Category Archives: WTF?

Poison

Posted by Elizabeth in Anxiety, Lamenting, Muse, Politics, WTF?

I read your blog for a while. I looked at your pictures, giggled at your funny stories about other people and then I GOT INTO IT.  You had really great things to say and a lot of ideas that were thought-provoking. You spurred a lot of people on to try new things in their own writing styles on their own blogs; you pushed the envelope, except not really. You pushed it in the not-so-gentle way people do when they aren’t familiar with how to do it, like making new friends by handing out your grandmother’s leftover Oxycodone and then your friends are hooked and you’re in trouble and you’re lying and stealing your way out of this make-new-friends scenario.

Yup. That’s about how it went.

I’m a joiner most of the time. I like to get on a bandwagon but – a BIG BUT right here – I’m pretty good at jumping off at just the right time. Just before it gets superbad on the wagon, just before there’s mutiny and starvation, I jump off and congratulate myself for avoiding catastrophe.

And so now we have a bandwagon and some Oxy. TRY TO KEEP UP.

I’m disappointed in the blogosphere this year, to be quite frank. I was so pumped to head to Blissdom in February, BlogHer in August, and The Blathering in October. I really had it all set up in my mind for how it would go: I would finally FINALLY meet IN PERSON all these great people I’ve known for a while  and we would realize that we were twins unfortunately separated at birth but who have prospered and thrived in our own ways and have now come back together to create this unstoppable team of writing and design.

So yeah. Maybe I set the bar a little high.

Anyway, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to go to any of these events this past year, but I’m more upset at the relationships that have gone sour among bloggers and writers and designers I respect. I’m embarrassed that the wagon I jumped upon had an underlying message of, mostly, hate. I hate that I lost some time I could have spent reading and researching more things I’m interested in rather than analyzing and discussing situations and relationships I have no business knowing about.

In short: I’m mad that I trusted and respected a writer who does some low-down, dirty stuff to other people.

 

 

 

Caution: Accent vlog. View at your own risk.

Posted by Elizabeth in Anxiety, Daily, Good Stuff, Lamenting, Random Shit, WTF?

This is the accent vlog that’s going around amongst those Blatherers that leave for Austin next weekend. I did it, I’m not especially proud of it since it’s my first foray into the world of the webcam and I’m doing this weird stage whisper thing because Brian’s asleep. And…full disclosure: I had already taken my Ambien before I started this which accounts for the slightly groggy, Valley Girl-esque vibe. Although upon further review, this is boring as ALL HELL. I feel so much sorrier for the students in my classes now. Plus, the video is super grainy and why? I’ll be damned if I know. I gotta say: watching yourself on camera is JUST SO DISTURBING.

The notes for what I’m talking about are below. Apparently I forgot the part where I’m supposed to talk about where I’m from and why I pronounce things the way I do. I’m from right outside of Raleigh, NC, have lived in North Carolina mostly all my life, and that accounts for everything that comes out of my mouth, I’m afraid.

Say the following words:
Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught
And answer these questions:
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?
What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
What do you call gym shoes?
What do you say to address a group of people?
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
What do you call your grandparents?
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?

Here goes. Maybe just laugh quietly to yourself, ok?

When did you first know you were…that?

Posted by Elizabeth in Addiction to, Anxiety, Daily, Lamenting, Muse, Random Shit, WTF?

I was 12 the first time I heard I was fat.

My mother bought me a new bathing suit from the mall in the town we were visiting. I stood in my dad’s apartment, in the hallway between the home office and his bedroom, showing the suit to my parents and my brother. Then someone mentioned that it was too snug, or it didn’t fit, or you’re too big for that, aren’t you?  We can’t have you looking that way when we visit the country club for the first time, you know.

In 9th grade I wanted to wear Levi jeans and short shorts. My thighs, however, were too large and so instead I got Lee jeans. Everyone knows Lee jeans are for LOSERS. But they fit the curvy girl whose normal-if-not-small ass isn’t plank enough for Levis. Instead of short denim cut-offs like the rest of the girls had, I got to choose my outfits based on khaki, black, navy or white Bermudas. Those, see, covered up the thighs.

In 10th grade my mother bought me a beautiful black dress, my first cocktail dress, with pearl buttons down the front and a scalloped sweetheart neckline. I got my first pair of black cocktail heels and I wore my hair in curls. I looked beautiful. But not long after that night with the boy I liked, a neighborhood kid pointed at my calves and asked me why they were so floppy.

And of course, the very last summer I was a camp counselor, two hometown girls were campers that same year. They were about 7 or 8 and I passed by them one day on the way to the dining hall, where they were pointing and giggling in my general direction. I knew these girls and babysat them at home for years, so I walked up and ask them what they were up to. They looked frightened and then one pointed at her friend and said, “She wants to know why your legs blew up.” Horrified, I asked them exactly what they meant by that and then sent them on their merry, sobbing, ashamed little way. I will never forget that moment and I feel sure that they won’t, either.

That same year, a friend called me on summer vacation. My brother answered the phone and yelled to me, “Gallon-size thighs! Somebody’s on the phone for you!”  My friend heard it and reminded me of it years later.

Those are my formative memories of body image. Of course, my mother sat me down far earlier than all of this to explain to me that, despite the fact that my teenage acne was normal – if not mild – we would still be going to extraction appointments at the dermatologist. She didn’t want my childhood to be marred by the memories of a bad complexion. She wanted my childhood to be perfect.

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Now when I talk about my shape or figure or giant ass or rolls and rolls of stomach, I turn it into everyone’s favorite joke. Don’t mind the hippo over here! Or, and this is my personal go-to: y’all, am I as big as THAT LADY over there? My friends, bless them, always roll their eyes and say, “Elizabeth. Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

We all know how my reality TV addiction can be, so it’s no surprise that  these two combined moments that have just come back to haunt the teenager I was.

Stacy London from What Not to Wear always figures out the really insecure girls and what their deal is before even they do. Did they just break up, or are they a haggard mom with too much on their plates? Sometimes she’ll stand in the 360° mirror and look at a woman and say, “Do you think you’re beautiful?” Oh, c’mon, Stacy. Isn’t the obvious answer always no?

On Celebrity Rehab this week, the horse trainer brought in to do a little equine therapy with the addicts talks about seeing something in a horse’s face that should resemble a feeling we already know. After several wrong answers, he finally tells everyone that what they should be seeing in those huge brown watery eyes is devotion and nurturing. All the addicts are like, “Do whaaa?” and then there’s a commercial.

But in those two television BREAKTHROUGH MOMENTS OMG I realized that no, I don’t think I’m beautiful. I try not to think about my size and physical appearance until it relates to my health. (Which is also why I don’t go to doctors, incidentally.) I try to be conscious of negative self-talk, which I learned in therapy is so very hateful to do to yourself. So I don’t talk shit to me, but I think shit about me. And also, no one – I mean NO ONE – tells me I’m beautiful. Not beautiful inside or outside or upsidedown or backwards. I don’t want to hear if it isn’t true, but if there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I might have something – albeit small and remote – beautiful about me, I wish I had the courage to ask them to share that with me. When I think of my soul, and whether or not it’s beautiful, I qualify that thought with “…yeah, that part would be okay until you remember this OTHER part, which is really bad.”

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How much of this shapes who we are now? I don’t mean like, okay, Susie is shy because people called her fat, I mean like HEY. DO YOU GAIN WEIGHT BECAUSE THEY TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULDN’T? Or something equally horrible?

Are you beautiful because you think so, or because you’ve been told you are, or because it actually is the truth that you wish you’d hear from someone else other than yourself?

I love myself, I really do. But I don’t think I’m beautiful, and I’m damn sure no one else thinks I am, either.  Finally, I do not know what devotion and nurturing look like, but if I had that or practiced that or whatever, would I know if it knocked on my door?

Lodge and in charge

Posted by Elizabeth in Beach, Daily, Listing, Random Shit, Totally normal, WTF?

I made a sudden decision tonight to replace all our ceilings with bead board, or at least some tobacco barn slats that I feel sure we have leftover from the farm project. I figure it’s super easy: sand that popcorny shit, slap a few boards up, have fun with the nail gun and BAM! Ceiling city. Maybe I can do that when I’m off on Friday.

I also made a sudden discovery tonight: I LIKE CAMPING. I’m not sure that roughing it can be defined in only one way, so I’m going to define it MY way: camping is, not sleeping in your own bed, it’s being able to see stars/moon/sun/streetlights from your bed, and it’s taking enough food into that sleeping area, wherever it may be, that you don’t rely on trail mix and melted snow if you get lost. BURGERS, lost people, PORK CHOPS. As some of us may recall from childhood, camping was a fort in the backyard. As adults, I say we bring back the Living Room Fort. We bring it back with pillows, blankets, those old refrigerator boxes, laundry baskets, step stools, THE WHOLE SHEBANG.

As if these weren’t already good enough ideas, I bombarded my mind with extra ideas it needs. (It always needs extra ideas.) My ideas are as follows:

  1. Make a new friend everyday. Now admittedly, some of us don’t run into a lot of people throughout the day and that can make this task seem daunting. A new friend can be the Canada goose who poos on your sidewalk. Your new friend can be the multi-pierced fellow at the grocery store who wants to touch your produce. It doesn’t matter, y’all. You’re just looking to make ONE new friend. Pick an interesting one.
  2. Be glad for one thing everyday. Today, I am glad that the people who live behind us in the weird house with the sketchy brown fence didn’t get hurt during what appeared to be, at the time, an electrical fire. Although, she’s a former art teacher, so BB and I concocted some fun, what-if stories that we’ll just share at a later date. (What if she was burning some kind of giant plastic bleach jug for an “art” project and then her family got home and was all “MOM! That’s bleach and FIRE!” And she’s all “No, kids. This is art.”)
  3. Oh, my other idea. This one rocks so steady, I can’t even stand it. Here it is, are you ready?

That’s right, y’all. THROWBACK VINTAGE ’60s style MOTOR-FUCKING-LODGE! My SIL stayed for a night this weekend and absolutely fell in love with it. The little guy at the front desk flips open the book to see if there are rooms available. And if there are rooms, he will hand you a real key with a giant plastic number as he pencils in your reservation. WITH A PENCIL. And dogs are allowed and even encouraged. And I just can’t say with any certainty that it will be the finest place I ever stay in, BUT! I think we might try it Brady style. Load up the wagon, stock the kitchenette, bring our beach towels and get the sheets sandy. I mean, hello…it’s the ATLANTIS LODGE.

Bitches.

Death of the American Dream

Posted by Elizabeth in Anxiety, Family, Lamenting, Muse, WTF?

I feel like a part of us has died this morning.

Yesterday morning, Brian went to work as usual, dressed in his Pepsi uniform, ready for the day with his coffee in a Pepsi mug. He adjusted his Sunkist hat to block out the eastern sun, and he wore his Pepsi winter squall jacket. He was ready for his day.

After a short training video on, of all things, fire extinguishers, Brian was called into a meeting. He was told that as of that minute, his services were no longer needed at Pepsi. He was the turn in his keys, his cell phone and bring back the hats, the jackets, the clothes at his earliest convenience. He was given a sheet of paper outlining the termination of his benefits immediately, as this was the end of the month. They nodded their heads as men do, said they wished him the best and let him go.

After 8 years of never missing a day – EVER – never calling in sick, never taking an afternoon for a doctor’s appointment, they just let him go.

When he told me, I was so stunned I burst into tears. But the small voice on the other end of the line was trying so hard to be brave that I held in my sobs until we hung up. I wanted to be sure that I was here with him when he first came home, so I didn’t leave for work until hours later. My boss understood.

As anyone who has ever lost a job knows, it feels like a continuous kick in the gut. It just keeps happening, over and over. When you are finally able to fall asleep at night, it’s just an illusion of peace. The next morning you are reminded that yes, the death really did happen. It wasn’t a bad dream.

Our first thoughts were of money, of how we can tighten the belt and adjust. Adding up what very little savings we have and subtracting the many bills we have. Regret for buying this and fixing that before it needed repair. Wishing we had made different decisions in the past financially. Being glad – for him, for the first time – we don’t have children to feed.

I’m not sure Brian can see this far yet, but I think of the days and weeks to come, when I will continue to go to work and he will not. His body is conditioned to wake up at 5am every morning and go hard all day long. He’s thinking of what we’ll do this Monday when offices and HR people are back in place. Lists of places to call, people to send his resume to, emails to be sent.

We’re trying very hard to be proactive about this, as much as we can. By dinnertime last night, we’d already purchased new health insurance at about 75% cheaper than what it would have been to add him to mine. We created a Facebook and LinkedIn profile for him, logged him onto websites for companies doing any kind of work related to his.

Everything we could to forget the death that just rocked our family.

Even now, the next morning, we are awake in our den, and he is rattling on about routes, sales, numbers, who’s up and who’s down. Something – anything – to make sense of it all. He is sick from throwing up all night, probably nerves.

We are nervous, we are scared, we are shocked and we are confused.

We are now part of the national unemployment numbers and we are now standing in line with millions of other people, far worse off than we are, fighting for benefits and jobs and the ability to provide income to our family.

We are Americans, and our dream just died.