I came in, looking for a particular post that I wished to reference on my new blog site, and I got caught up in re-experiencing my old posts. Now that I’m here, looking at my old words up on the screen, I feel like I’ve left a child behind who needed my care. I’m a bad bad writer! Mother. Writer. Whatever!
Now I wonder what to do – come back to this blog or continue on at my new site. How to link both, so that all of my blog-life can reside in one place at one time… ?
This will be my last “Dissatisfied” post.
I will take the blame, and say that I should have given more thought to these issues:
Ya’ll do know what a blog IS, right?
For those of you who are at this very moment screaming, “YES! YES WE KNOW! DON’T GO!” Fear not. I am going to create another blog. I have no idea as yet what it will be called, but – sadly – I won’t be actively linking on facebook. I initially thought that that was simply an easy way for those few who read me (and who care what I have to say) to easily find me. And it was. But apparently it also created unneeded controversy and, for Pete’s sake, can’t we all create enough of that on our own without help from others? (Really can.)
So… if you want to be included in the readership for my new blog, just send me a quick note, and I will make sure you know where to find it.
For those of you who HAVE gotten my writing intentions, I thank you. I hope you’ve enjoyed my dissatisfaction as much as I’ve enjoyed sharing it.
Moving is such a hassle! And it certainly guarantees said dissatisfaction. Ooh… the circle of life continues… hakuna matata, baby.
Another year over, and a new year not quite begun.
Christmas weekend is behind us. I believe the full force of my annual post-holiday depression hit me last night. It’s a good thing there are no bridges nearby – s’all I’m sayin’.
I’m actually wrestling with the notion of anti-depressants. I see a therapist, but I do not believe she is the medicating kind of therapist. The only mention of pharmaceuticals thus far has been during our first session when she asked me if I was on, or ever had been on, mood altering medications.
No. Sadly, I’m not.
In years past I would have been vehemently opposed to taking that kind of medication… any kind of medication really. I don’t know whether my relaxing into acetaminophen and the occasional pilfering from my mother’s pharmacy – for VERY occasional therapeutic purposes only of course – is part of the expected maturation process that happens when everyone gets to a certain age and “whatever” becomes less a response of adolescent rebellion and more being too exhausted to care about maintaining a persona… OR if it’s the process whereby I am slowly but surely exiting my long dark period of constant anti-pharmaceutical brainwashing.
And not just anti-pharmaceutical… but anti-government… anti-religion… anti-society really.
I began what would become a life-partner type of relationship at the age of 19. This person was – is – very passionate about his belief system and about his outlook on education, life, spirituality and energy connection. I was in just the wrong place at just the wrong time and WHAMMO… I blinked and ten years passed before I realized that my philosophies and opinions and beliefs and preferences were his.
Dammit.
I’d become one of those women I’d either pitied or despised depending on the day and my mood.
So here I am at 35, still chained to my own personal testosterone infused ball of STUPID, who – by the way – is becoming less and less attractive with each propagandist syllable that is repeated over and over and blah blah blah like he’s Rainman waiting for Wapner.
I’ve heard his stories. I’ve heard his philosophies. I’ve listened to his epic tales of grand passion and pain that have shaped him into the warped, delusional, self-absorbed, infantile, repetitive quasi-guru that he is. I’ve been orbiting him for years now, seeing to his needs instead of paying heed to the numerous and growing holes in my own damn ozone.
But the therapist is right. He’s still here for a reason… I need him for something… the mind reels at that, but I guess she’s not a therapist because she earned her diploma as a result of purchasing just the right box of cracker-jacks.
So… once I figure out that nasty little conundrum, then perhaps I can sit and ponder my own take on western medicine and politics and spirituality and civilization at large.
The guru can go attain his own enlightenment under his own steam… or – more likely – he’ll just find someone else to take up the heavy-lifting in carting him the rest of the way up to the mountaintop.
The wheels on the bus go round and round…
Today is Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, I’m working and somehow still have to get my dog to the vet before noon. I’m already tapped out on cash – it being CHRISTMAS EVE… I think I mentioned that. I COULD have purchased another gift or two before I felt as though I’d actually done all I could for Christmas, but… I guess we’re throwing this Christmas to the dogs… literally.
Obviously, I’m letting my little financial challenge color my writing mood.
I do feel sorry for my poor pooch. He’s got a nasty hot spot on his paw that he’s been licking at for weeks now, and that I’ve been attacking from the other side with cheaper non-vet remedies for just as long. The dog and the sore paw are beating me senseless.
So I fold – off the vet we go… on Christmas Eve… did I mention it’s CHRISTMAS EVE??
I was feeling much more festive a couple of days ago, and now I can hear the bah-humbugs divebombing through the air like flaming gin-soaked sugar plums.
In the midst of all of this I still have to somehow manage to avoid an extended relative if at all possible.
Five words: UNINVITED PAIN IN THE ASS.
S’all I’m sayin’.
Merry Freakin’ Christmas.
Remember how, when we were kids, Christmas was magical? And the magic was such a real, almost tangible thing? The excitement was overwhelming, and time crawled as we counted the seconds until Christmas morning.
And the day after Christmas was always so anti-climactic. There had been such a buildup to Christmas day that, when it was over, depression inevitably set in… such a looooong time until Christmas happened again!
The day after Christmas is still, for me, depressing. But then… most days are rather lacking in luster anyway, so why should the twenty-sixth of December not be subject to my chemically imbalanced outlook on life?
Today is Monday. Christmas is Friday. I have some gifts still in need of purchasing… a few errands to run before the big day. I love giving gifts, and of course getting gifts is never anything at which I’ll stick up my nose.
But… the day comes… perhaps a surprise is torn open under the tree that was unexpected enough to cause THE GASP… a good dinner is eaten… a quiet night is spent watching Christmas movies with your loved ones in a dark room that’s lit only by a glowing tree… that can’t not always be cozy.
But how do I get the magic back??
How do I get the old Christmas tingle when city streetlights blink their festive red and green?
How do I find my warmth and fuzziness when I stop to look in a store window decorated for the holiday?
How do I remember that special stillness that, even as a child, I could perceive while quietly singing “Silent Night”?
How do I re-create the desperate hope I’d feel as I’d write my annual letter to Santa… just KNOWING he would read my words and work so hard to see to my own personal Christmas wishes?
How do I conjure the excitement to race past the Building & Loan, screaming out well wishes to Mr. Freakin’ Potter on my way to get Clarence his wings??!
Is it a process that actually REQUIRES a set of silver bells?
Can the bells be only plated, or must they be solid silver?
Should I try finding an accidentally discarded magician’s top hat and start shouting HAPPY BIRTHDAY at random passersby?
Does someone have a secret map to Who-ville? (Although I think I’d pass on the Roast Beast regardless of how truly festive I was feeling.)
Buddy suggests that “the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.” So, if I’m the one in need of cheer, do I need to find someone to sing at me, or can I expedite the process and sing at myself? And if I do it myself, must I still be within earshot of others?
So complicated. Christmas used to be simple… back when my best gifts were plastic toasters that popped out delicious foam toast, Hungry-Hungry Hippo and homemade Raggedy Ann dolls.
So apparently the answer is not necessarily bigger and “better” gifts.
It seems “adult” awareness is the biggest stumbling block in the achievement of a magically delicious Christmas.
Those pesky mental health professionals and their anti-regressive opinions… sounds like Scrooge’s sour grapes to me.
May God bless us, everyone… apparently with some great mood stabilizing pharmaceuticals.
The outlook for this weekend: surprisingly festive.
Tomorrow evening, I will be going to the winter solstice service at the local Unitarian Church. It’s one of my favorite annual activities… always beautiful with soft chant-like hymns and candlelight.
Before the service, a few friends and I will be enjoying an early dinner, and then off we go to explore the more pagan-esque side of our spirituality.
Sunday: Grandma’s birthday with a side of Christmas shopping. I also have to fit in some work both Saturday morning and sometime Sunday afternoon. No rest for the destitute!
Again, I grumble over the ridiculous notion that money can’t buy happiness. I would LOVE to test that nonsensical theory.
Poverty creates stress, anxiety and depression. Not ever again having to worry about how the bills will be paid would lift such a huge burden from one’s shoulders! The freedom and calm that that alone would instill would be unbelievable! How could one NOT be happier under such conditions??!
But apparently I digress with logic.
I am back to the salt mines for a short time before I can finally enjoy a few hours of rest.
Have a wonderful weekend all, and remember me on your Christmas lists… cash is accepted… and I do have paypal.
I don’t like working weekends. I don’t like working nights. Come to think of it, I don’t like working days either. It seems that I just don’t like working. But I knew this about myself.
The weekend yawns before me, and it’s almost as sleepy as I am.
(ba dum bum… there’s a waitress… tip her dammit)
Do I want to retire at the ripe age of 35 because I’m lazy or is it simply because I haven’t found my “calling” yet? I would like to think it’s the latter, but someone came up with the seven deadly sins for a reason… most likely because they saw them all being so clearly personified within humanity.
Most days, I can so clearly see myself as Sloth. But then Gluttony and I have a very close relationship… admire my ass why doncha. And my goodness… Lust is not to be outdone. I mean… I’m lazy, but I’m not catatonic. I wonder if there’s not ONE of those seven that I don’t practice regularly and with much gusto? Thinking hard here…
Ok… if you read me regularly, then you know I’m nothing if not angry. Check on the Wrath.
I frequently recognize my bitterness over the happy things, circumstances and lifestyles that other lesser mortals are enjoying – while I am not. So I’ve got Envy well looked after. Going back to that whole “lesser mortals” outlook… yeah, yeah I know… PRIDE ALERT.
So that’s a thick and even smothering of Wrath, Sloth, Pride, Lust, Envy and Gluttony. All that’s left is Greed.
Hmmm… a tricky one.
I love having lots of whatever it is that I enjoy. Who doesn’t? But… for example, at Christmastime: I LOVE LOVE LOVE getting presents. Who are we kidding – I love getting presents whether it’s Christmas or not!
Ok FOCUS… Christmastime… ok… I love getting big piles of presents, no doubt.
BUT… I do also get a special zing from finding just the right gift for someone else. You know when you find “that thing” for someone that will cause them to completely lose their mind with happiness? How much fun is that to give… and watch… and experience with them??
I believe I will give myself a pass on the Greed… only because I insist that I have at least one redeeming quality, and yikes, but I’m skating on thin ice… clearly Satan himself is taking a well-fuelled blow torch directly to my own personal “skating rink of life”.
Yeah… I just threw up a little on that one too… you’re not alone.
And totally off topic (but not really) – the other night I happened upon this WEIRD B movie from the 70′s (gasp): The Daughters of Satan (yes I’m serious). It had that strange orange tint to the film we’re all familiar with, yet disturbed by. It starred a pre-Magnum Tom Selleck who was playing – get this – a college professor. That part might not have been so odd if he hadn’t already started dressing like Magnum, higher education be damned.
His wife sacrificed him to Beelzebub at the end. I personally think it was due to the shirts.
Is it just me (and it usually is), or does it almost always seem like the people in places of power (vocationally speaking) are… shall we say… less than impressive?
Yes. You’re right. I had a hard time being more civil & less descriptive with that one.
I mean no offense to any one person… at least no one I know personally who might be reading this… but – from personal experience – I always seem to land directly under the one person who will aggravate me the most.
The one person who – at that moment in time – seems to have been born knowing their sole purpose in life on this planet was to make MY life as miserable and as frustrating as possible while we are circulating in the same business sphere.
Is this because I was built to steer my own ship – to be the master of my own self – to be the one leading the herd and giving the orders?
Or is it because I’m excessively difficult and can’t deal with anyone else telling me what to do?
(Shutup)
I know I detest orders from someone other than myself. That’s got to be why I was a pro at being fired by the tender age of 19.
But there also has to be a reason for being that naturally “difficult” aside from JUST BEING naturally difficult, which – yes, Virginia – we all know that I am.
I am currently sitting here and typing to you on “company time”. The upper eschelons of this current business brain trust are – no surprise – also not inspiring great respect from me.
I won’t go into the how’s and why’s of everything they are doing that they shouldn’t be and everything else that they dropped the ball on and aren’t doing at all. None of us have that kind of time.
But once again – here I sit – irritated by someone else’s inept handling of a situation that I feel I would pretty much knock out of the park had I the opportunity and a big enough bat.
At how many balls must I violently swing before I get a free walk??
To say that I’m a “homebody” of late would be a drastic understatement.
I’m now a cave-dweller.
Actually, I dwell under the largest, most immovable rock as deep inside the blackest cave I could get.
I think I might understand where agoraphobes are coming from.
I can’t say if my lack of interest in leaving the house is because I’m feeling reclusive and just don’t want to deal with the rest of the humans on the planet…
… OR…
… if the anxiety I feel at the prospect of most outings is actually to do with the outings themselves.
I’m not a fan of humans anyway… we’ve covered that previously. But lately I’m just checked WAY out of life and human interaction.
I think I’m hibernating… in the aforementioned cave.
Go ahead… poke the bear… see what happens.
Today, I am faced with a conundrum. A friend of mine is throwing another friend of mine a birthday party tomorrow evening. This party falls on the same night as a “work” party.
I’m not that excited about the latter. I’d prefer to attend the former. My anxiety about not attending the work function stems from my feeling of insecurity with regard to my “position” within this group of co-workers.
There’s my feeling of obligation to show my face, make everyone remember that I am part of the group (even though I’m a much smaller part than I think I should be) and therefore “protect” what little territory I can claim as my own. It’s a small patch, really. Not even worth peeing on. So back away before I get all pit-bull, please. Thank you.
But who wants to go to a party out of obligation? It just makes the gathering that much harder to slog through. A birthday party with friends sounds like the perfect alternative.
A little aside – I should say that it’s not that I always hate work parties. They’re always fun. I enjoy myself. It’s not that I hate the thought of going to this particular party. I’m sure this one will be fun too, as usual. I’m just normally not faced with this kind of choice every time I’m putting a party on my calendar… thank god!
So I’m either going to be ratted out at the work party or piss people off at the friend party.
Envy me, people.
If I don’t go to the work thing, the world won’t end. I won’t be fired. I just won’t be thought of all evening, and in the world that comprises these people, I’m already not-thought-of ENOUGH. We don’t need to be doing more of that. But… I could stop obsessing about it… what will be will be, right? That attitude always worked for Doris, for God’s sake.
But I think I’m going to cave. I will go to the work party. Hopefully it will be a nice short pop-my-head-in visit. I will placate with extra gifts and booze, and then I will make the million and a half mile trek up to the north side of town to the birthday party.
Could I be overthinking this? Absolutely. It’s what I do.
It’s getting way too crowded in my head. I think we need to blast through the bedrock and rebuild civilization as I know it.
Now excuse me while I take the left fork… and then double back… and then take the right fork… and then…
