OH. PIN. YON.
Posted by: missconstrued on: July 5, 2009
Coming home again is always an interesting feeling. Exciting, painful, embarrassing, irritating, heart-wrenching, relaxing. All in the space of about 5 minutes.
Last night, for example, I went to a 4th of July shindig at a relative’s house. It was mentioned about 5 times how 10 years ago I was a completely drunk bitch to my ex. Again. And again. And again. The first time I smiled and nodded politely, but around the 3rd time, I just felt uncomfortable. Like sand in my eyeballs.
It’s jarring for me to realize that no matter what I accomplish in my life, family members will hang on to that one time I displayed some humanity (in their eyes – flaws). I was told, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always thought you were a bitch. You speak your mind and get what you want.” Really? REALLY?! I used to think that alcohol made you speak the truth – in vino veritas – but now? I just think it makes you look like an ass.
I’ve heard some disturbing stories about myself, and they make me cringe. I was told that I was NOT what another relative expected because her husband (my cousin) visited us when I was 9 and ridiculously spoiled and dropped something purposefully on the floor and told them to watch while the maid picked it up. I know that I am working on not taking things personally, but felt upset. Really? I’m 33 now. Although I do still experience lapses in judgement from time to time, I think I have a generally good understanding of basic human compassion. I guess I feel upset because I feel the story was told with a malicious intent. Not as a “look how silly you were when you were little” vignette.
DEEP BREATH.
I often cite watching many of my native american relatives falling away to alcoholism as a driving source for me to stay sober. What I had forgotten was how intensely uncomfortable it is to watch them drink. And drink. And drink. I know that I could just NOT put myself in those situations, but I feel it easier to go, say hello, and put my face time in.
I am also struggling with the familiarity of family. I don’t really like when people tell me that all addicts will die or tell me that they don’t like philosphies/opinions shoved down their throats, and then do the same thing to me.
I’ve put my face time in, I am now officially on REELAX mode. Which means that I have every intention of sleeping for the next 2 weeks straight.
That’ll give me some time to work on acceptance.
Still Chasing Sarah Palin
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 28, 2009
I awoke before my alarm, at 3:30, in nervous anticipation (there’s a reason it’s a cliche: it’s true) and readied my stuff several times before I hopped in the shower and got dressed. I had finally decided on “THE OUTFIT” – that I thought would be a winning combination for me. I wore my “marathon girl” ultra silk skirt from skirtsports, a “freakishly strong” performance tank (because that’s what Chad told me I was, and that is waaaay better than “prissy”), my moeben tie dye sleeves, new balance socks, and Brooks Shoes.
Now, I have to say something about the skirt, because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. I don’t wear a running skirt to feel “more feminine” or because I think it is flirty and cute or any of that horse’s manure. It’s cooler. And, unlike some of my running shorts, it does not get so sweaty that it slaps the back of my legs over the miles, dripping sweat down into my socks – which can cause blisters.
My final preparation was my list. I had read about a runner who kept a mental list of names in her head to help her get through the final miles. She compiled a list of those names and thought about how their suffering was ultimately more painful than hers would be and focused on them while she ran, using their memories as inspiration and strength through the miles. I’m not quite sure *WHY* I run, but know that it has been a lifesaver, in the literal sense. As I asked Chad to write the names I had selected on the back of my leg in Sharpie, I mentally dedicated that run to them. The good times, the bad times, all of it.
We all tumbled into the car at 5:15 (eldest kid, mother in law, Chad and I) and headed out to the starting point, in Tukwila. I was alternately excited, terrified, and wanting to turn around and go back to bed. Thankfully, Colby and his mom were already there, so the knowledge that I HAD to meet him there kept me moving forward. Even if it was only inch by inch.
As we pulled up to the runner’s drop off point, I was completely and totally overwhelmed. When I did the Ronald McDonald race last summer, I think there were about 1,200 runners. And that seemed HUGE to me. This time? There were 25,000. Let me repeat that for you: Twenty five! Thousand! As Colby observed, “They just keep coming and coming!” In flocks, swarms, groups. Runner after runner after runner after runner.
With about 21 minutes before start, the kid and I got in the porta potty line before we headed off to our respective corrals. I am thankful that he is patient with me. He knows that if there is a stop, I am going to take it. The line moved quickly, and we went to drop our gear bags off at the UPS truck set up. Because he had a clear mind, he was smart enough to tuck his gear bag into mine so only one of us had to pick up. We shared a water while I chattered nervously and then parted ways. At the time of sign up, I had estimated both our times; as a result we started in different corrals.
I scooted up to Corral #8 just in time to hear the end of the Star Spangled Banner. I was so nervous that I didn’t recognize it! I stood just outside the barriers, wondering if I was going to have to hop over before I got in. I took stock of other people in my corral, more to keep my mind occupied. Although 8 minutes passed after the Kenyans took off before my start time, it seems like a blur. We moved up wave by wave, until finally we were off!
I have to be honest and say that I don’t remember much from the first 13 miles – I tried to take mental snap shots, kind of wishing that I had carried a camera, but knowing that I would want to rid myself of any extra weight around mile 18. Or 19. Or 20. I am happy that they had photographers along the course, and will happily pay. I was suprised by the sheer NUMBER of people. I was constantly dodging feet, bumping into people, and saying, “excuse me.” I ran on the outside left shoulder of the road and tried to stay out of the way. I tried very hard to stay at an 8:30 pace, but was honestly distracted by all the sights and sounds. At one point I just fell into a clump and was watching everybody else, looking down to discover that I was at a 9:39 pace. That was too slow, so I hopped up onto the curb (which was still inside the orange cones) and sped up a bit.
A couple things that have stuck with me from the first 13:
1.) A gentleman relieving himself by the side of the road. I’ve heard about it, read about it, but never actually seen it. It was interesting.
2.) A young boy who plugged in his amp and was playing guitar to the runners, just standing out in his yard with his family. I wish I had a picture of THAT.
3.) An older gentleman who ran silently beside me for miles 10 – 14, pacing me at about 8:17. He never looked my way, but I took comfort in his presence.
4.) Hearing Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough” blaring from the numerous speakers.
I think I made it to mile 14 around 2:03. I’m not sure. My Garmin had me at about 1/2 a mile ahead of where the course markers said I was, so I tried only to focus on pace at this point. I got nervous until I made it past mile 15, which is where I had stopped in December during the Pauper’s Marathon. I heaved a big sigh of relief at this point, knowing that I would make it to the finish line even if I had to walk. Which I contemplated many times, believe me.
Miles 15, 16, and 17 were a gradual uphill out and back. I really thought I wanted to die at this point. I was watching faces and mile markers on the other side, thinking, “Look, they are going downhill. In 2.5 miles, you will be going downhill, too.” I drank at EVERY water break, ran under every hose, and took every GU that was handed to me, regardless of whether I liked the flavor or not. I knew my body well enough to know that this was when the game became hugely mental.
Although I trained on Kwaj for the hills by running into the wind (as recommended by runner’s world), it is hard to train for hills in the last leg of your race. I think I hit a 15 minute pace, step after step after SLOOOW step. One guy ran by me and said, “C’mon, arm warmers – you can do it.” And I thought, “Yes I can.” So I consciously lowered my shoulders, plastered a smile on my face, and dropped my arms to lengthen my stride.
Miles 18, 19, and 20 brought us around the finish line – Qwest Field – for the 2nd time. This part, for me, above and beyond ANYTHING ELSE was TORTURE. I don’t know how else to explain it, and it wasn’t because I was in pain, because you know I was. All around me, people were discovering just how far they could and couldn’t push their bodies. I ran past one young girl who was walking, crying into her cell phone. People were vomiting, walking, limping, stopping to stretch out, and being assisted off the course by coaches. I just kept saying, “Slow and steady. Slow and steady,” while I put one foot in front of the other. At this point, I knew I would finish, and it was a race against myself.
I remember every step after mile 18. My left quad was cramping up, and everything in my body was screaming. I took the opportunity to think about the time my grandfather had been in the hospital fighting cancer. How anything I felt was incomparable to what he had gone through, and took another step. I thought about how Carita must have felt when she found out she was sick, and took another step. I thought about Jody’s smile and took another step. I thought about Chad and how much it must take to love somebody like me and how thankful I am and took another step. I thought about how much I really *do* have and used that to pull me through.
I think the end of the course, as my father described it, “was designed by a sadist.” It was another downhill uphill out and back, meaning that mile 24 was UP! HILL! UP! HILL! Who does that? Up an exit ramp. I just have to laugh about it now, but while I was running it, it took everything I had to not drop to my knees and crawl. I heard someone coming up from behind me – I initially thought he was passing everyone and saying, “Good job!” but as he got closer, realized that he was panting from exhaustion. Another runner sat down in the middle of the course and slammed his palms on the ground in frustration, a mile from the finish.
I looked at my Garmin at the mile 25 marker, and saw that I was at about 3:55. Knowing that I was not going to run the last 1.2 miles in 5 minutes and beat Sarah Palin, I reminded myself to run my race and decided to go for the 30 minute shave off my initial marathon time. I took the last water break and hunkered down.
I was so exhausted at this point that I was thinking rather Seussically. As in, words were coming to me in Dr. Seuss poem format. I can’t remember any of my clever little rhymes from this moment, but know that it had to do with spitting and blowing noses. I cannot tell you how many farmer’s blows and hawked loogies that I dodged. Thank Goodness for fleet feet.
Even though the final mile was downhill, I don’t think I went under a 9:00 minute mile. And the last “.2″ was really more like a “.5″, I think. I began speeding up as we rounded the corner to the finish line, and when I saw how far it was, thought, “REALLY?!” Chad said he was yelling for me, but I was focused solely on the finish line; I saw and heard nothing else. I could hear the announcer talking as I approached, but it might as well have been Farsi. Could. not. compute.
I stopped my Garmin at 4:03:58 – the official time keepers clocked me at 4:03:56. I was more than relieved to see Chad and Colleen at the end of the race, waving for me. I must have looked really dazed as a medical helper approached me right away, got me some water, and told me to go get a banana. Which I did, but not before picking up my AWESOME medal and posing for a picture (which might be the only photographic documentation I have!).
At the end, I am left with really sore knees and lots of gratitude. It was an amazing run. While I do love the island, I think it’s good to get out there every once in a while and remind yourself what you’re made of.
Life with Teen: A Study
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 22, 2009
On Patience? Maybe I’m cheating, but I went out and bought a copy of Love and Logic – teen edition. I used that book in the classroom and had great results with it. I thought it would give me some pointers for how to interact with (I had to not type REACT to) Kid 1.
I like that book because it gives you a situation and tells you what to say. When my heart is beating a bajillionty miles a minute out of anger, I rarely come out with the right thing. I needed advice in BLACK and WHITE and WORDS, stat.
My interactions with Kid 1 are. Hmmm…I just don’t know what to say. He told us his therapist is encouraging his spiritual side. Okay. Then he was interested in showing me his pictures of ghosts. 15 minutes before he told me that he was into computer programming and had hacked into his phone. That his gf had taught him basic code. When I said, “HTML?” He said, “Hunh?” I mentioned that in playing the devil’s advocate – did he think people were going to believe him if he tells them he can adjust photos and phones and programs and then shows them “ghost pictures” on his phone? He said the photos were taken two weeks ago, and he only learned code two days ago. All easily adjustable, IMHO.
However, I’m not here to fight him. I listen to what he says, but don’t offer affirmation when I don’t think it is true. I signed him up for summer school (he told us his mother was too busy.) and when he told us how expensive tattoos and new cars were, agreed with him. I thanked him for picking up his stuff and holding the door for me.
His POV’s are interesting. About the TV show Intervention he remarked that it was bad because the beginning segment showed the guy doing the drug he was addicted to. On TV, and that it showed you how to do heroin. I remained silent. I think LOOONG and HAARD before I speak. I couldn’t think of anything, so I just didn’t. In my head, I thought that if a kid really wants to do heroin? Watching a TV show where it is not glorified and shows the downside of addiction does not give you pointers or make it look like fun. Now, if it came with a phone number on the bottom saying where you could buy it in your area, that might be different.
I have a very hard time believing 90% of what comes out of his mouth. His stories change frequently, often in seconds, and it is…I don’t know if this kid knows how to tell the truth.I think he is driven by the need for approval, so I just smile when I can, recognize him for being responsible (when he is), and hope for the best.
I miss Kid 2 inexplicably. I know he is with his mom, but…I just miss him. I guess I didn’t understand that before because I was so ready for a break from him that I didn’t understand how parents miss children but this time around, I just think, “6 weeks? What the heck? That is forever!”
Funny how things change in a year, hunh?
A Post A Day…
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 20, 2009
…keeps the crazies at bay. Which could lead you to several different conclusions.
1.) That I have been cheating on myself and posting somewhere else.
2.) That I am batshit insane.
The truth is, it’s been a little bit of both. I put ONE post on fb. It was funny, and when I can think clearly, I’ll post it here. And two…wow, at the end of the year, getting on the computer was the LASST (typo, but it stays) thing that I could imagine doing. I felt so busy and so tired.
Impressions of the states thus far:
1.) I have to work very hard not to be snarky. Especially in front of the kid. The US appears to be such a place of excess. Teenage kids everywhere…busting out of jeans and clothes. Supersizing is NOT necessary. I understand that we are different sizes, shapes, colors, but when we are ummm (how do I say this nicely?) leaning toward the right side of the scale because of laziness (and not medical conditions), I feel frustrated. RIDE A BIKE! Eat FRESH FOOD! Insert any verb here. Am I getting old and crotchety?
2.) People are so…disconnected. Today, as I wandered ina blind jetlag induced haze, I could NOT get away from people blabbing away on their cell phones while they shopped, ate, drove. I learned about a lady whose dog is on a diet, how all the cool clothes are designed for girls and that is emasculating to boys, and…countless other snippets of conversation when I really just would have liked some peace and quiet. An island has a way of doing that to a girl.
3.) The food is delicious.
Td goes back to his mom tomorrow and I am terrified! Now I think I know how she felt when she put him on the plane to us. He did mention that it was good for him to see that things don’t change that much, and that makes it easier for him to be farther away. I LOVE that kid, darnit. He just wormed his way right into that cold little empty corner of my heart reserved for “kid” and nestled in there.
Biggie will come down here tomorrow, and I am terrified. I just have NO IDEA what to do with that kid. And you know teenagers, the closer they get to adulthood, the more they can smell fear. Expecting the worst, hoping for the best. He’s instability to me, and instability = fear, in my book. He’s still got a lot going on. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
I feel a bit torn (maybe about 10 percent) about how much life still centers around alcohol for others. Dh has really stepped up and been my non-alcoholic buddy, and I don’t know if he understands how much that helps me. I can discuss, smell, look at and laugh about alcohol, but I just don’t drink it. He’s been without it for the last 6 months, and it’s been an amazing change for us. Now, when the “Are you effing crazy?!” remarks and looks come this way, he knows exactly how I feel. It’s no longer a wedge.
Marathon is 6 days away. I want to be ready. But that’s another post for another day. YAY highspeed!
Like a Prom Dress.
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 11, 2009
Report Cards? Check.
Library Fines? Check.
Principal Signature? Check.
Plane Tickets? Check.
Official Summer Break? Check.
Don’t know how much I’ll be blogging until I get stateside. I DO promise to take lots of pictures though! 
Friends
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 10, 2009
One of the downsides of living on a wee speck in the middle of the Pacific is that one tends to lose perspective. Things that would be mere speedbumps in the continental us (also known as conus – from which my amusement knows NO bounds! Reminds me of the CONE HEADS! Bowing down to you, Dan Akroyd) where one is distracted by bills and overcrowding and cable tv and crime (gee, I paint a purty picture, don’t I?) become PROBLEMS OF EPIC! PROPORTIONS! when you happen to be stuck in the same spot with the same people for 365 days in a row.
As Sexy Mommy so aptly phrased it, “Could you PUH LEEZE stop breathing like THAT?!” Instantly reducing me to giggles.
I’m glad that I have friends who remind me that I have to laugh when I start feeling like that. Remember that I DO indeed live on a little sliver of quaint paradise, that it is by my choice and that for 364.5 days out of the year, I LOVE it.
I also know that it is HIGH TIME to get on a plane. Which I am going to do.
On the 19th. WHOO!
Now, if I could only convince myself to clean my classroom in between then and now?
We’d be GOLDEN, BABY.
Book of Dork: Cooking.
Posted by: missconstrued on: June 3, 2009
I thought I was done laughing at myself, for this week, at least.
NOT SO, little grasshopper legs.
The stove, she has other plans in store for me.
At the beginning of the year, TP (teaching partner) and I signed up for the last breakfast month, thinking that it would be the end of the year, and that we would have PLENTY of time to plan. Well, next year I’ll be signing up for September so that I can get it over with and not worry about it. We have dinners to cook for and attend, award ceremonies, articles to write, graduations to go to. May is a busy month. I’m a little stressed. When I’m not laughing at my lunacy. Also, remember that I was the girl who was reduced to tears in front of a teaching staff of 100 by soggy egg rolls. That’s *ME*! Cooking is my thing. I can follow a recipe. I cannot bake.
After TP and I dragged ourselves off campus yesterday (we shopped for the yogurt parfait breakfast, volunteered for yearbook duty, AND TAUGHT – shew!), I went home to bake my muffins. Dh had offered to make scones, because he often has to bail me out of these culinarily themed crises, BUT he wasn’t there, so BAKE I SHALL, I decided.
After opening the cupboard, I realized that we only had 1 WEIRD muffin tin, that did me wrong last time I tried to do something nice for The Dude’s teachers. Muffins are nice, but not if they will send you to the dentist, screaming in pain.
What should I do? I asked The Dude, because I am completely incapable of making a decision by myself. Should I try and make them into a bread tin (the blueberry muffins I had settled on)? Or make 6 at a time only? Or should I go downtown and look for more muffin tins? M’mmm…he teenagered at me. He then offered to go downtown for me (he is the sweetest), but I decided to go by myself. He offered me his bike, because of the basket, and asked me to grab him some beverages. As I type this, I realize what a thoughtful kid he is and am kind of amazed. I will miss him over the summer. ANY WAY.
I start pedaling and think, “This is cranky. It sounds like grinding.” I look down to see that there is a bungee cord tangled in the bike gears. YAY! I’m not in a hurry! TD sees me hanging over the side of his bike, hands full of grease and comes and untangles me. TD = 2. Stepdamsel in distress = 0.
I make it down to the store without any more mishaps. Hallelujah. They have muffin tins, oh miracle of miracles! I am ECSTATIC at this point. I buy two and td’s diet coke and pedal happily toward our home sweet home.
Upon my arrival, td has made himself scarce (smart boy), so I enlist the help of another friend and her kid. Because SHE CAN COOK! We mix and muffin and put them in the oven. And then, smoke starts coming out of the top, but I don’t panic. Not not me, the bastion of calm in my sea of calamity. Yeah, I don’t know if that makes sense, but I know what I mean, and I LIKE the way it sounds. So there.
15 minutes later, the muffins are smoking like a high school kid 5 minutes before the bell rings, and I’m a little worried. So I looked at them. They looked LOVELY! And DELICIOUS! and gold brown, so I pushed those worries right out of my pretty little head, and waited for the timer.
Batchmaker, Batchmaker, Bake me a batch. Guess what? They were ALL BLACK on the bottom. Awesome. Nearly at the end of my rope this time, because HEY! I am TIRED! and I have to be at HIP HOP in 15 minutes! I begged dh to bail me out. Everything he does in the kitchen is gold. Which is not fair, but such is life.
Was karma done screwing me? NO. He no sooner had the muffins in the oven then the power went out. This was one of those days when I eyed my stove, steadying myself for a brawl and then decided to do what I do best: WALK AWAY. I know when I’m up against a better opponent. Homie don’t play that.
Next year?
1 word.
CATERING.
Book of Dork: Episode #53256
Posted by: missconstrued on: May 28, 2009
I am not even going to pretend that getting back into the swing of things, runningly speaking, has been easy. I went from triathlon shape to NO shape. But hey, 5 weeks of wheezing and rasping will do that to a gal. I am only thankful that it was bacterial, so the antibiotics did their job. Yay, drugs!
My breathing capacity, however, is…hmmm. I am wheezing after 3 miles. That I used to whip out in no time at all. Now, 26.2 seems insurmountable. But I’ve got a month. And I’ve been told I’m pretty damn stubborn, so we’ll see what happens.
Deciding to ease back into things, I thought it would be wise for me to join the lagoon swim Wednesday. Swimming, monitored breathing, challenging without being steps backward at this point in my health/training program.
Now, I have to preface and say this: I have spent many, many hours in the ocean. I’ve seen plenty of things. And missed plenty of things, before I found my goggles that neither fog nor leak on my face. My buddy (so we were swimming legally) and I agreed on the wreck – about a 40 minute there and back, give or take.
Most of the swim is shallow; at times the coral is so close to my stomach that I can reach down and touch it. I don’t. But I could. If I wanted to. As swimmers near the wreck, there is a sudden drop and all of a sudden, you are looking at a 40 foot gradual slope off into the ocean. Yes, it’s a lagoon, but it is still a big, wide open space, and I am still swimming/kicking/thrashing about on top of the water. In a purple bathing suit. Which, I imagine, makes me look a bit like a grape fruit roll up. Which we ALL know (Jacques Cousteau said so!) sharks love to eat.
As I near the wreck, with my super new goggles and vision, I think this, in between strokes and breaths “Dear God. Please don’t let a shark come flying up at me out of the deep. Please and THANK YOU!” So she didn’t. She let the shark come out from in between me and the wall and go zooming down INTO the deep.
Usually when I see a shark, I do a mental checklist. Fat or skinny (If the sharks are round around the middle, they are usually not reef sharks – who, while skittish, probably won’t chomp more than a finger)? This one was decidedly round. LIKE A BUS. Are there tips? Black? White? Again, this helps me distinguish reef sharks from you know, great whites, pelagics, BIG, HUNGRY, people-eatin’ sharks. In this case, there were NO TIPS, and I was out of mental checkpoints, because I was SCARED. With a capital SCARED. I did a 90 degree turn, flew to the rocks, and then magically alighted upon the rocks, with what I am sure were grace, accuracy, and precision.
Not really. I cut my hand, feet, and thigh up. So I sat, huddled, swim cap and goggles still on, shakin in my suit. Here, I faced a moral dilemma. I was a bit ahead of my buddy, but rattled. Do I wait? Out of the water? Looking like a dork, I’m sure, or climb the rocks and head back, leaving my buddy “illegal” in the water and WITH A SHARK? Thankfully, the panic process is long and drawn out for this reformed lunatic, so I sat there and thought for awhile. Not to mention that I was completely paralyzed by the thought of trailing blood in the water, so there I perched until my buddy approached.
What’s wrong Alex?
There’s SHARKS in the water!
There’s sharks everywhere!
This one was big enough to scare me!
He’s gone now! I’ll protect you.
Looking along the rock line (yes that IS the technical term!), I noted that there were many swimmers, and that I would not be alone in the water. Thank GOD for one moment of clarity. However short and fleeting it was.
Knowing that I wouldn’t get back in the water if I didn’t do it right then, I hopped in, and craned my neck to the left, looking out as far as I could see. Which was pretty far, even though visibility was crappy at best. No sharks. So, bravely trailing blood where no blood had been trailed moments before, I paddled and kicked my ASS OFF. My friend told me later, “You are fast! I had on FINS and you STILL beat me!”
In my mind, I was skimming along the top of the water, looking no longer like a purple fruit roll up (with white arms and legs), but more like a rolling grape. Yup, my brain is the money maker in this family.
Refusing to believe that I hadn’t been in danger at all, I asked my friend’s husband for clarification on the size of the KILLER MONSTER that had almost eaten me in one or two vicious bites. “Was it big? Was it big?” I badgered him. He kind of smiled at me. He doesn’t know me well enough to know that he SHOULDN’T humor me. So he does. Also, he is nice.
After returning to the land of rational, where I summer from time to time, I realized that it was a nurse shark. Not really a killing machine. More like a big vaccuming dog. And it was going the other way.
Dork –> ME <– DORK.
Bamboozled.
Posted by: missconstrued on: May 25, 2009
I was flipping through the few channels that we have the other day. Well, yesterday, which would make it Sunday in the States, which would mean that there were a few religiously themed programs on. One was called “Pure Life” – hosted by a young couple – married? brother and sister? Hitting up the teenagers.
Good. Everybody needs a little faith in his or her life. It can get you through lots of bumps and scrapes.
The more I watched the show, however, the more I found myself leaning towards the red. I no longer felt calm and relaxed (Hey. What else is new? I’m not running. This has an adverse effect on my emotional wellbeing). It was about pornography. Okay. It’s bad. We get it. But to hear the hosts and the teen panel speak…whenever they referenced pornography, they kept relating it to women. It’s degrading to WOMEN. That is somebody’s DAUGHTER. Somebody’s SISTER. How the women are PROSTITUES.
Hello? Haven’t you ever HEARD of a GIGOLO? Men are prostitutes too! Men are degraded too! There are MEN in pornography, too!
They also had a lovely offer of a 5 disc retreat “for boys” to get the lust out of their minds. Because women don’t lust. EVER. They are only degraded.
Yes, I am jumping to conclusions and making assumptions, but this kind of blatant archaic sexism just frustrates me. I cannot support a religion that continues to portray women as the weaker, more stupid, more victimized, SEX!
And you KNOW that church that told me that I was there to be my husband’s helpmeet and support (without expecting him to do the same for me), AND cover my head! While I was doing it! is still a HUGE thorn in my side.
It did make me thankful that dh has his head firmly in the year 2009. If BOYS want to grow up and be gigolos, we will support them, damnit.
I really need to go back to school with this brain of mine, don’t I? What a waste of thinking skills!
13! is a Lucky Number
Posted by: missconstrued on: May 21, 2009
It boggles my mind that there are precisely 13 days left in this school year. My mind seems to have gotten used to being boggled, however (enter: cough medicine, and no running and exhaustion) and has said, ENOUGH! Retaliating by keeping me up from 11:30 – 2:30 a.m. Awesome! fretting about things I have absolutely NO control over. None whatsoever.
I.
JUST.
CAN’T.
WORRY.
ABOUT.
IT.
I seem to not be able to put a foot forward, good or bad, in some situations. I was outside with dh, enjoying the night air, when our neighbor walked by. She’s had some bad news recently about her husband’s illness recurring and is having to leave in a hurry. I watched her walk by, close enough to touch, not knowing what to say. So I sat there on my haunches and felt uncomfortable. Do you say, “I’m sorry?” “Do you need help?” I can count on one hand (still) missed opportunities and regrets becuase I didn’t speak up. And as I watched her walk by, I thought to myself, “Say. SOMETHING.” but my lips were frozen shut.
I think this is the remnant of alcoholic behavior. Given any situation that I felt uncomfortable in, I would inevitably take action when I was well lubricated. Sometimes it came out great. More often than not, I made a HEE YOUGE ass out of myself. But, that’s what your 20’s are for, right?
One of the most important things that I have learned and tried my hardest to accept is that just because I no longer flirt with alcohol doesn’t automatically mean that I am going to be a better person. Hence the steps, which I haven’t been working that actively. I work hard on staying physically and mentally fit and sober, but I still struggle in some situations.
And lay awake thinking about them.
I still have a lot of growing up to do.
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