Category Archives: therapy in session

Reality bites. No. Reality kicked my ass.

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There is no other way around it: I am a hypocrite.

Isn’t it an ironic coincidence that after my holier-than-thou tirade against bullying and my immagonnakickyourpunkass battle cry, my 12-year-old son told me tonight that he has been called all sorts of names at school?

Names such as gay, nerd, retard. Hurled at him, in passing, on a daily basis.

And the worst perpetrator is the 13 year old son from a family we know (whose youngest child does the same extracurricular activity as my son and therefore we see and hang out with them very often).

As soon as I heard this, all the blood rushed to my head: I could see the Samurai sword in my bedroom and I could see, in my mind’s eye, me wearing a bandanna that says VENGEANCE, going over there right now to kick that little shithead’s ass. The visualization was so vivid my fingers curled around the imaginary sword in my hand and I felt my legs twitch as I kicked the door down.

Of course I did no such thing.

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Not able to coax more details out of my son, I did the only thing I could do: I went to his Facebook account and changed the setting so the little fuckhead and his mother could not see my son’s wall posts any more since, as you probably guessed, unfriend the little fucking curd is probably going to addle him more.

Finally after I put the little one to bed, I had some quiet time with my 7th grader before he went to bed.  I pretended to be calm (not very successfully since I mentioned samurai sword and kick ass and something about moving to Taiwan) and asked him more about what really goes on at school.

Son: Mom. You are over-reacting again! I am not going to tell you anything any more!

Me: Ok ok. I promise I won’t do anything crazy. I just need to get it out inside the house now so I can remain calm about this. I just want to know that you are ok.

Son: You are so lucky that I talk to you! Most kids don’t tell their parents these things…

Me: OK. I promise I will not do anything without asking you first. I will not even tell Miss _________ about [FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT]. I just want to know more and make sure that you are doing ok…

Son: I probably exaggerated a bit. I am not bullied, I guess. People just call me names… like gay, retard, nerd. [Fucking piece of shit] calls me gay all the time.

Me: (Taking a deep breath) Does it bother you?

Son: Nah… Well, it kind of bothers me because I don’t like it when people use those words. When my friends say ‘gay’ or ‘retard’ I tell them to not swear and they say, “What? I am not swearing! I just say retard!” Ugh.

Me: (Taking a really deep breath) Do they single you out? Or do they do it to the other kids?

Son: It’s what the cool kids do. In order to look cool, you have to casually swear all the time, call people gay and retard all the time, and talk about sex non-stop.

Me: (Thinking to myself WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?! Taking a really really deep breath, and slowly) Ok. So… these kids. They call you names if you cross path. But if you stay away from them, do they seek you out to pick on you? (Wistfully) They don’t bother you right? Right?

Son: Not really… I just feel that they do it to me more. They call me nerd all the time.

Me: Does this make you not want to go to school? Are there other “non-cool” kids that you can hang out with?

Son: (Exasperated) Mom! I have a lot of friends at school! And they think I am cool. But even they call me a nerd. Well, because I am a nerd.

Me: (Exasperated. Hey, I am not Perfect & Wise Mom!) Why do you have to label yourself like this? [Yes, then I launched into a tirade against anti-intellectualism in this country and the stupidity of all this. ALL THIS! Probably did not help. I did say I am not Perfect & Wise Mom…]”

Son: It is kind of annoying that people think I am a nerd. I know Kung Fu very well and I can do a back flip, and I am probably stronger than a lot of them.

Me: Honey, I am not saying this because I am your mother, but I really really think that people are just jealous. I want to let you know that if somebody touches you, you have my permission to, wait, I’d better check with dad before I give you the permission…

Son: We are told this rule at school: If you are punched, cover your face. You are allowed to shove the person back but you are not allowed to make a fist and punch back. [Chuckles] I can probably shove the person back all the way to the locker.

Me: I just want you to know that we will not be mad at you for defending yourself. I also want to let you know that, although your friends seem to know better than to use ‘gay’ or ‘fag’ in front of grownups, if I hear them using these words, I will call them out on it.

Son: Just make sure you don’t do it to someone who can beat me up! Can I go to bed now?

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I am not sure what I should/could do. I am still in shock while at the same time feeling embarrassed by my naiveté for being shocked at all.

I did not grow up here. I did not experience anything like this: Not name calling. Not having words unapproved by adults hurled at you. To this day I cannot curse in Chinese; that’s how effective cultural and social conditioning combined with physical punishment, or simply the threat of it, is in disciplining children. And behold: Surprise surprise! All the news about bullying did not prepare me for when it actually happened to my own child. Obviously I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about when I was running my mouth. Please accept my sincere apology.

In all honesty, what my son is living with now is mild compared to some of the horror stories we have heard. But it still hurts. It hurts so much. My son is a part of me. When he is hurting, my heart hurts too. I can actually feel the pain inside my chest. It is already rousing all the primal maternal instincts I have. “You mess with my family? You mess with me.” And I’ve already had to calm myself the fuck down.

I cannot imagine having to deal with full-blown bullying as a parent. I cannot imagine having to deal with it as a child.

Deep down, I am wondering whether name calling truly is a lot more sinister: The school district does have a Zero Tolerance policy but only if there is physical contact. (And I am not going to spell out what is going through my mind right now. It suffices to say, IF they touch my son, it is open season). For words, mere words, there is nothing you can do about it, realistically. What’s the school going to do? There is no proof. And even if there is, what kind of punishment is the school going to dole out? Telling them to not do it again? “Be nice!” Slap the kids’ hands?

Hardy har har. Big fucking deal.

HOW FUCKING STUPID IS THIS?!

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I suck. I seriously do. Full of hot air. Nothing more. It’s been only one night, and I am ready to strike a bargain with the devil to make all this magically go away.

Why didn’t anybody tell me how awful it is going to be? Perhaps someone should have included this in the book “What to Expect When You Have Children”: Prepared to feel murderous rage against other teens but of course you cannot act on it and to feel the primordial urge to protect your young no matter what but of course you cannot do so when they are in school.

If I had known bringing up children in the United States of America means watching them being called names and not being able to do a fucking damned thing about it, I would not have married an American.

If I had known bringing up children means you have to sit and watch their innocence being stripped away bit by bit at the school yard where they are supposed to be fucking safe and protected, I would have hesitated.

I am most likely blowing everything up out of proportion. But this is how I feel right now.

Wig Out

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I took a nap today from 2 pm to 4 pm.

(Wait. Let me jot down the date for today. On October 17, I TOOK A 2-FUCKING-HOUR NAP, RELATIVELY UNINTERRUPTED, AND WOKE UP ON MY OWN!!!)

When I woke up, I was completely disoriented because I thought it was morning. At first I was confused, then I went into a panic: I thought I had overslept. This seems to happen every time I (get to) take a nap: I need an hour to recover from the grogginess, not to mention the residual memory of the said panic attack. Sometimes I am not sure it is worth it.

The house was absolutely quiet when I stepped outside the bedroom. The kids were outside playing, I remembered them whispering in my ear, asking for permission when I was sleeping. Strewn on the floor were the wig called “70s Dude” and the John-Lennon-esque sunglasses my 7-year-old “Mr. Monk” just got from the annual trip to the (overpriced and crappy-quality) Mega Halloween Costume Shop. I thought, “Why not?”

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The Bloggess was right: Wigs rock!

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I screamed when I turned around and saw Mr. Monk quietly sitting in front of the computer.

“I didn’t know you’re home.”

“Is that my wig?”

Should I be concerned that he was completely unfazed by my behavior?

All of a sudden I heard a commotion: my 7th grader and his friends were running across our backyard, passing the open windows and barreling towards the back door. I pulled the wig and the sunglasses off right before they came in sight. I smirked as I remembered this line from Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants (one of the books sitting on my nightstand and inside bathrooms which I hopefully will be able to finish by the end of this year)

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

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I actually tried on several wigs when we were at the said Mega Halloween Shop Stuffed With Mass-Produced Crap. In fact, I believe I tried on ALL of the non-blonde wigs they had: Elvira, Rebel Witch, Lolita, Hot Pink, Flapper Girl, Shirley Dimples, Sexy’n’Trashy, French Kiss Cheyene, Seductress, 60s Babe, Sultry, Punk Girl, Glamour, Madam Destiny.

Here’s the thing. My kids tried to talk me out of every single one. They must have found it unnerving. In fact, I KNEW they found it unnerving and that was why I stayed away from the blonde wigs. Mr. Monk kept on wanting me to try on the wig called “Mom” because

“That’s you. You are a mom!”

My 12-year-old tried to steer me towards the BLACK wigs.

“You should try this one. Or that one.” he pointed to the Egyptian Princess wig and Sassy Black Wig. Finally after the third pink wig that I asked for his opinion on, he said, “You really should just stick with a black wig, you know, because it does not look out-of-place.”

Yes, clearly, they did not understand the concept of Halloween when it came to their own mother.

And yes, though I am not proud to admit it, I sulked. I swallowed an entire speech right then and there and suggested that it’s time we check out and head home.

As we passed by the “Asian” aisle (labeled as so), the 12-year-old pointed out the wall with various geisha, China girl, Far Eastern girl costumes (black wigs included of course) “Mom, look! Yikes!” I turned towards him,

“Did you see? This was what I heard when you told me that I should stick with a black wig: A white woman can choose to be whoever she wants, having whatever color of hair she wants, whereas I have to stick with being Asian. With black hair.”

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children. “Other moms” don’t wig out over wigs, I bet.

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This was the fortune I got today:

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I once read that Fortune Cookie fortune writers have to strive to come up with messages that are neutral, offend no one and appeal to everyone.

What are the odds of this fortunate being “Absolutely not applicable – I am telling you honey, sweetie pie, no, I swear, this is just a stupid fortune, not going to come true, and of course I am not sad that it won’t come true” to whomever receives it.

I carry your heart with me

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I have been giving this a lot of thought ever since I started getting readers/commenters who, more often than not, became friends:

Why do the relationships I have forged online with people I have never met often feel a lot more authentic, real and immediate than those in real life?

This was what Wicked Shawn and I talked about yesterday when we met for the first time.

Me: We have just met. Why do I feel so close to you already?

Shawn: But honey (in her sweet sweet Kentucky twang. *melting*) we have known each other for a long time!

She’s right of course.

Just because we communicate by words, over the Internet, it does not make the connections any less valid. People used to have pen pals. Did they feel embarrassed when they told their family and friends about their pen pals? Did they worry about being mocked when they traveled to meet their pen pals in real life?

In fact, y’all know me, what I really think, what I value, my fears, my aspirations, and yes, my neurosis, a lot better than 99% of the people I know in real life. You may not know the names of my husband and children, you may not know where I live or what my house looks like, but you know the “real” me. I am not saying that in my “physical” life I am walking around faking or pretending. My existence here as words in the Interwebs is the essence of my being. Stripped of all adornments.

Well, I am going to contradict myself: sometimes when I think about this whole thing, I see this as my essence being digitized and so I am seeing all of us running around like Tron… So maybe not stripped of ALL adornments because you know, we’d be all carrying a flying disc…

Here, I am not so and so’s wife. So and so’s mother. Weird Asian lady who lives next door. My odd co-worker I have to put up with. The woman who works for/with me. The person who could not pronounce “Doug” (Thank you all!). The person who also apparently cannot pronounce “Don/Dawn” but somehow can “Shawn”. etc. etc.

You get to know me before your judgement/impression/evaluation/or whatever it is that people do when they meet a person of me is influenced by any visual or audio cues.

And this is why when we finally met (and hopefully meet) each other, after the first 30 seconds of awkwardness, we are going to behave as if we have known each other, like, forever.

I just want to thank each and every one of you that has ever visited, commented or emailed me; you have contributed to my improved mental health and self-esteem. The therapy sessions are working, and they are free! Thank you for letting me mooch off of you… Sometimes when life gets me down, I think to myself, “Hey there are people who actually think I am fucking awesome!”

Case in point: Attending conferences by myself is one of my worst fears. Today I had to do so for work. First I was afraid / I was petrified/ But then something clicked: I remembered my “secret identity” as the coolest awesome ass-kicking hot babe that you somehow led me to believe. (Fine. So what if I made the avatar myself? You are a bunch of enablers a girl can ever ask for!) So I behaved as one.

I carry with me your blind faith in me like a protective shield as I go about my daily life.

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happy birthday, e. e. cummings.

Disclaimer: I look nothing like the avatar I made.

Head in the Clouds

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I really should go to bed right now. I haven’t slept since I got up at 6:30 am yesterday.

Long story short: On Monday, I found out that the meeting where I would be presenting a Power Point slide deck based on the big giant Excel file that I have been living with has been pushed up to as soon as I land and get into the office. The problem with that is I am one of the worst procrastinators. Actually. No. I prefer to think of myself as a Deadliner aka one who is highly motivated and miraculously inspired when the deadline is right in sight. I’d spend the majority of the time before the deadline ruminating, musing, plotting, strategizing and agonizing over the task. Then when there is no more escaping it, BOOM! I sit down and complete the task with a lot of unnecessary stress.

[Insert clock-ticking sound effect from 24]

And yes, I memorized the times so I could later blog about it! There’s no shame in that…

4:22 am. Finally finished my presentation. OH SHIT FUCK HELL I AM GOING TO DIE!

4:30 am. Shower. Done. Wow I’m Speedy Gonzales.

4:45 am. Still figuring out what not to wear. Priorities, people. They are what keep us straight!

4:58 am. Left the house. SHIT FUCK HELL I AM GOING TO MISS THE FLIGHT! I am so tired but I am not tired. I am so jacked up. It feels so weird to drive the car in this state of utter exhaustion. The car seems to be moving on its own without me exerting too much pressure on the paddle. I keep on looking at the new moon that’s beckoning ahead of me, grasping at the wheel afraid that I may let go or make any sudden movement.

5:06 am. There is only one lane open on the highway. The traffic is completely backed up. Red brake lights as far as my eyes can see. OH SHIT FUCK WHAT THE HELL! Why is there a traffic jam at 5 in the morning?! I quickly swerve off the exit ramp and take the alternate local route. In the dark. When I can barely focus. And why are the roads all of a sudden so curvy? And what happened to the street lights?!

5:22 am. Much to my surprise, I arrive at the airport parking garage in one piece. Now let’s hope that the airport is empty and the security line is not too long.

SCORE! Breeze through security checkpoint. Thank you Tuesday morning!

5:31 am. Arrive at gate. And they have not started boarding yet. I WON! I am so awesome! I’m woman. Hear me roar! Doing the victory dance inside my head. These people have no idea what a feat I have just pulled. Oh god, I want to climb onto the chair and announce to the world all the crazy shit stunts I have just pulled to be able to catch this flight. They have NO FUCKING IDEA what a victory it is that I am sitting here right now at this gate!

But I need to tell somebody! Otherwise this memory, this moment of my glory, too, shall pass. It will not be wise to call and wake up husband in order to tell him that I have made it despite my procrastination.

Note to self: Need to blog about this so as to gloat in self’s awesomeness.

I lost all consciousness as soon as they forced us to turn off our phones and took a power nap. Naturally I looked (more) like crap when I got off the plane. Don’t believe me?

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My eyes were bloodshot. The shadows underneath were not from poor lighting. I looked like a friggin’ druggie alcoholic vampire! What was worse was that my hair was completely limp and I was wearing a black dress shirt so I looked like…

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Fortunately the presentation went well despite my lack of inner monologue – the fatigue feels like drunkenness. Several times I told my bosses, “Did I just say that out loud? Sorry.” I either succeeded in glamouring them with my vampire eyes or he was in awe of my being a dead ringer to an evil wizard.

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I am dead tired but I don’t feel tired. I am running on pure adrenaline now. I am jacked up like Beavis and Butthead on their famous sugar high.

I am the great Cornholio!

I am having an out-of-body experience. It feels as if the speed of the film that is my existence is out of sync with everybody else’s. I am moving around in slow motion while the world whizzes by and nobody knows the better. It feels like I am swimming in the clouds I saw this morning from the plane.

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What do you know. Come to think of it: I actually travelled through the clouds…

I am walking in the clouds now.

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Postscript: OMG. One of my colleagues just startled me by throwing a big exercise ball at me. (Exercise balls are one of the options for “seating” in my company and therefore they are everywhere in the office). I did not realize until tonight that they make an adorable Boing Boing sound when you bounce them.

“You sure we are the only two people left now?”

“You sure there are no surveillance cameras?’

I ended up dribbling the big giant pink ball down the corridors of the empty office building and to my colleague’s surprise (and I hope, admiration) dribbling it under my knees.

So it has been confirmed: I am drunk. Drunk from too much adrenalin.

“Which Sex and the City gal are you?”

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I am going to bet that at one time or another 99% of the women were asked one or all of these questions:

“Which Sex and the City gal is your favorite?”

“Which Sex and the City gal do you want to be?”

“Which Sex and the City gal are you?”

I never knew how to respond. Because deep down in my heart, I know who I resemble the most, dread resembling the most even though I also know, deep down in my brains, that I am crazy (also self-presumptuous and self-delusional) for thinking so.

Laney Berlin.

Who?

Laney Berlin. From Episode 10, Season 1, originally aired on August 8, 1998. “The Baby Shower”.

It is no surprise you have no memory of her. My google search only came up with ONE picture of her:

Laney is the Fab Four’s former friend, or more accurately, frienemy and to Samantha, rival.

Laney Berlin. You can’t really describe her. You just had to know her. Chances are eight years ago you probably did.

Laney did A&R for a record label… Every time she went on a scouting trip, she came back with some hot new group… and a gynecological condition no one had ever heard of.

Those things make so many public appearances, they need a booking agent.

Disclaimer: Of course I am nothing like the above. I’ve never had a hot body for me to lament the loss over it. I’ve never had a wild, rebellious streak in my life, that is, until now… mostly inside my imaginary inner world, and even at that, with limitations. Tis sad that I channel Woody Allen even in my wildest fantasy.

In fact, Laney was another Samantha… until she found herself an investment banker, got married and moved to Connecticut. The Fab Four reluctantly went to Laney’s Baby Shower at her stereotypical suburban MacMansion surrounded by stereotypical suburban Stepford Wives. The gifts they brought? A fistful of cash. A bottle of Scotch. And pastel condoms.

Incidentally I gave birth to my first child in March 1998. I squirmed as I watched a dichotomy being artificially formed when the world of Sex and the City was split in two: Me and the pregnant, suburban Laney on one side; the gals on the other (And goddammit I want to be on that side with the Fab Four too!) and what happened when Laney tried to cross the bridge, back to the other side.

Laney, despite the outward appearances of marital bliss and contentment, felt regretful of her choices. Back  in the city, the gals found a pregnant Laney crashing Samantha’s party, demanding vodka (and attention naturally], offering to show her tits, and struggling on the stripper pole.

[Carrie] This is at once so sad…  and the most fabulous validation I’ve ever gotten in my life.

The image of Laney on the table surrounded by the party-goers who are obviously appalled has stayed with me since. I understand that 99% of the disapproval came from her being so “due any day now” pregnant and you simply DO NOT SHOULD NOT imbibe alcohol (and Vodka at that!) when a child’s life is at stake. However Laney on the table also symbolizes for me the attempt to grapple with the erasure of one’s (imagined or not) identity and the desperate attempt to retain/regain the last vestige of youth/freedom/autonomy/carefreeness/etc. It is that desperation that makes it so sad, that I respond to viscerally.

Every time when I behave like a wild child, act and dress against what I believe is age-appropriate and role-appropriate, flirt with strangers, skip down the sidewalk, party like it is 1999 (or 1997 aka 1 BC – “Before Child”), because this is who I am without thinking, I get a flashback of Laney on the table and I am immediately paralyzed by an onslaught of self-consciousness. I put myself in my place through the eyes of the others:

“Do I look like I am trying too hard? Too desperate? Do I look ridiculous? These people… What are they thinking of me? Are they laughing with me or at me?”

And the thought that I absolutely abhor:

“Do they feel sorry for me?”

I am desperate to not appear desperate. Insane? I know.

This is why every time when I am at a party I make a beeline to the bar and down 2 shots of vodka before the party starts for me. Because as it turns out, thank goodness, Laney Berlin can be warded off with alcohol.

Called My Bluff

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The phone rang and I noticed the number was an unfamiliar one. Even the area code was one that I did not recognize.

“Hello. Hi. Let me introduce myself. I am So and So calling from blah blah blah…”

That’s all I heard since I pegged her as one of the telemarketers. I was more than a little bit peeved and was about to tell her off: she had made a telemarketing call to my work place. Absolutely not cool.

“So we have a bunch of private investors pouring xx million dollars into this new company…”

Ok. So great. Now this is a scam. “I get to blog about it!” I thought.

“We are looking for a VP of ________ . Are you interested in the position?”

I was about to say, “You must have mistaken me for someone else.” But I stopped myself.

Career Building 101. Never ever show lack of self-confidence or self-doubt. Never.

That meant I tried hard not to burst out laughing in the first five minutes because of the sheer ridiculousness of it. “You must be kidding me!”

As I listened to her spill, it suddenly dawned on me that SHE was trying to sell the position to ME.

Me.

I was in shock. Nay. My chest was closing in on me. My heart was pounding so hard I could not hear clearly what she was saying. I began to hyperventilating while trying to carry on a conversation while puffy messy goo swirled inside my head.

Goo of terror.

I was petrified. I had a full-on panic attack because just as suddenly it also dawned on me that THIS was the moment of truth. I had been called on.

It is one thing to be stuck in a job where you feel you are not being appreciated and utilized, where you feel you are not getting the promotions you deserve, where you feel your talents are being wasted. WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE.

It is a completely different matter, I found out today, to be offered an opportunity and realize that you are not able to take it.

You are too chicken. You are not convinced that you are ready. You just want to be Grasshopper. Forever and ever. Less terrifying that way.

Who do I think I am? What do I think I will do showing up at this place trying to pretend that I can even interview for the position?

I started making up excuses that would not expose me as the fraud that I am. Hopefully.

Unrelated industry. The need to relocate. Not the 100% match of experiences.  Oh and did I mention that the industry is completely absolutely totally different from the industry I have been in?

I started to shiver. I wanted to tell her, “You’ve got to be kidding me. You must be the worst executive recruiter I have ever heard if you even called me!”

My hands were shaking so hard and really I just wanted to end the phone call so I could lie prostrate, banging my head and arms on the floor. I was utterly, desperately, disappointed by myself.

The phone call called my bluff. I showed my hand and it was empty.

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p.s. I don’t want to end my post on an alarmingly low note. I have issues. I know. I need therapy. But if I see one more so-called life coach follow me on Twitter, I will go berserk!

p.p.s. On an unrelated note, I will be getting a letter tomorrow, along with everybody else in the company, telling me whether I still have a job.

p.p.p.s. I am trying not to think of this phone call as a sign. A sign for what?! anyway. Or an omen.

p.p.p.p.s. Sorry for the sad vibes. Drinks on me!

Morgan Freeman made me do it!

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I will do pretty much anything Morgan Freeman tells me to

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You see a lot of interesting people every morning near the train station. There is Mr. Jim, the Salvation Army guy, who is the staple presence inside the building even in January, when people think they are done with their charity giving. I love coming into work and seeing Mr. Jim sitting on his stool next to his red bucket. He always has a jovial smile and a firm handshake for you.  Then there is the guy who hawks “designer” purses and hats, sometimes scarves and gloves. The guy who occasionally sells boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts, right on the side of the street. In the middle of the sidewalk across the street from the station, on most days when it is not pouring or freezing, you will see a bespectacled old lady sitting in her beach chair. Sometimes when people walk by they will greet her like an old friend. On some days, this old lady will be accompanied by an old gentleman. The two of them sit side by side in the midst of the current of people rushing towards the surrounding buildings.

When I came into work this morning, as usual, I stopped by Dunkin Donuts to get my customary “Large with cream and sugar” and as a treat, a bagel twist in Jalapeño cheddar flavor.  The old lady was not there today so the old gentleman was there by himself. As I rushed towards my office building, he extended his hand, the subtle movement of his hand pantomimed the question in jest, “Is that coffee for me?”

I recognized the glint in his eyes and the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. For the first time I noticed how much he looks like Morgan Freeman.

aka god.

“Of course!” I smiled and handed him my coffee. I looked at the paper bag in my other hand, “How about a bagel?”

“Thank you so much! You made my day!” He broke into a dazzling smile, “Take this!” and handed me today’s Chicago Redeye.

I took one look at the front page and I knew.

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God is trying to send me a message

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Seriously.  If this is not a message from god, I don’t know what is…

Fallen From The Sky

“We don’t always have a choice on how we get to know one another.  Sometimes people fall into our lives cleanly — as if out of the sky, or as if there were a direct flight from Heaven to Earth — the same sudden way we lose people, who once seemed they would always be part of our lives.”

—  John Irving in Last Night in Twisted River

I have issues.

Ok. If you have read more than three of my posts, you probably have figured that out on your own already. By the way, thank you for staying after that realization, oh Brave One…

I am a social person. An extrovert. A vampire. I need to feed on people’s energy to feel alive. I revel in the small connections I make with friends and strangers. I become a great conversationalist. I am bubbly. I am chatty. I am flirty. I am fucking hilarious. I get a high.

I am also a recluse. An introvert. A hermit crab. I crash every time after I have battled through a social occasion. I replay everything inside my head. Over and over again. Did I say anything wrong? Did I offend anybody? Hurt somebody’s feeling? When I went crazy and all “I don’t fucking care what people think of me”, did I do something stupid? Was it obvious I am an insecure needy hanger-on? Did I come off genuine? Too genuine? Too genuine so as to come off as fake? Dripping with molasses? Was I too much of myself? And which one at that?

I don’t know why — Even though I’ll be the first person to tell you, all Chinese wisdom and Zen shit, that

There will always be somebody who dislikes you, for no reason at all, no matter how hard you try to get on their good side.

— I am dastardly bothered by the possibility that out there, there is somebody who hates my gut. This is a no-win situation of the pathological proportion. For example, when I am driving, I worry about what the other drivers will think of me. Will they be pissed if they are waiting for me to go through the intersection to make a left turn and I make them miss the light? I floor the car upon that thought.

I imagine the other driver thinking to themselves, “Wow. Appreciate that gesture, kind albeit reckless driver!”

Nah. Just kidding. I may be crazy but I am not delusional. I am fully aware of the futility. And the possibility this may be bordering on psychosis. (Oh, the irony…)

It takes one day for me to recover from each hour of my putting myself out there…  I was surrounded by strangers (women nonetheless) and more importantly, people who I genuinely would like to become friends with, for two whole days last weekend…

… … …

Yeah… This is gonna take a while…

I could not understand why I have been restless and jittery and utterly exhausted and prone to crying this week until I sat down and started typing out these words above.

I am going through withdrawal. The detox process has begun.

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* I thought the whole night and decided to turn the comment function off. I did not write this post to fish for more compliments which many of you have kindly bestowed on me, deservedly or not. I just needed to get this out of my head, hoping doing so will help speed up the process or at least stem the tide that’s dragging me further away from what is deemed normal.

** No worries. I am ok. I am always ok.

“How to Be Alone”

51 Replies

I was going to write something about BlogHer… But my besties that I have had the good fortune to meet and grope in magical New York City have all done a much better job than I could have, esp. since after three days, I am still pissing and sweating vodka… So if you haven’t been bored to death by the blah blogher blah blah are curious about what went down (PUN FULLY INTENDED) last weekend, go read about Buggin Words’ No-Pot-Needed Hallucination, Brilliant Sulk’s brilliant musing on the vaginas and vodkas she’s consumed, Patty Punker’s suggestion for an alternative FuckIt10 that we have all signed up and are seeking attendee registrations, Dufmanno’s encounter with a naked cowboy which was not the most skin she saw last weekend, For the Birds’ restrained song that is really not about you, and yes, Vapid, I am drumming my fingers waiting for your BlogHer report here… Pull yourself together, woman! Stay away from the Dish even though I know you’ve missed him and the Python (Dear Soren Lorensons, this is surprisingly not what you think, you perverts!) terribly.

ETA: The blonde vampiress came through with poetry in motion…

Instead, Serendipity! I came across this video/poem today.

“How to Be Alone”

It is the perfect remedy we need in order to recover from the highs and lows after fighting through our fears of opening ourselves up and meeting strangers. The powerful reminder to combat that gnawing insecurity, that tiny voice, that propels you to down five shots of vodka within the first 30 minutes of setting your foot in a party so that you can be the Dancing Queen that you dream of being. The talisman to arm ourselves with next time we attend any social occasion when ironically we often inadvertently feel so alone within the crowd.

Watch this.

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I came across this beautifully written and performed poem through It Is Monday… Thinking Moment. The filmmaker is Andrea Dorfman, and the simple yet profound words were written and performed by Tanya Davis.

I cannot help but reprint the entire poem here just so I can read the words, slowly, hoping to absorb them into my being, to have them become part of the fiber of my soul.

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How to Be Alone

by Tanya Davis

If you are at first lonely, be patient.

If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There’s also the gym. If you’re shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.

And there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you’re hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid being alone principals.

The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they — like you — will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You’re no less intriguing a person when you’re eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching…because, they’re probably not.

And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.

Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might of never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after awhile nobody is dating them.

But lonely is a freedom that breaths easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You can stand swaffed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.

But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them maybe lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experiences unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relived, keeps things interesting, life’s magic brings much, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.

Take silence and respect it.

If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.

If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

Wanted: Crazy Bitches to Party With at BlogHer

23 Replies

Warning: The following is BUI – Blogging Under the Influence. Like, now.

I went to a company shindig tonight. Great people. Fun people. People that I have worked with for five years and with whom I have been through a lot. The company is celebrating a wonderful event and everybody is in a good mood. We feel that we have finally got to the point where we can say: This. This makes it all worth it.

The event was open bar. That means yours truly started drinking as soon as she set foot in the room and by 6:30 pm, I have already downed four glasses of cranberry with Grey Goose vodka. (Yes, I am fortunate enough to work for a very generous company…)  This woman who happened to be by my side the whole time started saying, “Is that your fourth drink?” “That’s your fourth drink, isn’t it?” And she looked at me the way people look at you when they think you are drunk. (Come on, you know what I mean!) I reassured her that I was absolutely not drunk. That what she was seeing was the REAL ME. A little bit crazy. A little bit sassy. Very very friendly. Very very very flirty. Very very very very funny. And LOUD. She was not convinced the way people think you are definitely drunk when you protest and say “I am NOT drunk.”

No offense. But how the fuck did I get stuck with women? Young women. Women who are still on the market and therefore need to maintain a ladylike presence and continue to exclaim at my “bad” behaviors.

ETA (The morning after…) I have to tell you what happened just now (The morning after the company shindig) because it’s just priceless: I showed up at 8:30 am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for action (work-related).  So the same woman who counted how many drink I’d had 30 minutes into the party? “Good morning! How are you feeling today?” In a way, you know, how people say it when they think you are having a massive hangover (For the record: I was not even drunk. Scout’s Honor. I drank 2 bottles of water and took 4 Advils before I went to bed. No hangover). Then she commented, “You have two kids right? You must not get out much.” Seriously? WTF?

All the men I work with know that I can hold my liquor very well. They may not want to admit it but I know they are impressed. They may be secretly pissed that I can drink more than they, but hey, they know it is the truth. And they don’t make a big deal out of it.

Can I tell you something? I love being one of the guys. I do. I love hanging out with them drinking. In college, I was never treated as a “girl”. I was their buddy. And I enjoyed every second of it.

At the end of the company shindig, the original plan was to continue the merrymaking somewhere else. The plan suffered a drastic blow when some guy who does not know me very well said, “Well, we are going some place to drink whiskey and stuff and probably do some ‘sexist’ things.” I had no idea what that meant but I was intrigued. Then one of the guys that I am pretty close to said, “It’s just a bunch of guys holding their penises and drinking whiskey!” You know what? I don’t care! I want to see them hold their penises and I’ll grow a penis and I’ll go!

But no. The womenfolk decided to go hang out at a different bar because we’d let men do what men do.

Huh?

So I ended up at a post-party party that’s not really a party and I was so fucking bored. Unfortunately for yours truly, I was also the oldest person there and I could not be interested in whatever they’re talking about. Half way through the torture of sitting at the table and nursing my seventh drink for the night, I went to the lady’s room to brush my hair. I was there for half an hour and I was happy.  When I came out, I found that my “girlfriend” decided to play pool. In my mind, you only play pool when you are trying to impress guys with your nice behind when you stick it up in the air. Since I am happily married, I have no fucking interest in playing pool. So I left. I came back to the office and I am just sitting here, wishing fervently that I had a penis.

I will be heading to New York City on Friday morning to partake in the madness that is BlogHer. It strikes me as hilariously ironic that right before my trip to BlogHer, aka WOMEN GALORE, I am sitting here, hating myself for succumbing to the female peer pressure and staying with the “girls”. I wish I had said, “Sorry ladies. I am going with the guys because you ladies have some images to uphold and are not crazy enough for me!” Especially since it turned out that the invitation to go hold penises and drink whiskey was actually extended to me.

Instead I am sitting here in the deserted, dark office, blogging.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. Give me some crazy women to party with at BlogHer. Women who don’t care how they look to the others. Women who don’t tsk tsk at you because you are not being “proper”. Women who are not secretly embarrassed to be seen with you and are not doing a good job hiding it. Women who don’t count the number of your drinks.

I need some crazy biatches to party with me in New York City. ARE YOU LADIES CRAZY ENOUGH?!

By the way, in case you are wondering whether I am a traitor to my sex. No ladies. It’s really just a vent above really. I don’t really want a penis. And I love shoes. In fact, I freak out about shoes once in a while. And like most, if not all, of you, I went overboard on the “shoe planning” front last week when I realized BlogHer is THIS FRIDAY AND SATURDAY!

What boxes? You mean these? Oh don't worry. I am returning most of them...

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Fine. I will NOT be keeping them all. Party pooper!