I have one right now as I sit here, typing this. This isn't particularly exciting, or newsworthy, as I have them a lot. This one I've had since yesterday. Or possibly since Friday. It's hard to tell if this is a new one or if it's a continuation of the one that started four days ago. I'm not sure it actually matters.
I vividly remember my first migraine. I was 6. I'd spent the day at a friend's birthday party, outside, jumping up and down on a trampoline, running around in New Mexico's April sun. I can't sweat normally, so I can't cool myself down, and I overheated. I turned bright red, I felt my blood pumping in my neck and face so clearly that I was sure it had to be visible to anyone looking at me. My parents took me home, I took a cool bath, and I started to cool down, but my head kept throbbing. I remember--I can see it--my head on my mom's lap, feet up on the couch, my dad sitting on the other side of me rubbing my back, the lights in the wood paneled den turned off so they wouldn't hurt my eyes. And I was crying. The kind of crying that only comes from a kid that doesn't understand what's happening, or why, a kid overwhelmed by how much it hurts and completely unable to put the pain in context and know that it will end.
That was the first one. I couldn't possibly tell you about the rest--there have been too many. Getting them when I got too hot was pretty common. I didn't have to be outside to overheat, I just had to be working hard, which made the 12 hours a week of dance classes a frequent trigger, along with horseback riding lessons under a big black velvet helmet, and games of kickball at day camp (kickball is my example here because it's the one sport in which I would participate given that it's the one sport at which I didn't utterly blow). Then, of course, there were the migraines that popped up for no reason. I was pretty sure that I must have done something to make them happen, but I could never figure out what it was. That's been a long term mystery.
I didn't call them migraines. My mom had migraines. They were terrible. She had them worse than anyone I knew. Until I figured out the extent to which my dad had them, and then I couldn't figure out which of them was worse off. Either way, I didn't connect their migraines to my headaches, didn't see them as the same thing. In the same way that they tried to protect me from their migraines, I tried to hide mine from them, worried mostly, I think, that they would think I was exaggerating (as I was wont to do about, basically, everything). It has been only recently that I've come to be immeasurably grateful that these two people who love me beyond all imagining can understand exactly what migraines mean for my life--and I never have to explain anything about it to them.
It was more than 7 years after my first migraine that I first mentioned them to a doctor. That started the seemingly endless medical odyssey that I've been on for nearly 15 years. Doctor after well-meaning doctor assigned different names, causes, and prescriptions. I was told that my headaches were vascular, the result of over-working myself, and that I needed more oxygen when exercising--so I was given an inhaler (which I promptly never used). I was told that they were in my head, a self-fulfilling prophecy, that I thought I should have migraines, and so I did (magic!). Tired of the nonsense, my mom let me use her migraine meds when I was in high school, but they didn't really do much for either of us.
In college, I experienced my first aura. For a good 20 minutes I was mildly annoyed because there was clearly something wrong with my television and how was I supposed to study without the Gilmore Girls on permanent loop? But, when I finally convinced myself to look away from the TV (my supreme laziness was at its zenith in college), I realized that the same thing wrong with my TV was wrong with my computer screen, my bathroom mirror, and Troy's face. Like any 20 year old who thinks she's finally having that psychotic break, I called my mom. When I described what I was seeing (a bright outline made of light in the shape of an eye), my mom said, "You're having an aura. I have them. That's what mine look like." She told me to prep for pain to start approximately when the aura disappeared. So I did. And as the shape moved diagonally across my field of vision, I watched it with fascination, and when it was gone a migraine hit me like a ton of bricks. Despite the harbinger of crap that these auras are, I feel a sort of insane affection for mine because they're just like my mom's!
Finally, after college, a doctor decided we just needed to be methodical about this and get it sorted. So, for months, I systematically cut out every type of food and drink we could think of, in an attempt to nail down my triggers. No luck. Next, we started working our way through the full litany of triptans. Triptans are the class of drugs most commonly used to treat migraines. And I've tried ALL of them. Sumatriptan. Rizatriptan. Almotriptan. Naratriptan. Frovatriptan. Zolmitriptan. Eletriptan. I even tried the combo triptan/naproxen, for good measure. It took some time, but I made it through them all. But here's the thing. I hate triptans. All of them. The best way I can describe their effect on me is this: About 20 minutes after I pop one, my brain starts to feel like it's expanding beyond the limits of my skull and my chest starts to feel like it's constricting beyond what my organs can handle and if we're being totally honest, I kind of prefer having a migraine. Apparently, this is not entirely unheard of and I recently had a neurologist reprimand me for not saying something sooner because "some people just can't take triptans." So that was 5 years supremely well spent.
So, we move on. Meanwhile, we try preventive medication--all three types of it. Have migraines? Try anti-seizure meds! Uncomfortable with your limbs constantly tingling, your food tasting wrong, and being suddenly unable to recall any of the words you need to use? Alright, we'll switch to the anti-depressants. What's that you say? No difference? None at all. Okey dokey, on to the blood pressure medications. And that's where we sit today. And I think this one may be working! A little. Sort of. Maybe. There's the slight wrinkle of putting someone with an average blood pressure of 98/60 on medication to lower her blood pressure--but we're working through that. Because if this one doesn't work--botox? That weird plastic tiara thing that I'm way too vain to be caught dead in? Not promising. But 20-22 migraine days a month isn't promising either, so we march onward.
So many people are so much worse off than I am. In so many ways related and unrelated to headaches. I am fortunate beyond measure and I know that. I want to be clear.
But here's the thing that pisses me off about migraines. They turn you into the lunatic who, on the way to each and every MRI, secretly hopes it'll turn out you have a tumor. Not, like, a big one, or a bad one, just something, that you can see, that's really there, that explains what's been happening to you. So that you stop thinking, deep in the recesses of your mind, that maybe you're making it up. Stop thinking that maybe everyone's headaches feel like this and you're just weak and prone to unnecessary complaining. Some migraine days are worse than others. But for me, it feels like someone has thrust a knife into my temple and each time my heart beats, they twist it. Each breath hurts, each step, each word, each small movement of your eye. Sometimes the knife is big, sometimes it's more manageable. But sometimes, the knife is just the right size to give you a migraine for just long enough that you find yourself on a plane, trying to get back to Nashville, in enough pain that you can't quite stop yourself from tearing up and looking just crazy enough to scare the nice man next to you out of his aisle seat and into a middle seat five rows in front of where he stowed his bag. And you think to yourself, "I may have a migraine, but that guy is going to have to stay on this plane until everyone has left so that he can go back and get his bag, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Thursday, May 16, 2013
You should go home.
Troy and I like to say that all puppies are perfect, but people can screw them up. In October of 2012, we were handed a perfect puppy and we spent the next 7 months trying not to screw him up. Largely thanks to the wonder that is Troy, we did pretty good. We had a puppy who grew by leaps and bounds--which we know because Troy kept an Excel spreadsheet of his growth which he plotted against the range of Great Dane growth from week to week. Jackson started below the curve, but very quickly caught up and then shot past whatever "normal size" means for these giant dogs. At 8 1/2 months, the oldest our baby would get to be, he was 35 inches at the shoulder and weighed a cool 120 pounds.
We tried so hard to teach him well. We taught him that peeing inside was less than desirable, that the cat prefers to bathe himself, that food was not to be eaten off the counters, that ice cubes on the floor were fair game, and that he had to walk directly beside us with his head no further forward than our leg. He spent all our walks staring up at us with his big, beautiful eyes which said very clearly, "I love you. What can I do to make you proud and happy?" He also spent our walks rubbing his head against us, which strangers thought was a sign of how much he loved us, but which we knew was his way of letting us know that he did not like his head collar.
Jackson was pure, unadulterated joy. He was love that asked only that you love him back. Which we did. Endlessly. When we lost him, we were at home, we were with him, we were playing, and when it happened, we were holding him. I try to take comfort in that, but it's hard to let feelings of comfort outweigh the images and the pain of the 20 minutes between Jackson being totally fine and the vet telling us that there was nothing they could do. He was gone.
***
Jackson bounded into our lives and changed us forever. We tried to teach him, but we learned so much more from him. We will be a better family for the next perfect puppy in our lives because we were lucky enough to be Jackson's family first.
When this happened, I went through a lot of stages.
I didn't believe this had really happened. It couldn't have. He was fine.
I shouldn't have tried to measure him. He got scared of the measuring tape.
I should have driven faster, known more about pet CPR, run red lights, insisted that the vet try harder, try again.
I was so angry. He wasn't even 9 months old. Nine months.
And now, I am sad.
I miss my dog. I want him back.
***
I've decided a few things as I process this, slowly, painfully, with two steps forward and one step back. Most of them center on how grateful I am for my husband, our life together, our ridiculous cat, and the precious puppy that blessed our lives with his lap-sitting, apple-loving, banana-craving, ice-cube-chomping, long-tongued, big-eyed, huge-hearted presence. But there is one other thing.
Go home. It's easy to stay at work. Especially when you have a loving spouse who takes good care of you and brings you food so you don't starve and takes care of the puppy and the cat so you don't have to worry about them. But go home. Do a good, honorable day's (or night's) work, but then...go home. Whatever your family looks like, you're never going to get 40 years down the road and wish you'd spent less time with them and more time with your badly lit, badly ventilated office. It's easy to think that what you're doing is that important, but unless your hands are performing a surgery saving someone's life, what you're working on can keep. Until tomorrow morning. So go home.
We tried so hard to teach him well. We taught him that peeing inside was less than desirable, that the cat prefers to bathe himself, that food was not to be eaten off the counters, that ice cubes on the floor were fair game, and that he had to walk directly beside us with his head no further forward than our leg. He spent all our walks staring up at us with his big, beautiful eyes which said very clearly, "I love you. What can I do to make you proud and happy?" He also spent our walks rubbing his head against us, which strangers thought was a sign of how much he loved us, but which we knew was his way of letting us know that he did not like his head collar.
Jackson was pure, unadulterated joy. He was love that asked only that you love him back. Which we did. Endlessly. When we lost him, we were at home, we were with him, we were playing, and when it happened, we were holding him. I try to take comfort in that, but it's hard to let feelings of comfort outweigh the images and the pain of the 20 minutes between Jackson being totally fine and the vet telling us that there was nothing they could do. He was gone.
***
Jackson bounded into our lives and changed us forever. We tried to teach him, but we learned so much more from him. We will be a better family for the next perfect puppy in our lives because we were lucky enough to be Jackson's family first.
When this happened, I went through a lot of stages.
I didn't believe this had really happened. It couldn't have. He was fine.
I shouldn't have tried to measure him. He got scared of the measuring tape.
I should have driven faster, known more about pet CPR, run red lights, insisted that the vet try harder, try again.
I was so angry. He wasn't even 9 months old. Nine months.
And now, I am sad.
I miss my dog. I want him back.
***
I've decided a few things as I process this, slowly, painfully, with two steps forward and one step back. Most of them center on how grateful I am for my husband, our life together, our ridiculous cat, and the precious puppy that blessed our lives with his lap-sitting, apple-loving, banana-craving, ice-cube-chomping, long-tongued, big-eyed, huge-hearted presence. But there is one other thing.
Go home. It's easy to stay at work. Especially when you have a loving spouse who takes good care of you and brings you food so you don't starve and takes care of the puppy and the cat so you don't have to worry about them. But go home. Do a good, honorable day's (or night's) work, but then...go home. Whatever your family looks like, you're never going to get 40 years down the road and wish you'd spent less time with them and more time with your badly lit, badly ventilated office. It's easy to think that what you're doing is that important, but unless your hands are performing a surgery saving someone's life, what you're working on can keep. Until tomorrow morning. So go home.
Our lives will never be the same for having known him and having lost him.
We love you, Jackson. And we miss you.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Writer's Block Sucks, Man
FAIR WARNING: This probably won't be funny. Like, at all.
There's something that has always been true about Troy and me. He plans ahead, he works methodically, and I...procrastinate. So, we both knew that we had to write these declarations of love, you know, sometime before the ceremony. To Troy, this meant that he should sit down a few weeks in advance, work through what he wanted to say, get it down on paper, edit a little, and be ready well in advance. He's so good. To me, on the other hand, this meant no rush, no worries...it'll get done, it always does. (This is, incidentally, how I write everything--I sit down right before it has to be done, spit it out, and it's usually pretty good. I know that sounds conceited, but I'm leaving it out there.)
I should tell you that in the week or so preceding my wedding, I was crazy busy and crazy stressed. So many wedding related things went wrong, and I felt all the weight of that on my shoulders because I was the one who had planned this wedding start to finish. Just me. And I was quickly becoming convinced that if so many things were going wrong, it must be because I had done a bad job. And I wanted so badly to create a perfect day for Troy and I to celebrate our commitment with the people we love--I didn't realize until I was walking up the lawn toward the love of my life that the day would have been perfect no matter what I did. Handily, the day was perfect in every way, and I'm quite sure that had nothing to do with my prior preparation. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The point of my obnoxious complaints about my stress level pre-wedding is this: I had left writing my declaration of love until that week. Bad call. I sat down so many times that week to write, and...nothing. Worst (and only) case of writer's block I've ever had. And suddenly, it was Saturday--the day I was getting married--and I still had nothing. I told myself I could still make it happen, write something that adequately expressed my insane, overwhelming, all-consuming love for the man I'm spending the rest of my life with. Turns out, all I could think of were the 1,000,012 little things that make me love him. The little, every day things that make up a life and a love and a marriage. I couldn't come up with anything near grand enough for this monumental occasion. (This is distinctly out of character for me; I'm usually pretty good with prose.)
So, I made myself some notes and told myself that when I was up there, I would embellish with beautiful words. And then it started. I was blissfully happy as I walked toward him. Our awesome officiant read the words I had written for our ceremony and my throat started to tighten. My wonderful sisters-in-law read the passages we'd selected and I began to tear. Then when Troy started to speak.....I lost it entirely. Then it was my turn, and frankly, we're lucky I was able to speak at all, lucky that I remembered how to read, because I was so overwhelmed with love, so excited to be standing next to the love of my life, and so thrilled to be marrying him--I had lost control of almost all my faculties. So I read the words I'd put on my little card. Told Troy and all our loved ones that I love him because he makes me eat vegetables (because it means that he wants to me to be healthy and live a long time with him). Told him I love him because he drives hours on snow-packed roads to come get me when I'm afraid to drive any further (because it means that he's utterly dependable and will do anything for me and has a wonderful family who will drive with him so that there's someone to drive my car back). Told him I love him because he's so easy to look at (because I still get butterflies when I see him). And then at the end, I managed to get it together a little bit and tell him that I feel entirely and utterly safe with him and that I have no doubts whatsoever about how happy I will be spending the rest of my life with him. But it wasn't the beautiful, eloquent speech that I had assumed I'd make.
Part of me wishes that I'd been able to write the speech I'd imagined in my head. But the other part of me knows that what I said couldn't have been any more real--it was the result of the very real and intense way in which I experienced this whole process of wedding. And while I find myself wishing that I had said something half as beautiful as what Troy said to me (he had the whole place in tears), I wouldn't change a thing about that day or our incredible ceremony, or the incredible man whose steady eyes boring into mine were the only thing that kept me from falling down the porch steps we got married on when he declared to the world that he thinks I'm amazing. Fancy that.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Nashville is Under Water
I've been gone for a while. I'm sorry about that, though I'm sure you all have other things with which to entertain yourselves. I wanted to take a step away from my usual random thoughts and tell you a little bit about what's going on here in my adopted city.
First let me say this. I love Nashville. It's a beautiful city full of wonderfully kind, generous, open hearted people, even though some of them are the weirdest drivers I have ever encountered in my entire life. This light has been red for too long. I'm just going to go ahead and go. Oops, that car is coming directly towards me. I'll reverse. Still red? Ah, I'm just going anyway. ::facepalm:: That aside, this is a cultural melting pot with some of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet, and it's a musical mecca which is a joy. The city is alive and quirky and awesome.
This past weekend we got more rain than we've ever gotten. Ever. Period. Full stop. Almost 14" fell in the city over about 36 hours, and it was more than that if you were measuring from different locations in the metro area. Because we didn't exactly design our rivers, creeks, etc. all that well, they drain into each other. Flash flood warnings started coming early in the day on Saturday, and when one creek flash flooded, it drained into a body just a bit larger, and the water levels kept going up, until each river in the area (there are multiple rivers in Nashville for my desert homies who are confused by that concept) was about 10-15ft above flood level. And each river, as it drained, emptied itself into the largest river, the Cumberland, which winds through the entire town. The flash floods, the vast amounts of rainfall, the rising water levels....these were a recipe for a disaster the likes of which we have never seen here.
Nor did we really expect to. You don't really have "Nashville" and "grab your galoshes" in the same thought. You don't think of us as potentially waterlogged. But, at least 19 people are dead, and as the waters recede, they are finding more bodies. People died as they sat on the interstate, unable to go anywhere, and unable to escape the fast moving flood. People died as the waters trapped them inside their homes. People died trying to save others. It's heartbreaking, and I don't actually know any of those people.
I have friends whose cars are literally missing. They floated away and can't be found. What do you put on that insurance claim? I have friends who have lost everything. They left their homes with what they could carry, and in most cases with their pets, and they left quickly. Most of the stories I'm hearing at work indicate to me that at one minute, things were fine, the next they looked down and had water rapidly rising around their ankles. How do you even decide what to take with you at that point?
For anyone wondering, I'm perfectly fine. Everyone close to me is fine as well, though some of them are dealing with some pretty severe damage and some still can't get home because the water hasn't gone down yet. We're extraordinarily lucky. I live about 12 blocks from the river (the big one) and it flooded its banks by about 5 blocks...that left me a 7 block cushion and a really good view of the devastation of Nashville's tourist and entertainment industry. The Grand Ole Opry, Opryland Hotel, Opry Mills Mall...under 19 feet of water. For all intents and purposes they are destroyed. The heart and soul of much of Nashville's economy is devastated, and we have no idea how much time and money it will take to come back. According to early estimates, this might be the costliest non-hurricane natural disaster in American history.
Google us. Find out what happened. Because the national news services gave us about 15 minutes and then moved on. I'm not sure why. I have a sneaking suspicion that people who don't live here have no real idea that this city has been hit hard at its heart. But as someone said, we are Nashville. We'll come back. We generally take care of ourselves and each other. You could see it over the last few days when we were without power, down to one water treatment plant, and people could still canoe the streets--there was no looting. None. When the mayor asked us all to cut our water use in half, people actually made a concerted effort to do so, and a lot of probably did so at some cost to personal hygiene. I mentioned this already, but people died to save each other. They threw their belongings out of their boats and off the backs of their jetskis (yes, people were travelling by jetski) in order to make room for their neighbors and their neighbors' pets. This was an absurd few days. But it was a testament to this city.
So Nashville is under water, and we're going to need help. I'm not sure how we're going to get it since no one outside of Nashville really knows what's happening. But spread the word. This is a remarkable place, and we'd love to welcome you with open arms as soon as we can get back on our feet.
If you're outside of Nashville, and you want to help, click here.
If you're in Nashville and you're looking for ways to help this article has some good resources.
First let me say this. I love Nashville. It's a beautiful city full of wonderfully kind, generous, open hearted people, even though some of them are the weirdest drivers I have ever encountered in my entire life. This light has been red for too long. I'm just going to go ahead and go. Oops, that car is coming directly towards me. I'll reverse. Still red? Ah, I'm just going anyway. ::facepalm:: That aside, this is a cultural melting pot with some of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet, and it's a musical mecca which is a joy. The city is alive and quirky and awesome.
This past weekend we got more rain than we've ever gotten. Ever. Period. Full stop. Almost 14" fell in the city over about 36 hours, and it was more than that if you were measuring from different locations in the metro area. Because we didn't exactly design our rivers, creeks, etc. all that well, they drain into each other. Flash flood warnings started coming early in the day on Saturday, and when one creek flash flooded, it drained into a body just a bit larger, and the water levels kept going up, until each river in the area (there are multiple rivers in Nashville for my desert homies who are confused by that concept) was about 10-15ft above flood level. And each river, as it drained, emptied itself into the largest river, the Cumberland, which winds through the entire town. The flash floods, the vast amounts of rainfall, the rising water levels....these were a recipe for a disaster the likes of which we have never seen here.
Nor did we really expect to. You don't really have "Nashville" and "grab your galoshes" in the same thought. You don't think of us as potentially waterlogged. But, at least 19 people are dead, and as the waters recede, they are finding more bodies. People died as they sat on the interstate, unable to go anywhere, and unable to escape the fast moving flood. People died as the waters trapped them inside their homes. People died trying to save others. It's heartbreaking, and I don't actually know any of those people.
I have friends whose cars are literally missing. They floated away and can't be found. What do you put on that insurance claim? I have friends who have lost everything. They left their homes with what they could carry, and in most cases with their pets, and they left quickly. Most of the stories I'm hearing at work indicate to me that at one minute, things were fine, the next they looked down and had water rapidly rising around their ankles. How do you even decide what to take with you at that point?
For anyone wondering, I'm perfectly fine. Everyone close to me is fine as well, though some of them are dealing with some pretty severe damage and some still can't get home because the water hasn't gone down yet. We're extraordinarily lucky. I live about 12 blocks from the river (the big one) and it flooded its banks by about 5 blocks...that left me a 7 block cushion and a really good view of the devastation of Nashville's tourist and entertainment industry. The Grand Ole Opry, Opryland Hotel, Opry Mills Mall...under 19 feet of water. For all intents and purposes they are destroyed. The heart and soul of much of Nashville's economy is devastated, and we have no idea how much time and money it will take to come back. According to early estimates, this might be the costliest non-hurricane natural disaster in American history.
Google us. Find out what happened. Because the national news services gave us about 15 minutes and then moved on. I'm not sure why. I have a sneaking suspicion that people who don't live here have no real idea that this city has been hit hard at its heart. But as someone said, we are Nashville. We'll come back. We generally take care of ourselves and each other. You could see it over the last few days when we were without power, down to one water treatment plant, and people could still canoe the streets--there was no looting. None. When the mayor asked us all to cut our water use in half, people actually made a concerted effort to do so, and a lot of probably did so at some cost to personal hygiene. I mentioned this already, but people died to save each other. They threw their belongings out of their boats and off the backs of their jetskis (yes, people were travelling by jetski) in order to make room for their neighbors and their neighbors' pets. This was an absurd few days. But it was a testament to this city.
So Nashville is under water, and we're going to need help. I'm not sure how we're going to get it since no one outside of Nashville really knows what's happening. But spread the word. This is a remarkable place, and we'd love to welcome you with open arms as soon as we can get back on our feet.
If you're outside of Nashville, and you want to help, click here.
If you're in Nashville and you're looking for ways to help this article has some good resources.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
You're not friends with celebrities.
Here is my public service announcement for the day:
You are not friends with celebrities. You don't know them personally. What they do on a daily basis, how they behave in their personal lives, their individual choices--these have no affect on you.
I want everyone to really think about this one. Cogitate on it with me. Because I'm getting more than a little confused by the number of people who seem personally wounded by things done by people they have never met.
Let's take an example. If my friend Glenda (she's fictional, so as to protect the innocent) was dating my friend Vincent (also fictional), and Vincent was cheating on Glenda with every woman with a nose that he could get his hands on--I might be understandably perturbed. Because I know both Glenda and Vincent. I consider them friends. I thought I understood Vincent, and trusted him to carefully guard the heart of my dear friend Glenda--but instead he cavalierly stomped all over it. I'm hurting for Glenda, I'm incensed on her behalf, and I'm also upset that I was duped into believing that Vincent was an honorable guy (the only kind I really like to be friends with, the shady ones are annoying). Vincent, Glenda, and I have shared pizzas, wandered the mall, spent countless hours talking and bonding over our mutual distrust of all things related to Fox news. But suddenly, that's ruined, and it's unpleasant (possibly for the best really, because I sound like quite the annoying third wheel).
ON THE OTHER HAND. If Tiger Woods is married to his wife (whose name I actually don't know and I'm not going to bother to look it up because that will only contribute to the madness that is this entire phenomenon), and he ends up cheating on her with lots of women (again, I don't know the specifics and I'm not going to find them out)--I might be...completely and totally UNAFFECTED. My life will not change a lick if Tiger dies his hair purple, if his wife runs over all his golf clubs with an orange golf cart that he bought her for their 5th anniversary, or if they get divorced. I don't care. And neither should you. Unless Tiger and Tiger's wife (what is her name?!) are your Vincent and Glenda, I have no earthly clue why this should make you feel anything other than a passing, "Oh dear, well isn't that too bad." Because on a basic human level, it is too bad. It's a bummer that we do bad things to each other. But unless you're planning to go on a crusade to eliminate marital infidelity (and I do think there are other crusades you should go on first), I'm not sure why you're so disturbed, why you're distressed that Tiger Woods isn't the person you thought he was--you didn't know him anyway.
If everyone's rancor was due to the actual fact of the infidelity, then every unfaithful spouse would be getting a lot more news coverage. News stations would be pulling divorce records and tracking down the parties involved to ask them how they could possibly have done this to all of us, and asking for public apologies. But obviously that's not happening, and it's because we don't care so much about what celebrities are doing....we care about the fact that they're doing anything at all where we can see them. And it's especially thrilling if we can get them to rehash it for us publicly, and maybe tearfully apologize. Because standing at that podium, with all those microphones, it seems like they're talking directly to us.
This point is especially obvious when you consider that we are now in the business of creating our own celebrities whose lives we can know more about than we know about our friends. All the ridiculous reality shows on television--where we follow entirely random people around in their daily lives, people who have done nothing to gain celebrity other than be in the appropriate place at the appropriate time and get "cast" in their own lives--these just feed our belief that people on television, in movies, and in the media should have lives that are open books. And somehow, we've come to think that simply knowing details about a person's life means we know that person and thereby have rights to some sort of opinion on everything they do. Which is, of course, patently absurd.
So I beg you to keep the following in mind:
1) You do not know Tiger Woods and the fact that he cheated on his wife has nothing to do with you and, I daresay, has not had any detrimental affect on you whatsoever.
2) Ryan Seacrest and the girl on American Idol this season who can actually sing--yeah, you don't know them either and whatever random drama was going on between them was very likely staged so that people like you would talk about it at work for days on end. It's annoying and you should stop. Because whether Ryan Seacrest is actually mean to the contestants is pretty irrelevant to your life.
3) I can't think of any other ridiculous celebrity stories, because I haven't seen E!, MTV, or VH1 since I graduated from college. And the only news I can stomach is NPR, and they're pretty light on the celebrity news.
4) Oh! I LOVE my office for inspiration. Someone just started discussing Sandra Bullock and where she's going to file for divorce. It doesn't matter since she's not (I'm fairly certain) divorcing anyone in my office.
Save your righteous indignation for when people you know do crappy things. It'll seem more authentic. And that way, Vincent will really get the tongue lashing that's coming to him...poor Glenda doesn't have the heart to do it herself in her state.
N.B. I'd like my readers (all 2 of you) to know that the "you"s in this post are the universal you and not directed at any of you in particular. Also, if you actually do know a celebrity, you can disregard. Kthanks.
You are not friends with celebrities. You don't know them personally. What they do on a daily basis, how they behave in their personal lives, their individual choices--these have no affect on you.
I want everyone to really think about this one. Cogitate on it with me. Because I'm getting more than a little confused by the number of people who seem personally wounded by things done by people they have never met.
Let's take an example. If my friend Glenda (she's fictional, so as to protect the innocent) was dating my friend Vincent (also fictional), and Vincent was cheating on Glenda with every woman with a nose that he could get his hands on--I might be understandably perturbed. Because I know both Glenda and Vincent. I consider them friends. I thought I understood Vincent, and trusted him to carefully guard the heart of my dear friend Glenda--but instead he cavalierly stomped all over it. I'm hurting for Glenda, I'm incensed on her behalf, and I'm also upset that I was duped into believing that Vincent was an honorable guy (the only kind I really like to be friends with, the shady ones are annoying). Vincent, Glenda, and I have shared pizzas, wandered the mall, spent countless hours talking and bonding over our mutual distrust of all things related to Fox news. But suddenly, that's ruined, and it's unpleasant (possibly for the best really, because I sound like quite the annoying third wheel).
ON THE OTHER HAND. If Tiger Woods is married to his wife (whose name I actually don't know and I'm not going to bother to look it up because that will only contribute to the madness that is this entire phenomenon), and he ends up cheating on her with lots of women (again, I don't know the specifics and I'm not going to find them out)--I might be...completely and totally UNAFFECTED. My life will not change a lick if Tiger dies his hair purple, if his wife runs over all his golf clubs with an orange golf cart that he bought her for their 5th anniversary, or if they get divorced. I don't care. And neither should you. Unless Tiger and Tiger's wife (what is her name?!) are your Vincent and Glenda, I have no earthly clue why this should make you feel anything other than a passing, "Oh dear, well isn't that too bad." Because on a basic human level, it is too bad. It's a bummer that we do bad things to each other. But unless you're planning to go on a crusade to eliminate marital infidelity (and I do think there are other crusades you should go on first), I'm not sure why you're so disturbed, why you're distressed that Tiger Woods isn't the person you thought he was--you didn't know him anyway.
If everyone's rancor was due to the actual fact of the infidelity, then every unfaithful spouse would be getting a lot more news coverage. News stations would be pulling divorce records and tracking down the parties involved to ask them how they could possibly have done this to all of us, and asking for public apologies. But obviously that's not happening, and it's because we don't care so much about what celebrities are doing....we care about the fact that they're doing anything at all where we can see them. And it's especially thrilling if we can get them to rehash it for us publicly, and maybe tearfully apologize. Because standing at that podium, with all those microphones, it seems like they're talking directly to us.
This point is especially obvious when you consider that we are now in the business of creating our own celebrities whose lives we can know more about than we know about our friends. All the ridiculous reality shows on television--where we follow entirely random people around in their daily lives, people who have done nothing to gain celebrity other than be in the appropriate place at the appropriate time and get "cast" in their own lives--these just feed our belief that people on television, in movies, and in the media should have lives that are open books. And somehow, we've come to think that simply knowing details about a person's life means we know that person and thereby have rights to some sort of opinion on everything they do. Which is, of course, patently absurd.
So I beg you to keep the following in mind:
1) You do not know Tiger Woods and the fact that he cheated on his wife has nothing to do with you and, I daresay, has not had any detrimental affect on you whatsoever.
2) Ryan Seacrest and the girl on American Idol this season who can actually sing--yeah, you don't know them either and whatever random drama was going on between them was very likely staged so that people like you would talk about it at work for days on end. It's annoying and you should stop. Because whether Ryan Seacrest is actually mean to the contestants is pretty irrelevant to your life.
3) I can't think of any other ridiculous celebrity stories, because I haven't seen E!, MTV, or VH1 since I graduated from college. And the only news I can stomach is NPR, and they're pretty light on the celebrity news.
4) Oh! I LOVE my office for inspiration. Someone just started discussing Sandra Bullock and where she's going to file for divorce. It doesn't matter since she's not (I'm fairly certain) divorcing anyone in my office.
Save your righteous indignation for when people you know do crappy things. It'll seem more authentic. And that way, Vincent will really get the tongue lashing that's coming to him...poor Glenda doesn't have the heart to do it herself in her state.
N.B. I'd like my readers (all 2 of you) to know that the "you"s in this post are the universal you and not directed at any of you in particular. Also, if you actually do know a celebrity, you can disregard. Kthanks.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Weddings are a conspiracy by the postal service.
Okay, for anyone who's missed the memo: I'm getting married. To Troy. We've talked about him a bit. He's pretty great. Anyway, that's nice, but not really the point. The point is that I've discovered several things during the process of planning a wedding, and one of them is that weddings are AWESOME for the postal service.
Let's think about it. We send out save the dates. We send out invitations. We send out registry information cards. We send out shower invitations. We send out rehearsal dinner invitations. We send out bridesmaid luncheon invitations. We send out day-after brunch invitations. We send out thank you notes for the many many gifts, including the ones that are mailed to us. And despite the fact that we live in an electronic age, where everything from college applications to pizza orders are done online, we are vehemently opposed to sending any of these things out electronically. Because it would be RUDE.
And here's my question: how can a method of communicating something be inherently rude or polite? I mean, sure, if I invited people to my wedding by saying, "You. Wedding. December 1. Be there or I'll punch you in the throat." That would be rude. Because you should never threaten people with violence in order to make them come celebrate your nuptials and buy you a present. Poor taste. But what exactly is more or less polite about a beautiful invitation that makes clear that a couple values you, your friendship, and your presence at the beginning of their marriage either on paper or on your computer screen? Is it because you feel special that they spent an average of $700 on their invitations (that's the average amount a couple spends, but trust me when I tell you that the really nice invites can run up to $9 PER INVITE)? Does spending money on the invitation mean you care more about the people you're inviting? What about the care you have for the trees you're killing and the resources you're wasting on invitations that people will literally throw away in very short order? If you got an email with an attachment that was an image of a beautiful invitation and it contained a hyperlink that allowed you to click yes or no--what exactly would the problem be?
I understand that there is a problem. There is a reason that no one is doing this. I've heard the "some people don't have computers or internet" excuse--but we're rapidly running out of steam on that one. My step-grandparents, who are *ahem* not spring chickens, were among the FIRST people to use my wedding website and were again among the first to RSVP electronically. My parents receive more emails from my mema than from anyone else. They've got a computer and they know how to use it, and what's more, they DO use it all. the. time. Anyone ever seen myparentsjoinedfacebook.com? It's the 21st century, people. We have computers in our wristwatches, our cell phones, our dashboards, and everyone is using them. The parents on facebook thing is really not a problem for me, but is totally a topic for another day.
Each of the invitations to each of the wedding-related activities are supposed to be printed on paper and mailed. Because it's polite. And I've heard the "woe is me" tales from those who have received these invitations in electronic form. Here are some of my favorites (all things I have actually heard or read from real people):
Let's think about it. We send out save the dates. We send out invitations. We send out registry information cards. We send out shower invitations. We send out rehearsal dinner invitations. We send out bridesmaid luncheon invitations. We send out day-after brunch invitations. We send out thank you notes for the many many gifts, including the ones that are mailed to us. And despite the fact that we live in an electronic age, where everything from college applications to pizza orders are done online, we are vehemently opposed to sending any of these things out electronically. Because it would be RUDE.
And here's my question: how can a method of communicating something be inherently rude or polite? I mean, sure, if I invited people to my wedding by saying, "You. Wedding. December 1. Be there or I'll punch you in the throat." That would be rude. Because you should never threaten people with violence in order to make them come celebrate your nuptials and buy you a present. Poor taste. But what exactly is more or less polite about a beautiful invitation that makes clear that a couple values you, your friendship, and your presence at the beginning of their marriage either on paper or on your computer screen? Is it because you feel special that they spent an average of $700 on their invitations (that's the average amount a couple spends, but trust me when I tell you that the really nice invites can run up to $9 PER INVITE)? Does spending money on the invitation mean you care more about the people you're inviting? What about the care you have for the trees you're killing and the resources you're wasting on invitations that people will literally throw away in very short order? If you got an email with an attachment that was an image of a beautiful invitation and it contained a hyperlink that allowed you to click yes or no--what exactly would the problem be?
I understand that there is a problem. There is a reason that no one is doing this. I've heard the "some people don't have computers or internet" excuse--but we're rapidly running out of steam on that one. My step-grandparents, who are *ahem* not spring chickens, were among the FIRST people to use my wedding website and were again among the first to RSVP electronically. My parents receive more emails from my mema than from anyone else. They've got a computer and they know how to use it, and what's more, they DO use it all. the. time. Anyone ever seen myparentsjoinedfacebook.com? It's the 21st century, people. We have computers in our wristwatches, our cell phones, our dashboards, and everyone is using them. The parents on facebook thing is really not a problem for me, but is totally a topic for another day.
Each of the invitations to each of the wedding-related activities are supposed to be printed on paper and mailed. Because it's polite. And I've heard the "woe is me" tales from those who have received these invitations in electronic form. Here are some of my favorites (all things I have actually heard or read from real people):
If you send an electronic invitation you're not spending any money, which means you're asking me to get you a nice gift when you didn't put forth any monetary effort yourself.
Umm...ok? Because it's not even remotely possible that I have a limited budget and decided that instead of putting $1000 toward paper invitations I decided to spend that money on an open bar or a delicious entree choice that you will undoubtedly enjoy more? And I was actually not aware that I was sending wedding invitations in an effort to elicit from you the most expensive wedding gift possible. I thought I was inviting you to my wedding so that you would 1) know that I'm getting married and when; 2) know that you have been an important part of my or my fiance's life; and 3) know that it would mean a great deal to one or both of us if you shared in our joy on the day that we publicly commit our lives to each other. But maybe that's just me.
Things done online are inherently less formal than things printed on paper, so if you send me an electronic invitation, I will assume that means your event is informal.
Well that's just silly. You can apply to Harvard online. You can apply to work for the President online. And when I say "can" I really mean "should"--I've been working in admissions for a while, and I'll tell you that we take someone a lot more seriously when we receive their application online because it's neater and easier to read, and it doesn't give us more paper to keep track of, which is just annoying. So you can't convince me that there's anything inherently formal or informal about the internet.
Electronic invitations are impersonal. I like to picture the bride and groom sitting around a table with their families, addressing each invitation, and telling stories about the people they're inviting and why they've been important parts of the lives of the bride and groom.
That's not going to happen, first of all. Personally, I had a little team of girls who helped me with my invitations, and that was great--we sat and chatted and then we had dinner together. It was lovely. BUT, most brides that I know spend night after night feverishly sitting at their kitchen table working on their invitations until they're so sick of them they want to puke. I was a lucky girl to have lovely people helping me. But I did my save-the-dates and my rehearsal dinner invitations all on my own, the stuffing, the addressing, the stamping, the sealing. It's not fun, it's not personal, and it doesn't promote positive associations with the people to whom the little envelopes are being sent. And explain to me how receiving an identical physical invitation to every other person on the guest list is somehow more personal than receiving an identical electronic invitation? The difference is that with the physical one, someone has to write your name and address, but with an electronic invite, they only have to type in your email. Both of which are specific to you. And about the only personalization the invite is getting. And I'll be real with you. A lot of brides pay people to address their invites for them. So I'm missing the personal touch in all this.
Really, I don't get it. But SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE has us convinced of these things. There must be some sort of outside force, because I refuse to believe that there are so many people in the world who are just blindly and illogically obsessed with unfounded rules about what is rude and what is polite. And I believe that force is the United States Postal Service. I mean, come on....who benefits from this, except for them? Stationery companies can always transition to electronic media and make you pay them for their designs--a lot of them are already doing it. But the postal service--they'd be in even deeper sh** than they currently are if everyone suddenly discovered that it's perfectly acceptable, much easier, and way cheaper, if we just do all these wedding-y things electronically. So they go around making sure we all firmly believe that we would be the height of impudence to even consider e-viting people to our weddings, showers, rehearsals, and brunches.
And I have bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. I am utterly terrified of being considered ill-mannered, and there is more than one person in my life who I fear would be truly offended if I violated any social mores. And I really don't like upsetting people or causing them to think badly of me. I even paid extra for postage so that I could have the pretty wedding stamps instead of buying stamps in the amount I actually needed--yeah, the postal service loves me. Since I got engaged, I have mailed more things than I have mailed in my entire life. And there's no end in sight. I'm on a couple of wedding blogs and there are long, detailed conversations about which stamps to use and whether it's worth it to spend more on postage in order to use the envelopes you REALLY like. So yeah. Weddings are a conspiracy by the postal service. We're keeping them in business, and I firmly believe that if not for the income generated for them by weddings, postage would have gone up to way more than 44 cents by now. You're welcome. ;)
Monday, April 19, 2010
Abba Wrote a Song About Me
Well at least I'm pretty sure it's about me. I mean, who else could they possibly have had in mind when they wrote Thank You for the Music in 1977 (and released it on an album creatively titled "The Album"...Oh, Abba...), 9 years before I was to grace the earth with my presence? Abba is wise. They saw me coming.
Let's break it down, line by line, and you'll see what I mean.
Let's break it down, line by line, and you'll see what I mean.
I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore.
Ok, that one they got wrong. Clearly I delight everyone with whom I come in contact with my unique wit and overwhelming charm. And with my modesty, which is so pervasive as to fill up whole rooms. No really. But, you can't blame Abba--we don't technically speak the same language and we come from different cultures, so it's possible they just don't understand me.
When I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before.
Well, that's true but it's only because I have a horrendous memory when it comes to what I've already told you and what I haven't. Let's be clear, I'm not much for "joke" telling, I'm more of an "amusing anecdote" kind of person, and while I have them to share in unlimited supply I often forget to whom I have told which tale of hilarity. For this, I offer many apologies, and I ask only that you listen politely on the 2nd and 3rd tellings, laughing at the appropriate junctures, and wait until I am re-telling for the 4th time to inform me that you've heard this one already. Thanks.
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing, 'cause everyone listens when I start to sing.
Yes, I'm really really good at demanding attention. And, I have an unfortunate habit of singing at inappropriate times. In the line at the grocery store, in my cubicle at work, at parties....songs just pop into my head and I start singing them. It's a complusion and I can't seem to really control it at all. I also do a lot of singing at appropriate times--with my voice teachers, in choir rehearsal, at karaoke bars. But I have to be honest and say that if this is one of those "which came first" questions--the inappropriate or the appropriate singing--I'd have to say it was the inappropriate. I showed a certain proclivity for singing at weird times starting a very young age--but we'll talk about that shortly. Needless to say, I'm guessing my parents were hoping that putting me in choirs and voice lessons would give me an outlet and I'd stop singing all the bloody time. Oh well. ;)
I'm so grateful and proud, all I want is to sing it out loud.
That's basically true. I'm grateful to my parents for supporting my singing habit so staunchly, grateful to Troy and my friends for continuing to put up with it (especially to Troy--I mean, I love all of you, but none of you have to share a 650 sq. ft. condo with me and the songs I get stuck in my head). And I'm proud because (and I'm being perfectly frank here) I don't think all the money and time spent on this habit in my youth was wasted. I'm not half bad. And, in fact, mostly what I want is to sing it (to be read as "everything") out loud. I look forward to driving by myself so that I can practice in the car. I spend HOURS memorizing new songs by listening to them on repeat while reading the lyrics very carefully. And I love showers because the acoustics are so good.
Let's skip the chorus for now...it shows up several times and we'll get there shortly.
Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk, she says I began to sing long before I could talk.
I've heard stories along these lines from both my parents for a long time. So I'm pretty sure they're true. Okay, perhaps not literally true--"before I could walk" and "before I could talk" are just used for dramatic effect and embellishment to make a point. I started dancing and singing really early. This not-quite-accurate-but-still-reflective-of-something-that-actually-happened line makes me even more certain that this song is about me. Just ask Troy...I embellish all the time and drive him nuts. ;) Anyway, I have pictures as proof of how ridiculously early I started dancing "for reals" (aged 2.5) but I'm quite certain there was some pretty spastically wonderful dancing happening before my training kicked in. And apparently, I was not a crier as a baby--I didn't wake up in my crib and cry to alert my parents to my current state and my desire to be attended to. I woke up in my crib and sang until my parents noticed me. I believe the mornings went something like this:
Parents: (hearing Mary singing) Good morning, Mary.
Mary: Hi! Do you wanna sing a song?
Parents: Well sure, sweetheart. (They were very accommodating.)
Parents and Mary: *sing until parents decide there's something else that should be happening*
Don't lie. You are totally hoping that's what your kid does to wake you up instead of wailing like a banshee.
And I've often wondered, where did it all start? Who found out that nothing can capture the heart like a melody can? Well whoever it was, I'm a fan.
A fascinating question and, in fact, one that I have pondered on occasion. Turns out, I'm not alone. Darwin wondered what could have possessed man to go from producing sounds purely for utility to producing them for pleasure (ie. music). In The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (not very pithy with that one, was he?): "As neither the enjoyment nor the capacity of producing musical notes are faculties of the least use to man...they must be ranked amongst the most mysterious with which he is endowed." There are a variety of theories as to why we might have developed the drive to make music--the one I like is a compilation of other theories and goes like this: Our ability to make music is a side effect of our abilities to do other things like speak and make vocalizations in response to emotional stimuli (animal vocalizations). Our perceptual and cognitive abilities sort of accidentally make us respond emotionally to music. But that doesn't really answer the question WHO and WHERE? We're not really sure, because early humans weren't very practiced in self-awareness and they didn't think to make a note in the cave wall when they first discovered a pleasant little ditty. There is a theory that it was no earlier than late homo erectus (about 500,000 years ago) because there is fossil evidence that it was then that humans developed a larger thoracic vertebral canal which is linked to greater breath control, and thus the ability for complex vocalization. (Wow...nerdy much? I'm done now.) Seriously though, not sure where it started or with whom, but I love it.
I've been so lucky. I am the girl with golden hair. I wanna sing it out to everybody--what a joy, what a life, what a chance!
In all seriousness. I am outstandingly, disgustingly lucky. I won't go into details as to why, but I will say that it has very little to do with my hair color (especially since my betrothed and I can't seem to agree on what color my hair is). I am annoyingly happy with my life when I ignore certain unfortunate things that are only temporary and really not all that important--possibly a contributing factor to all the inappropriate singing. Well. I'd probably just sing sadder stuff if I was bummed all the time.
And on to the chorus:
So I say thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing.
I do. Thanks prehistoric singing dudes.
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing. Who can live without it? I ask in all honesty.
Ok, I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves. I'm not at all certain that my random singing of random songs no one has heard of brings all that much joy to anyone but me and I'm decently sure that a lot of people could live without it.
What would life be? Without a song or a dance what are we?
Ohhhhhh, you don't mean live without MY singing in particular. You meant songs and dance in GENERAL. Well that's a horse of a different color. Yes, indeed, what would we be? I'll let Nietzsche sum this one up for me, because I've gone on long enough already. He said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." Agreed, Friedrich.
So yeah. Clearly, the song is about me. Anyone else have any songs written about them? Because it's pretty awesome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)