While Big Brother needn’t try too hard these days, having outsourced his position to a publicly oversharing citizenry, I’m still pretty confident my handy tech gadgets are spying on me. This past week, though, I had an experience that made me wonder if cyber surveillance has upped its game, moving beyond the old school techniques of watching and listening and into a far more invasive realm.
I do a lot of walking – 3 to 4 miles on an average day and closer to 10 if I plan an epic adventure or happen to get lost. Because I walk so much, good shoes are imperative, and my current pair is problematic, with too-wide treads that trap rocks and other bits of detritus. Several weeks back, after endless scrolling through online shoe sites, I thought I’d found the perfect replacement pair – similar to the current ones, but with narrower treads. I made the purchase and received notice they’d arrive in 3-5 days.
They didn’t. About a week later, I got an email saying the order was delayed. The message featured a picture of the shoes, and when I looked at it closely, I realized IT WAS THE EXACT SAME PAIR I ALREADY HAVE. Apparently I’d scrolled through so many photos during the online hunt that my power of observation went kaplooie. Bummed, I realized that when the shoes finally did arrive, I’d have to send them right back.
Weeks passed. I received another email saying there was still a delay but the shoes were totally going to arrive at some point in my life. Again, I grumbled at the screen and thought, Whoop-dee-doo, then I can return them. I didn’t hear anything else from the company until a few days ago when an email arrived stating that my return had been received and my refund processed. Baffled, I checked my bank account to find that yes, indeed, I’d gotten my money back for the shoes that never arrived.
As I’ve already said, I realize technology is observing us 24/7. But monitoring my thoughts?! Come on, now. Even in our current, weird-beyond-belief world, that seems like a bit of an overstep.
In my youth, chilling temperatures and changing leaves brought about a rise in anxiety, as autumn’s approach meant a return to school, and I was never a fan. For the past six years, however, autumn has meant a warm remembrance of my time on Orcas Island, providing an opportune time to tumble down a rabbit hole of memories.
The time I spent on Orcas was the most creatively productive of my life. This may be because I didn’t see boredom as an option. I imagine this is true for many writers. How can one be bored when there are stories to tell, worlds to create, and characters to bring to life? Any moment spent languishing in a state of ennui is a wasted opportunity. And on Orcas, such a thing was simply not possible. The natural environs, teeming with life and beauty, would not allow it.
Come winter, though, it was time to return to the mainland and commune with other humans. My mind is far too full of fantasy to stay in isolation for long. If I had remained on Orcas past the three-month mark, my grip on reality may have floated away entirely.
The commute to one of my jobs features a junction that is, at the best of times, a calamitous convergence of chaos. Three roadways join to become four lanes, and those lanes then divide into three exits. If drivers would relax and use the half mile of road to find a safe, appropriate time to merge into their respective lanes, all would be well, but of course, that’s not what happens. People either drive like they’ve been shot out of a canon or choose a more leisurely speed, like 5 miles per hour, which leads to a hair-raising, brake-slamming, white knuckle experience for all.
While I attempted to navigate this Junction of Doom last week, I got caught in a typical predicament: the driver in front of me hit the brakes every few seconds while a man in a pickup truck hugged my bumper so closely that I could make out every feature on his stupid face. Tailgating infuriates me, as it is unnecessarily dangerous to the point of potential lethality, and if you read my last post, you already know that, at present, rage is my sole remaining emotion. Therefore, it didn’t take long for me to glare in the rearview mirror and roar, “GET OFF MY ASS!”
Just like that, the truck fell back about five car lengths. I gloried in the joyful change of circumstances before thinking, Whoa. How the hell did that happen? Do I have newfound magical powers? Or is it just a coincidence? I then glanced around at my four open windows and realized that the driver, having been an inch from my bumper, had definitely heard my stern warning/bloodcurdling scream and made the prudent choice to take it to heart.
I chalk up that incident as my greatest victory of the week. Also, I now believe there should be a loudspeaker affixed to the roof of my car so I may impart other gems of wisdom to my fellow drivers (e.g., Stop texting! Get off Instagram! Use your goddamn turn signals!).
Back in May, I started a new medication intended to eliminate chronic pain. Since I’d dealt with this pain for over 30 years, its exit from my life was so elating that it took some time to notice the drug’s unfortunate side effects, the most pressing of which has been the eradication of my emotions (or rather my positive/productive emotions, as blistering rage seems to be doing just fine). Other feelings, however – like joy, anticipation, curiosity, and determination – were apparently lined up and executed one by one.
My sister was first to point out the change. During a visit in early August, she mentioned that I seemed pretty bummed, which was strange since summer is usually my “happy time.” She also reminded me that I could talk to her about whatever was going on. The problem was that I had no idea what was going on, but I did know that talking about myself had gotten progressively difficult, as if I needed to reach down my throat to pull up the words. It still feels that way – like I’ve swallowed everything I need to say, and it’s all stuck down in my gut.
On the rare occasion that emotions do reveal themselves, they’re severely delayed. Last week, I found out that my dad had to have an emergency heart procedure, and I handled the news like a 1940s lobotomy patient. However, a couple of days after his (successful, thank goodness) surgery, I looked up to see my old dog gazing out the window and burst into tears.
The sob-fest wasn’t truly for Jasper, of course, as cute as he is. It was all about Dad, aging, mortality, loss, love, and fear. The disconnect was easy enough to detect – this isn’t my first rodeo when it comes to emotional derailment – and since I am savvy in that department, I’ve had many years to develop endurance strategies for times like this.
Rule Number One = DON’T ADD TO THE PROBLEM. While in a bout of depression during my first year of college, I took a class called Evil in the 20th Century. Essentially, I read about the Holocaust and Khmer Rouge for a full month. Here’s what I learned: if you feel like shit, don’t immerse yourself in horror. Do positive things. Along those lines, while I’m in this state of emotional death, I’ve decided to expand my vocabulary (I even have flashcards), read lots of books, walk a ton, and take edX classes (current: Humanity and Nature in Chinese Thought). Ideally, when I emerge from this place, I’ll find myself physically healthy and a little bit smarter.
A few months from now, the drug will be out of my system. The emotional wellspring will refill, the words will flow from my gut back to my throat, and I will awaken at last to feel something more than: 😐 In a dull, understated way, I look forward to that time.
Though I moved from Massachusetts 22 years ago, a recent interaction brought me straight back to my home state with sudden, unexpected clarity. I was listening to a couple of friends – one from New Mexico and the other from Texas – describe the cliques in their respective high schools. They soon realized that, in both regions, students who’d listened to country music and dressed like cowboys/girls (cowpeople?) had been referred to as “shit-kickers.” Intrigued by this discovery of shared nomenclature, my friends turned to me and asked what those kids had been called in my hometown. I thought for a moment, then replied, “He was called Billy.” In response to their confused looks, I added, “We just had the one.”
Poor Billy moved from Texas to Eastern Massachusetts at the beginning of high school, and he could not possibly have stood out more with his oversized cowboy hat, tight blue jeans, and giant silver belt buckle with the obscure warning: Don’t Mess with Texas. (I remember reading it and thinking, What the hell does that even mean?) Looking back, I must admit we made Billy’s transition to his new hometown pretty miserable, as Bay Staters (or Massholes, as we are aptly nicknamed) have little tolerance for anything “country.” [Case in point: last week, I heard from a childhood friend who’s raising her kids in Eastern Mass. As she lamented being the parent of a teenager, she offered this evidence of her daughter’s current, unacceptable behavior: “The other day I found myself outside her bedroom, pounding on the door and yelling, ‘We do not listen to country music in this house!’“]
A while back, I saw an episode of The Good Place in which Bad Janet insulted somebody (paraphrased: “Why don’t you shove it up your butt, you fat dink?”) and another rep from the Bad Place gave her a high-five. As I watched their interaction, I thought, Hmm. The Bad Place might be Massachusetts. Because that was a key element to social interactions during my formative years: whoever could deliver the most cutting insults got the biggest laughs and heartiest pats on the back. Mind you, these insults weren’t reserved for enemies. They were also for loved ones. We all (with the exception of poor Billy, bless his heart) honed our social skills by practicing the formulation and delivery of wicked burns with the most razor sharp cruelty possible.
It wasn’t until I moved out of Massachusetts that I learned not everyone relates to others in this way. For example, it turns out it’s not common practice to flip the bird to anyone who toots the horn while driving past me. Who knew? Also, it’s apparently not cool to burst out laughing when someone falls down, then proceed to tell that person what a clumsy idiot he or she is. Believe me, it took several years for my communication norms to be deprogrammed. I still need to tamp them down on a daily basis. And I am eternally thankful my thoughts aren’t audible, so every stranger who walks by with a smile and asks, “How are you?” won’t hear the response: “None of your business, asshole.”
To conclude, I’ll leave you with a couple of fun facts that I just learned:
Many years back, I wrote a blog post in which I detailed the grossest things I’ve done in my life (up to that point, at least. I’m sure I’ve outdone myself since then). While I figured the post would be read by my usual audience of ten, it has proven to be the most widely-read of anything I’ve ever written, with several thousand views. Yikes.
This post will be of a similar vein, in that it’s confession-based, but rather than relaying a lifetime of disgusting acts, it will focus on my struggle to access the maturity one expects from an adult – the very same lack of maturity that leads me to pull over, crying with laughter, to capture a sign like this:
Chronic maturity-deficiency has had an impact on my professional life, as well. I would detail all of the inappropriate comments I’ve made as a counselor over the past 20 years, but I think that would take the rest of my life. Instead, I’ll stick to one particularly telling story.
This happened about ten years ago when I was living in Oregon and worked as an advocate for students at a workforce development program. A new student saw the Oakland Raiders sticker on my car and decided it would be a good idea to come to my office to tell me: “The Raiders suck! Go, Ravens!”
[Side note: Because I don’t live at the bottom of a well, I realize the Raiders suck. I’ve known this for a long time. When people say, “Boo, Raiders!” it just seems redundant. Yeah, no shit. Boo, Raiders. They’re awful. But they’ve been my team since the 1900s and their sticker’s on my car, so there it is. Until I get a new car, they’re my team, and seeing as I have no money, that’s gonna be a while.]
Hence, an NFL-based rivalry began between that student and me. And here’s the story of the day it ended.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, the staff at this program would gather in closed offices for case management meetings. Unless they had to be present at a specific meeting, students knew not to disturb staff during these times, because really important things were being discussed, like (if students were present) long-term life goals and short-term action steps, or (if students were not present) staff members’ drunken escapades, funny pet stories, and recipe exchanges.
On this particular Tuesday or Thursday, the Raven fan had been acting like a little shit all day, likely because the Ravens had won and Raiders had lost the previous weekend. (What a surprise.) And because I found myself with about 8 minutes of free time before case management began, I decided to pay him back for being a self-righteous butthead.
I don’t know anything about photo editing software, but I do know about Google Images, copy machines, scissors, and tape, so I did a search for “dead raven,” found a photo of a raven smooshed in the middle of a road, and printed it out. I then printed an image of the Raiders’ shield, cut it out, cut a slice through the raven’s back, stuck the shield through the slice, and taped it into place. Finally, I made two copies of my beautiful, finished image: a Raider shield murdering a raven.
I took one of the copies, folded it into quarters, and handed it to the Raven fan’s English teacher. I asked her to give it to him when silent reading commenced, knowing that I would be closed in my office at that time.
About five minutes into my first case management meeting, the Raven fan burst into the office, brandishing my brilliant piece of art. “This is so messed up!” he yelled.
“We’re in case management,” I informed him as my colleagues’ eyes grew large with confusion and concern. “You need to leave.” Tearing the page in two, he shot me a furious glare and wheeled around, but before he could cross the threshold, I added, “Oh, I did want you to see one thing.” I pointed at the wall behind my desk, where I’d tacked up the second copy. “Now you can stare straight at this every time we meet!”
The Raven fan spluttered in the open doorway for a moment, then cried, “I can’t believe you’re my therapist!” before he shot out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Winning, folks. Winning.
The moral of the story? The worse your team is, the more adeptly you should hone your low-tech photo editing skills.
I haven’t been writing. The act of typing those words made me feel a bit sick, but I guess self-reflection is important, even (or perhaps particularly) when it induces nausea.
Writers are supposed to write, ideally every day. I haven’t done that for weeks. My discipline has been derailed. It’s not for a lack of projects or ideas. I’m awash in those, yet I haven’t opened an in-progress manuscript since…okay, I just checked. June 3rd. 🙄 Ugh.
When I ask myself why this is happening, plenty of excuses stand at the ready. The world is a mess, so I can’t focus. My job involves too much computer time, so when I’m off the clock, I don’t want to stare at a screen. Doubts about why I write at all tug at my gut, poking my insecurities. What’s the point? It’s a waste of time. Find something useful to do.
Of course, it’s pretty shitty to be stuck in this place. I’m disappointed in myself. I fear that I’ve fallen too far off course to self-correct. I consider my unfinished work, cringing at the thought that it will remain that way.
Sometimes, when I’m in a rut like this, I engage in a mental exercise I call Be Your Own Client. If I were counseling myself right now, I imagine I’d say: “Accept the slump. It’s okay. It’s not permanent. If the inspiration to write isn’t there, do other things to support your writer self. Read. Go outside, explore, make discoveries. Spend time with loved ones. At some point, you’ll write again. It’s inevitable. The need to write is at your core. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t. So give yourself a break.”
Okay, that actually helped. I suppose a longtime counseling career has its benefits.
Our nation boasts a huge number of bizarre commemorative days. Today, for example, is National Weed Your Garden Day, Kitchen Klutzes of America Day, and Sewing Machine Day (this is a random assortment – there are others), and tomorrow is Pop Goes the Weasel Day, Strawberry Shortcake Day, and Bourbon Day. Why do we have these days? Who the hell knows. We just do.
So live it up, folks. Smash a dish on the kitchen floor, then sew together a pair of gardening gloves and pull some weeds. Tomorrow, whistle Pop Goes the Weasel while you pour bourbon over strawberry shortcake. But take care not to drink so much that you go from happy-drunk to sad-drunk. You wouldn’t want to spoil National Smile Power Day on the 15th!
Weirdly enough, I just happened upon my horoscope for the week, and it’s this:
Therefore, I believe myself justified in assigning June 13th yet another designation: National Meaningless Coincidence Day.
While I don’t love onscreen slapstick, I appreciate when it happens in real life (especially when it happens to me, so I don’t have to subject others to the indelicacy of laughing before I remember to ask if they’re okay). My most recent slapstick moment took place a few weeks ago when a dog I was walking decided to stop and sit down right in front of me for no discernible reason, thus creating the following string of events:
Kelly trips over dog
Whilst tripping, Kelly drops bag of dog poop
Kelly steps on bag of poop
Sadly, no one was around to witness this priceless occurrence. Maybe there’s drone footage somewhere. I truly hope so.
My Lifetime Achievement Award slapstick moment happened many years ago when I was running late to an important meeting. I screeched into a parking space, jumped out of the car, and attempted to dash off while slamming the car door behind me. Unfortunately, my hair flew back and got caught in the door as it slammed shut, thereby causing my whole body to shoot backwards, headfirst. As an added bonus, I’d locked the door from the inside during my hasty exit, so I had to stand at an absurd angle, head stuck to the car, to rummage through my bag for the keys. It probably took five seconds to find them, but it felt like an hour.
As in the dog poop incident, no one was around. I was grateful for this at the time, but when the sting of humiliation wore off, I was bummed no one had seen it. What a missed opportunity. Witnesses could have recalled that memory and laughed about it for the rest of their lives.
Slapstick isn’t all fun and games, however. Sometimes it leads to major life changes. Case in point: due to the aforementioned incident, I’ve chosen this hairdo since 2006 ~
The next thing I know, I’m standing in the large, industrial kitchen of a luxurious domicile where I’m housesitting. For some reason, the kitchen is full of visitors. The people are unfamiliar, but I know they’re connected to the homeowners somehow. On the counter is an answering machine (apparently I’ve traveled back in time), and I press the play button, then listen to a message from a young man who’s looking after my place while I’m away. His tone is morose as he explains that Jasper, my dog, has died. The folks in the kitchen give me sad, compassionate looks while the message plays. I assume they heard him leave it, so they already know the news.
I don’t have time to linger over Jasper’s passing, however, because I have to get to a show. An acquaintance of mine has embarked on a comedy career and asked me to attend her opening performance. I walk through a door (conveniently located right off the kitchen) to enter an auditorium full of people. The lights have been dimmed, and I work my way through the dark to find a seat. It turns out we’re not there for stand-up comedy. Instead, we watch a sitcom’s pilot episode, and the budding comic I’m there to see plays one of the characters. Sadly, as the show runs, the laugh track provides the only laughter in the room. I wonder what I’m going to tell the woman afterwards, though I imagine the crowd’s silence is feedback enough.
Then I’m in another house that I know is mine, though it’s nothing like anywhere I’ve ever lived. There are no signs of Jasper – no food bowl, leash, etc. I walk around the house, trying to piece together what might have happened to him, when my alarm goes off again.
In the real world, ten minutes have passed. I wake with a deep feeling of melancholy, but it dissolves as I hear Jasper’s claws tick across the floor in the other room. My sweet dog is alive, I have no housesitting responsibilities, and I don’t have to tell whoever that woman was that her show was awful.