Certifiable

 

Want to watch me weave a web of domestic delusion? First, give me a long-term assignment; then, sit back and let the crazy unfold. For some reason, deadlines bring out the domestic in me. If there's an assignment looming, I'll clean the bathroom. If there's a project nearly due, I'll cook dinner. Case and point, yesterday was the eve of my poetry portfolio & lit journal submission deadline. I come from work, and what do I do? I bake a lasagna. Know when's the last time I made lasagna? Never. And the night before a major assignment is the perfect time to try a new recipe, right? I am some kind of lunatic.

To my credit, I did have the drafts. I just needed to finalize them, choose the journals I wanted to submit to and write the cover letters. I just couldn't sit myself down. I watched TV and cooked and talked on the phone and ate a late dinner and then got to work on the portfolio. *And woke up he next day with rings around my eyes that made me look part raccoon. Now I've heard that procrastination can be symptomatic of a fear of failure or a fear of success, and HomeBoy and I have talked on occasion about how waiting might be a subconscious ego thing. That way, if you don't get the stellar results desired, you can hide behind the idea that you didn't really give it your all.

But knowing all this wasn't enough to get me to shape up. The other thing is, I won't turn in poor work. It will be later than late before I turn in trash for the sake of being "on time." But the inaccurate ultimatum I just established isn't even legit; it's not a choice between quality and punctuality--I create that dichotomy when I lollygag and dillydally and avoid, avoid, avoid. Honestly, I freeze up. Before I sit down to write anything that will be judged, I think it will suck. I think that I am not the writer that I've fooled myself into believing that I am; I think, "This will be the tell, some one will read it and figure out I have no idea what I'm saying...Hey, let's rearrange the living room!" It happens almost every time, seriously. In the metaphor of writers' blocks--I'm Sisyphus out this b*tch!

I don't want to fail, and for every success the stakes get higher--each success has to be bigger and better than the last one. This sounds like a recipe for disaster, doesn't it? But how can anyone compete with her/his own potential? It's maddening. Well, I got one of my giant projects done, and I've got one to go. So if the next time I post, I'm talking about macrame or microbrewery--you'll know why.

So help me...

I'm not dead...

This little light of mine,

I'm gonna burn it at both ends.

The final weeks of the semester are winding down. I still have much to do, but I believe I will do it all--and well too! I'm no better at deadlines or pacing than I was in undergrad, but dammit I'm a professional. I'll get it done because I have a responsibility (and because a bad grade means I can kiss tuition reimbursement goodbye)...

*chirp, chirp*

Well, that's all I got.

Quote of the Day

"Well you're about as helpful 

as a concrete life jacket."

I wouldn't use the word "ingrate" or "pansy"--no, I wouldn't use those words exactly

 
“Like every respectable child of the psychoanalytic age, I want to take this opportunity to blame my parents.”—Shannon O’Keefe, It’s a Wonderful Lie
**

We didn’t ask to be born—we didn’t choose to be here. We had amateur parents. And? After the earth shattering revelation that our parents aren’t omniscient or perfect, at what point do we move on?  I think that once you deem your parents fallible, you can no longer hold them responsible.

I am not a parent. I’m only an older sibling, and even from this vantage point I can say that parenthood is hard.  You’re trying to relate but remain in a position of authority, assuring the younger ones that they will come out on the other side while attempting to remember what it felt like when it was you in the thick of it—the unending madness (both the anger and the crazy) of growing up. And it wasn’t even that long ago for me. Add to that the rapid rate of societal shifts and cultural transformation, and we have a damn-near complete breakdown in communication. Adults and young, not-quite-yet adults (children) are foreigners to each other; the cliché of “speaking a different language” is as close as it’s ever been to a literal interpretation. Try to hack into a son/daughter/sister/brother/niece/nephew/godchild’s laptop or phone and you may not understand what you find there anyway. Teachers face some of the same problems—how to prepare YAs for a future of challenges that don’t even exist yet.  Now, more than ever, children are validated in their complaints of “you don’t understand.” 

Fine, I can accept that, but I need them to accept this: THIS IS LIFE. And while I may not be savvy on the techniques of cyber-bullying or the peer pressure du jour, I’ve got more experience living than you. This is not me implementing some sort of hierarchy. I don’t believe in those, and we don’t need them. This is me simply saying that if I survived the paranoia, neurosis, insecurity, etc. etc. etc. of growing up (and still, from time to time, find my way through those obstacles as a "grown-up"), just maybe  word or two of what I have to say is worth listening to. The helicopter parenting only makes matters worse, it seems; the longer a parent hangs around, the more they can take the blame. My mom didn't wake me up…My dad forgot to write the check…blah, blah, blah cry me a river.

My dad used to tell this anecdote (I didn’t realize it was one at the time; I just thought it was a joke).  It went something like this:

Two friends are walking, when a bunch of guys approach and try to jump them (he’s not one for exposition, my dad). One friend turns to the other and tells him to run.

“Naw man!” he says, “I’m not a punk!”

So the one friend stays to fight the gang of guys, while the other runs away. When they see each other later, the tough guy friend is battered, bruised and pissed.

“How you just gonna leave me like that?!”

“I told you to run…”

“Man, I wasn’t about to run from those guys. You should’ve stayed to fight.”

“Well, my fault. You’re problem.”

I used to think, damn that’s cold. Not anymore. Regardless of where we put the blame, the onus is on us to find a remedy or coping mechanism.  So if your stage-mom is the reason you hate theater, or your overbearing coach-dad is to thank for the reason you avoid all sports like the plague, or any other person has ever hurt you or made you feel uncertain of yourself...Okay. It happened, and it sucks and we are affected. I honor that. I acknowledge that, but-- their fault, our problem. Now what?

**

“Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”—Malachy McCourt

**The image in this post is the result of a google image search for "Teen Angst". I think it's pretty hilarious**

A Touch of Madness

It started out innocently enough. Last week while on the phone with my mom and one of my sisters, the subject turned to movies. I told them how excited I was about Alice in Wonderland and joked that I even considered making a "mad hat" just for the occasion. After all, one can't have so many favorites in one project and not commemorate. (Those favorites being Johnny Depp, Tim Burton, Anne Hathaway, Helena B-Carter and the tale of Alice, of course.) We all got a good laugh out of it, and then the topic of conversation changed again. I thought no more of it until the next day.

At work I looked around my desk at all the random doo-dads and trinkets. I knew why they were there - to add a bit of whimsy to my space, some fun and silliness. "Ha!" I thought to myself, "Could you imagine putting those things on a hat? How curious." I came home, and while taking off my jewelry, I noticed more little things on my dresser: various pins and buttons, a pocket-watch that still needs a chain, a fuzzy lapel pin that looks a lot like a Tribble.

"Well, I do seem to have the materials, if I were so inclined..."

Thursday night found me with all manner of delicious nonsense spread out across my coffee table.

"But you love that hat," HomeBoy said.

"None of the changes will be permanent," I assured him, "I'm only using hat pins and tape."

I had forgotten how much fun arts and crafts can be. Fixing and fastening, arranging, rearranging, positioning just so... I really did enjoy myself. And, in true childlike fashion, I couldn't wait to show it - "Look what I made!"

The silliest part may be that I'm not at all embarrassed. At no point did I feel like I was too old to do such a thing. To be honest, I am quite relieved to find I am capable of such nonsense.