulate your natural circadian rhythm so you can sleep on your own. The pills worked as long as I took them. I went to sleep, but as soon as my 14 tablets were gone, I was awake again.
I was never particularly comfortable with taking pills for anything so when the second batch of sleeping aids failed, I decided that I was doomed to insomnia for the rest of my life. It seemed okay to me.
Then, in my last semester of college, I had a horrible time where I slept an average of about 2 hours a week for weeks and weeks. If you’ve never experienced extreme sleep deprivation, there’s no way to truly describe it’s effect.
I can say I felt like I was losing my mind and that’s putting it mildly. I didn’t really hallucinate, as I’ve heard other people report, but I couldn’t keep a thought in my head or an object in my hand. I walked into things, tripped, dropped things, and worst of all, I couldn’t remember anything. It was like sleepwalking without the benefits of being either asleep or awake. I could hear everything. I could hear grass grow, it seemed like. I was always uncomfortable, all of my clothes were too rough or too tight or itchy. I got headaches from clenching my jaw so tight and my teeth were sore.
Oh, and I was a little cranky. Just a little, though…
Somewhere in the middle of all of that, my father said something I didn’t really pay much attention to. Not because I don't love and respect my father's opinion, but because I couldn't have paid attention to my head aflame due to my state of mind and body.
Finally, possibly due to extreme exhaustion, or possibly due to some other thing in my brain, I went to sleep for more than 10 minutes. I got back to my regular routine of 3 or 4 hours a night and felt fine.
A couple of years later, due to several factors in my life, I was, again, not sleeping. Not at all. Not even a little. I couldn't even get my eyes to stay closed. It was about a week and a half in with not a wink of sleep that I remembered that my father had suggested something to me the last time. What was it? It took a few days more without sleep before I could get the thought back. It was acupuncture.
I didn't really know anything about it, but I figured it was worth a shot. I looked online for an acupuncturist (because how else do you find one?). I found acufinder.com and from there found a practice in Santa Monica. I sort of picked at random.
I was skeptical and was only made more so by the acupuncturist. He was about 35, tall and blonde and the first thing he said to me after I told him I'd never had acupuncture before was, "It'll probably take at least 5 sessions before you see any kind of results." Riiiiight. And you happen to sell packages in sets of 5, huh? How convenient. But open mind, open mind I reminded myself.
The first thing he did was take my medical history and then my height and weight. All standard. Then he took my pulse - in about 17 different places. He had me stick out my tongue and he looked at that for a long time. Then he told me that the flow of my chi was reversed and that was probably most of my problem. I just went with it.
He gave me a gown and told me to lie on the table on my back. He came back with a little tackle box and a scary machine. He lit a little candle and turned on a little fountain I hadn't noticed before and then broke out the needles.
I tried really hard to relax, but I wasn't sure what I was in for so I had a little trouble. Finally, he was ready and he stuck the first needle into my left leg. Minor sting on impact, but really not painful. He made his way around me, sticking needles in both legs, both arms and a couple in my head. Then he turned off the lights and left me to marinate for about 30 minutes.
After the first session, I felt no difference, but he said to give it 5 tries. So I went back. The third day, I felt more relaxed during the pinning itself, and by the time I got home, I was actually sleepy. I lay down on my bed, pulled the corner of the comforter over my feet and fell asleep for about 13 hours. Solid, uninterrupted sleep.
I was sold. I've been sleeping full nights for the last 5 years. I lost my acupuncturist when I moved to Vegas last year, but the Bikram seems to have kept me in balance. At least until recently.
For the last couple of months my sleep has been off. I have trouble going to sleep, wake up a lot and have, what can only be called, fucked up dreams. Dreams that I'm being chased by men with guns, dreams that people riding giant snakes are trying to kill me, dreams that I can't find my way somewhere even though I've been there a million times, dreams that I'm swimming and swimming and there's never any land, and dreams that I buy a house who's rooms keep changing places.
Clearly I need to be needled. I get more relaxation from acupuncture than I do from a massage and it helps me sleep. So now I have to try and find someone in Vegas. Maybe it won't be as hard as it sounds. I just know that I'm too old to live on no sleep anymore.
And, at worst, I think I can dig up a straight-pin or two and do it myself... Actually, maybe that's the kind of thinking that indicates the dire need for professional intervetion.
I recently acquired a George Foreman Grill. I’d been considering it for quite a while and talking to Matt about it. Matt was strongly anti-Foreman. Not because of the grill, but because he has little good opinion of the man.
I don’t know much about the man except that all of his sons are named George – which, admittedly, smacks of gross egotism – and what I found out in When We Were Kings. So I have not much of any opinion of the man.
I really wanted one, though. Wilbur, my former roommate, had one and loved it. I thought Wilbur tended to overcook things, but that wasn’t really the fault of the appliance.
After much debate and some mild ridicule from my beloved, I got my “lean, mean, fat-reducing machine,” and I LOVE it. It cooks everything in about ½ the time it takes on a stove and is more controllable than my poorly-calibrated oven for small things. Also, every piece of food I’ve put on it (and I’ve done all kinds of things so far – meat, fish, veggies, grilled cheese sandwiches) comes out gloriously juicy and evenly cooked.
I have a slow-cooker. It’s just okay. I’d like to see the craze that has followed the crock pot in recent years move to the Foreman Grill. I’d pay good money for a recipe book that told me how to bake the perfect cake on the grill. Maybe I’ve just found my newest project: developing that recipe book and testing the recipes.
Okay. That’s what I have to do. I know now. There will be follow-up posts.
Okay, I'm not praising all vacuums. In fact, my last vacuum was so worthless, I would have been better off just picking up the dirt off the floor. I didn't realize how much it sucked (or didn't is more like it) because I had wood floors for a long time and I just didn't use the vacuum much.
Matt also had a vacuum that was equally shitty. I could run my vacuum over the same piece of lint 7,000 times and it wouldn't budge. Matt's vacuum would move the lint around, it just wouldn't ever digest it. I was a bit frustrated at running two vacuums and getting no results.
My mother has been offering me a vacuum for a few years, but with the wood, I didn't need it. I called her last week and took her up on the offer. She has a Miele vacuum that she loves so much she got one for each of my sisters. They love theirs, too. So she asked if that was what I wanted. I said, "Sure." Because what do I know about vacuums?
My vacuum arrived today. It is a wondrous thing. It sucks up everything. On the first try. I know. Crazy. I'm in love. Oh, and I forgot to mention how quiet it is. I can run the sweeper and still hear the music.
So I love my vacuum and I have thanked my mother (and will continue to do so). What I didn't know when I requested the vacuum was the price. My mother just ordered the vacuum and had it sent to me. So I got the receipt. Did I mention it's a really nice vacuum? In fact it's $800 worth of vacuum.
I nearly passed out. So did Matt. $800 for a vacuum? Is that what it takes to get dirt out of carpet? I don't know. I do love it, though. It is, in the words of Ferris Bueller, 'so choice.' I have the Ferrari of vacuums.
Do I recommend this appliance? Yes. Wholeheartedly. If you have the means or can register for it or create some kind of communal PayPal account so several people can chip in to get the vacuum for you, I would encourage you to do it.
There's something really satisfying about hearing the little dirt and dust particles getting sucked safely into a HEPA filtered bag and getting the carpet to stand up and look pretty. I may spend the rest of the evening vacuuming. God knows that, after a year of a couple of really awful vacuums, I could use to really go for the deep clean.
This week I tried a new kind of yoga. Okay - new to me. I guess there's no real "new" yoga. Anyway, my Bikram studio owner just opened a Moksha studio. The new studio opened last Monday (with Bikram's knowlege).
I had no idea what the hell Moksha yoga was until a few weeks ago when the announcement about the new studio was made. Even after looking it up, I wasn't entirely sure what it was.
There are 60, 70, and 90 minute classes in a room heated to approximately body temperature and with some humidity. This is appealing to me, because sometimes I wish I could do the Bikram without taking 3 hours out of my day to get it done. My first class was a 90 minute class. The 90 is recommended for beginners because there's more time for explanation and adjustment whereas the 60 is flowier.
There are 40 poses, some of which are the same/similar to Bikram poses and some of which are part of the traditional yoga canon. Unlike Bikram and more like traditional yoga, the poses aren't set in stone and the instructor is free to make substitutions of similar poses and mix up the order somewhat. I haven't done a regular yoga class in many years and I forgot how much I like the variety sometimes. The backbends have a different focus, too, and this makes for a challenge I haven't experience in Bikram for a long time.
Also, there's more ab work in the Moksha class. I appreciate that because I never do a sit-up on my own.
All in all, I enjoy the Moksha a lot. I like feeling like a beginner again, too. As with everything in life, though, you can't get everything in one class. I like the stretching in Bikram. I like that I can sort of blank out because I know the order of the poses so well. So, I'm going to continue to do both kinds and see how that works. If I have to give one up, I will, but I think I can make room for both.