Another shot at the blog

How extremely ironic my last post is. Ian left two days ago for his third deployment-this time to Afghanistan. I am still in Germany but processing paperwork to try to move back to the states. I don't know much about this blog stuff and I don't use facebook, but I am thinking this might be a good medium for outlet.

It came to my attention,yesterday, in a really inconvenient way, that someone had accessed my debit card information, produced a replica of my card, and gone on a 758 dollar shopping spree in my name, at a Walmart in New York. Because I live in Germany and my husband lives in Iraq, the bank could see that the transaction was riddled with fraud, and will, therefore, not be holding me liable for the disaster it has wreaked on my finances. Also because I live in Germany, it is going to take longer to mail another debit card-which is also inconvenient. Too, due to certain political/economic factors of my host country, very few places take VISA-which makes buying winter clothes for my kids this weekend a tricky business. It is true too that the dollar is getting slammed by the Euro, and making it increasingly painful to shop here-which increases the appeal of internet shopping, which increases the likelihood of having my financial information compromised again.
To add to these lovely pecuniary phenomena, my children have proven their skills at getting my attention in the shrewdest and most non-congenial ways. Without going into details about their behavior, I can say that I screamed EVERY expletive belonging to the German and English language SEVERAL times over, AND broke every dish in my house (except the plastic ones) today. My kids have the fear of God in them, I have the fury of Hell, and there doesn't appear to be any promise of the situation abating.
When, upon buying a glue gun at the Post Exchange today, and finding there were no glue-sticks to go with it, I exerted every iota of self-control I had in me, and went to the German hardware store, OBI (pronounced Oh-bee). At OBI, I found glue sticks that were a slightly different caliber (i.e.METRIC), and got one jammed into my newly purchased 110 volt, American one (made in China), whilst examining the possibility of "making due". I thence had to buy a German 220 volt glue gun with accompanying glue sticks in order to build a small boat for my son's "raingutter regatta" for Cub Scouts on Monday.
The only theater for miles and miles and miles that plays movies in English is on Post, plays only one movie at a time, is closed Mondays through Wednesdays, and if we are lucky, plays one kid-friendly film per millennium. That cycle reached its apogee tonight at 1830 hours. It is an unspoken rule that parents of school-aged children attend such events, due in part to their obscure rarity, and in part to social custom. The only plus side to having gone tonight was that my daughter chose to attach herself to a friend of mine and her kids, and only ruined their viewing. I'm sure that Karma will make its way back to me in time-perhaps tomorrow in church, where I will most likely be struck by lightning.
Where does our strength come from? Where does the spring of patience start? If I knew it came from the top of Mount Everest, I would climb there to get it. It is just such a paradox of thought to be busting my ass day in and day out for the little fruits of my loins, who have no immediate appreciation for it. I have a sliver of faith in me that things will "come around" or get better, or whatever, but that goes only so far in the face of discouragement. I feel like I have been doing this forever, and we just barely hit our year mark-in other words, we still have a year until my husband can come home. My kids will be a year older, my house will have another year's worth of hand prints on the walls, my breasts will be a year saggier, Tatum might even be potty trained-what changes!
I'm sorry for the rant-I'm not trying to get pity-I have found it doesn't help. I just needed to blow off steam-in the cosmic-cyber realm-I wish there were dishes to smash here too, but I guess you can only have so much fun.
Well, I better get back to my school work, the raingutter boat and the laundry. Hey-at least I don't have to do the dishes tonight, right!?

Milk Toast

I once found myself in a delirium of sweat and discomfort while attempting to participate in a yoga class after a many years’ absence. It was during one particularly long stint of “downward facing dog” that I began to consider the possibility that it would be better to quit than to continue in such a ridiculous manner. I felt silly being in a room full of people wearing inordinate amounts of spandex, trying to make my crusty physique bend and stretch in the oddest ways. At the end of class, as in most all yoga classes, we all bowed our heads, hands in prayer posture in front of our torsos, and said aloud “namaste”. This word always gets me musing. What does that mean, “namaste”? Basically, the Hindu translation is something like, “the divine in me, recognizes, or salutes, the divine in you”. I must inquire “really? Am I divine? Do I think you are divine? Does it matter?” It later occurred to me that after recognizing a general trend toward mediocrity in society, I myself had subscribed to the worse of two ways by which to respond to that discovery; That is, rather than seeing the divine in all people, I chose to focus on their “humanness”, and tepidity. It was almost a relief to expose this inadvertent superiority complex, but to correct this thinking proved a harder task still.

“Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men” -St. Matthew 5:13

I remember sitting on my comfortable, pious perch one evening at a party, thinking about the monosodium glutamate in the chips I was “savoring”. I thought of how fun it might be to sprinkle some over the people in the room, to “enhance” their “flavor”. I amused myself with the thought every time somebody said something bland or annoying. After consuming approximately twelve single-serving size portions of the nacho cheese delectable, I noticed that my tongue was numb and I could barely taste anything else for the rest of the evening. In my stupor of self-righteousness it never occurred to me that the kind of over-correction of mediocrity which would make everyone delectable brillianteers, would probably be more disastrous than if everyone were slightly less salty. The notion of treading all over some of the people I meet, I confess, is still an intriguing idea.

“I say, it’s the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman phenomenally,

Phenomenal woman, that’s me.”

-Maya Angelou

If I have fought my own gravitation toward blandness, I have often opted to be an ass instead. Assuming, as is the ass’s way, that authorship and exceptionality were phenomena of the majority, I have hopelessly pined for the “days of greatness” or company of the great ones and overlooked just those qualities in many of my acquaintance. We only really read of and learn from those who have endeavored to write, record or convey, which is, in and of itself, an exceptional venture. It doesn’t stand, however, that the bland/flavor balance was any different at any other time throughout history or that the contemporaries of the “phenomenal” were superior to my own. Whereas Maya Angelou could easily be considered exceptional, even if not my favorite author, it was markedly short-sighted of me to have assumed that everything she writes is strictly auto-biographical. Maybe, just maybe, Miss Maya was acknowledging the inherent greatness in all women (and people for that matter). If that line of thought was at all correct, my ass-ism was all the more pronounced. It is, though, a worthy endeavor to ascertain what the draw toward mediocrity or away from exceptionality really is.

“A person’s true character is revealed by what he does when no one is watching”

–Anonymous.

Some of the blandness to which I am referring owes a large part to the ways in which people define themselves. A typical introduction these days often says more about what a person likes, what they have done or where they work: “Hi, my name is Jim. I work at MediaPlex, I have three children and I love reading”. In fact, there is nothing wrong with this, introductions aren’t friendly to personal details or lengthy bios, but it is amusing to contemplate whether anyone takes the time to answer that question to him or herself, and what s/he would say. Mainstream fanaticism has convenient answers for all those unwilling to dig too deep. Careful observation helps many a person figure out how to be accepted and mediocrity preys on the individual who isn’t comfortable being alone. It sits on a person’s shoulder, eating saltine crackers, telling them to “go over and see what everyone else is doing”. It reassures a person that they should be proud of their GAP jeans and their enthusiasm for Disney films-and goes further by telling the person that without them, there wouldn’t be any terribly strong connection with the other people that s/he must be hanging out with. Mass-flocking-gangdom is a social order of gargantuan importance to the luke-warm personality and essential for the none-too-happy-alone types.

When and if the individual suspects a literal gap where name brands and popularity used to be, mediocrity will advance to another level, and induce the individual to ally him/herself with interest groups or clubs, using the allure that they will add depth of character or, at least, purpose. These convenient grouping mechanisms are two-fold. There are some which could add to character and accomplishment, or they can circumscribe the individual into even smaller realms of influence and peerage. Fan clubs, for instance, are the quintessential way to dump one’s individuality and potential into the insatiable gorge of ego and/or abysmal void where all fan mail ends up.

“Lately Doc had been afflicted with a gnawing restlessness, a sense of something unfulfilled”

-John Steinbeck from Cannery Row

It is to complacency that mediocrity will refer the half-developed persons of little distinction. The finders-fee is that complacency will thence deliver the individual to resignation and consignment. But first, it must ensure that the person is comfortable and values that comfort over anything else. Without this assurance, people can sometimes attempt the radical shift from “fat, dumb and happy” to “healthy, creative and invested in life”. Although uncommon, it is precisely this shift which can excite similar feelings of enthusiasm in others, and upset the delicate social ratio of the standard and the extraordinary. The dangerous economic repercussions are obvious, no one would feel engaged enough by the perfunctory demands of their lives to do so much as hold down jobs or make their beds, and society would collapse on itself. Although the end of life as we know it is not necessarily a bad thing, the alternative to it or gross aggregates of innocuous personalities is simply recognition and encouragement.

“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams”

-Willy Wonka

The distinction of cognizance bears with it the responsibility of seeing the uniqueness of others and fostering its growth and spread. No one is going to save the world from the vapid-ites who people it, but there are those who are exceptional themselves enough to unearth the latent but beautiful personalities in the most unseemly of persons. For my part, I have to remind myself that there is nothing so exceptional about being judgmental or opinionated, and that if mediocrity is in the eyes of the beholder, it is probably best to don the rose colored glasses and see better.

Namaste!

My Serendipity

Short of floating in a cloud of twinkling glitter and a fairly God mother standing beside me, it was the most ethereal scene I could have dreamed up. But it was real. She was real; the fishnet stockings, the short, jean miniskirt, the magnificent, long, naturally curly hair-all real. It is impossible to think about that day without the most profound feeling of kismet and gratitude.

Leaving school for the long walk home, I bumped into the girl who I had met at a party almost a year earlier but hadn’t since seen. Our eyes met, we regarded one another, and there we stood in our bare, naked souls.

“Hey” she said, “what are you doing?” “I just got out of detention” I replied. “Want to come over to my house and have a coke?” “Sure”. That was it, that was all it took for her and I to know we could trust one another.

Plagued with personality at an age when it was not acceptable, large breasts at an equally conspicuous greenness, and a loudness and appetite for fun fare when it was more fashionable to be a miserable, quiet fit-in. I found it amazing that anyone at all could take exception to her altogether lovely being. I wondered what was so offensive. I could almost hear the thoughts of our peers when I perceived them sneering at her “how dare she laugh so loud, sing in public or speak up in class and not be ashamed of herself” or, “How dare she have her talent and not be more shy about displaying it?” or, my personal favorite “how dare she have such big boobs!”

It was true that she could nothing if she didn’t do it with panache. Her walk was a marriage of swaying and marching. Her comments in class, correct or not, were confident and full of flowery language. Her pastimes, which I can personally avouch for, were hair-brained and off-the-hook, sheer scientific inquiry. Her ambitions lay in theatrics and singing. Of course it was far more permissible to back-bite, cheat, grovel, suck-up, gossip and lie if one did it fashionably, which sadly often meant quietly, than it was to be unique. So with all of her charms, one could add to them a kind of true-ness, integrity, which for all their efforts, our classmates could not touch or take away. I loathed them then, but I pity them now.

When I say we could not have been more different, resist the temptation to say back that opposites attract. We were neither the same nor were we antithetical. I was not the side-kick, she was not the “leader”, but together, we shared a self-sustaining friendship that made Jr. and High School bearable, and freed us of any kind of cliché existence or ordinary experience. For all of the crap that the lesser youth at our school dished out to her, she had the most remarkably forgiving and trusting heart. She truly saw the good in people more than I was able, and I considered that one of my strong points.

If you were to ask me about myself I could share nothing after the age of fourteen that isn’t indelibly touched by my friendship with Aubrey Anne Adams. Hikes, concerts, restaurants, beaches, parties, performances, college, boyfriends, babies-they all bear the watermark of one of the world’s finest people. I cannot suppress a smile even at the slightest thought of her. She is one of the reasons I came to believe in a loving and very personal kind of God.

A Dingo Ate Your Baby

When one of my kids cries in the middle of the night and I wake, a panic sets in after the initial start. It is not a panic over what is happening, or whether there is an intruder in the house (I obsess over that before I go to sleep), it is a panic over whether s/he will stop and go back to sleep. I literally hold my breath. I mention this because I was just doing it and I almost passed out-which, as I think about it, might not be such a bad idea, as I would still be avoiding the situation, and much more comfortably- unconscious. If one were unconscious, rather than just sleeping, would s/he still have to get up to use the toilet in the middle of the night? It is sounding like I am going to have a tot in my bed tonight-is that a good excuse for missing church tomorrow? Oh shut up! I'm coming! I'm coming! Right after I get my freaking tubes tied!!!!!!

Into the Mouth with Babes

One would think that the collective unconscious would carry a message to the minds of children. If they were adequately informed of the fact that several species on this planet are known to eat their young, they might have an innate mechanism in them that tells them when to scatter when mother has that unique, primal look in her eye. And whereas children, even mine, bare no culinary temptation, there is a strange appeal in the post-repast effect that makes it a sort of idee fixe.
I wonder, though, whether a profanity chamber or escape capsule would suffice-in five minute bursts, to accommodate a growing need in me to be away from my kids. Their voices are starting to have a sickening effect. Their dirty clothes, their morning breath, their
bodily waste (somehow always at issue), their tantrums, their toys, their picky eating, their never ending freaking NEEDS! Why do I resent my progeny? Why does the fruit of my loins, the "key to the future", my pride and joys make me want to propel objects into forever and perforate the fabric of space so that I can grab hold of one side of the universe and rip it in two?
Do you know what I do instead? Mothers, you do. I fight tooth and mother-scratching-nail to hang on to them. I serve on PTSA (suicide on a stick), I take them to soccer (mosquito centrale), I feed them Macaroni and Cheese four times a week (someone stick a knife through my ear and out me out of my misery), and I hug and kiss them before I put them to bed (voo doo would feel better).
Sometimes I think it would be best if Ian and I could take turns in Iraq, but the truth is, he couldn't handle this (no offence should he ever read this). Sorry for the rant all-just want to send this out into space and leave the negative waves behind. Prost!

Reconciling with The Bond Girl

Either I'm spinning myself into a pupa or I'm busting out of one. My fingers are crossed and my eyes are reluctant to take a gander at just what's going on. Am I becoming or am I accepting? I'm noticing some stages of my life that I have passed through without even realizing at the time, and I feel mostly good about getting past some of my silly phases. In the spirit of the Adams sisters (and for fear of my undeniable lack of organization) , I will make a list:

1. The Tracey Chapman phase. Whereas I totally still love her music, it lost some of its luxurious mope when I realized that I was happily married and politically conservative. I guess I have lost some of my cherished reasons for feeling mournful and indulging in mournful tunes. More or less a good thing, just have to seek out newer and happier music. Okay. (is okay not a word? why is it getting the red line? LAME!)

2. The Watch Phase. This one is less of a developmental advancement and more of a step toward self-awareness. I used to be a watch-junky which I actually think is kind of cool. Somewhere along the way, I stopped caring about time, and embraced not only my watch-free wrists, but my tardy/irreverent approach to all situations in life. Instead of a watch, I caved in and bought a planner-which is mostly useless as I can't keep a schedule while I knowingly resist the demands of time. I subscribe to the theory of relativity that asserts that time does not exist. The problem in this lies with the all the other people who insist that it does exist, and that the virtues of honoring time outnumber the virtues of ignoring it. I think I should regress and go back to the watch.

3. Youngness.

Enough of the list-there is something bigger I am trying to develop into or out of...its normalcy, I think? I always wanted a big life-maybe some fame, hopefully some fortune, and definitely some permanent contribution to the world. Its not just acknowledging who I won't be, but who I am and who I will be. I will never be a James Bond girl, or a mother Theresa, or an Oprah, or a Spice girl, or a Jane Austen. I don't know that I necessarily ever cared to be any one of these, but I did have some pretty fantastic dreams-am I giving up when I change my mind every semester about what I want to study? Is it balls, resolve, focus, or just plain smarts that are painfully absent from my eternal metamorphosis? What if I want to be a butterfly and I end up a moth?
"Oh shut up Mrs. Metaphor! Who do you think you are?! you're a freaking person-a crazy person-who should pull your head out of what? No, not a pupa, your bum-hole! For heaven's sake have a little self-respect and live in the now-the here-and the real. Gees!"

To which POMcDWG says " she was only trying to make peace between her dreams and probability, there's no reason to be rude"

"What do YOU know, Mc Donalds girl? why don't you just go back to your mop bucket and clean floors?!"

POMcDWG "I must have smoked one two many dumb-dumb leaves to believe that I should be working here while you parade around like someone's conscience when all you are is a fun-hating, dream-killer"

..."touchee"


POMcDWG utters quietly and triumphantly " yeah...beeotch"