It's been a full week since I've written anything in novel or blog. That this unseemly lack of productivity was due more to physical than psychological inability does little for my morale, as the end result is the same: a glut of words in my brain, crowding my low-functioning synapses in their abruptly arrested stampede to escape.
They sit there, gibbering and cross-breeding in unnatural ways, their offspring happily sterile and sadly far less interesting than a liger. If I wasn't already feeling the effects of bitter cold January, dark and lingering and multiplicative with the sheer inelegance of a back rendered throbbingly sensitive by a wrongfully-directed sneeze—with an innocuous little SNEEZE, I caused myself this week-plus of posture-warping back pain ... a SNEEZE ... WTF?—then I should certainly be brought down by a clogged mental pipe of unraveling, unreleased thought.
As in most cases of depression, albethey minor and major, I found that stacking just a few less-than-ideal blocks upon one another resulted in a skyscraper of pointlessness. It wasn't just my back and midwinter that sucked, see, it was everything, and in the deep sea of craptasticness, I more-or-less willingly drowned, spending my heating-pad-relegated time in crushing despair, reiterating every little thing that is wrong in my life and berating myself for it, whether I was solely, mostly, minorly, or not at all responsible.
(Except for most of Saturday, where I was wrapped up in the warm thrall of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the latter two books in the series that begins with The Golden Compass ... THAT time was deliciously and quickly spent, and not even the odd angle at which I was forced to extrude myself from my chair could warp my spirit during those lovely, escapist hours. DAMN, but I liked those books quite a lot!)
Anyway, you get the idea, my back is a giant wuss and my brain is into self-mutilation, and the past week without writing was largely unpleasant, like mental constipation with cramps. Or something. The one productive—if I may glamorize it by calling it such—thing I did was get to the root of my "I hate my job" issue. I can't say it was so much of a cheery "A-HA!" experience as it was a gloomy "Ohhh" moment, but at least I finally got out of that particular thought-circle and onto the downward spiral away from it and on to the next one.
What happened was this: I was getting ready for another day on the job, and the dread welled up like whines out of the most recently ousted team on The Amazing Race and I paced around my usual depressive loop while barely retaining sour tears. But then it occurred to me to consider—to really, deeply ponder—the WHY of the loathing, rather than simply flop around in my sweltering unhappiness like a fish voluntarily leaping from water.
It seems like an obvious thing to do, I'm sure, but remember the frozen January mire in which I am trapped, please, and top that dreary, sludgy sundae off with the great, big, maraschino-cherry nastiness of stabbing, labor-esque back pain. Mmmm, tastes just like ipecac!
So I finally dug to the root of my problem, and oddly enough, it wasn't just corporateness and having to dress like a grown-up and bland, day-after-day routine and repetitiveness. No, past all that and the mourning of faded on-the-job friendships and the griping of all-executives-are-really-backstabbing-bastards, under the doom and gloom and a thousand other surface complaints, what I found a tiny little pea of a problem that was the root cause of my discomfort under the lovely padded mattresses of regular paychecks and my very own cubicle just down the hall from a double-doored bathroom in which people feel comfortable enough to talk on the phone whilst relieving themselves. And HUM! Yesterday I heard someone HUMMING while she pooped!
But I digress—in an obvious procrastinatorial attempt to escape this self-dictated confessional—so here it is, the truth: I don't like to work hard.
Not satisfied with being a mere lazy slob, I went from the main root to the first branches of it, and there I found that I don't like being challenged. I don't mean because of my many mental impairments either, but rather because of being assigned tasks that are outside or even just hanging off the edges of my warm little ring o' comfort. I don't like having to work hard because I don't like trying to rise to a challenge, and all of that is, of course, because I am afraid that I won't be able to, which means, of course, that I'm as full of the title of this entry as a political debate is full of calculation and blather.
Ouch. The realization of the depths of my lack of personal fortitude struck me like a 2x4 between the eyes, and left a mark in the shape of an "L."
It shouldn't be a surprise, and it's certainly not unique. I don't know anyone who doesn't have their doubts, often about even their own most well-documented strengths. Even an elite marathoner realizes s/he might not finish any given race, and when one isn't a top-level competitor—say, in going on down to the grocery store to purchase a little Gerber® jar of pureed ham for one's much-loved, very ill Old Lady Cat who has refused to eat anything else—there is no guarantee of success. I could have broken my leg after slipping on the flurry of "Winter Storm Warning" flakes outside the store (I didn't), someone could have stolen my wallet (no), or the store might have been flat-fucking OUT of that one variety of sloppy goo (oh yes, they were).
(Thankfully, Old Lady Cat seems to like the fine-ground chicken just as well. And I think what she's got is just a cold, although when you're roughly 92 in people years, there's really no such thing as "just a cold.")
So. Doubt. It would appear that this crafty beast is actually worse than depression. It feeds on anything it can, of course, discriminating not between physical disabilities and mental ones, and it loads every worry with more than its own weight, making it more ferocious and intimidating—as in panic and anxiety—or more inflated and crushing—as in weakness and depression. That I'm no exception to the general rules of human existence should be encouraging, I expect, but with doubt as my monkey on my already-aching back, I cannot be expected to believe that which I so glibly spout into cyberspace.
Really. As if I could just get over it and find my grown-up panties, which I DON'T EVEN LIKE, much less put those things on.
Still, I remain of the opinion that knowledge—however apparently pointless—is intrinsically powerful, I must conclude that as hopeless as my work mood and my general attitude seem, the fact that I've glimpsed their awkward ass ends is, I think, a good thing. Now that I know the true extent of the problem, I have increased my chances—however slight—of putting these bloated issues on a crash diet, so that I can send them packing with one well-placed kick. Or maybe 40 or so of them, like at the end of that GOD-awful Tae Bo® video that I still dredge out on increasingly rare occasion.
Maybe.
January 17, 2008
January 10, 2008
Cat and Mouse
FRISKitty is, as her blogname implies, more of a playful feline than a snuggly one. She frolics at whim and runs at whimsy, sometimes pausing in her pursuit of—or by—nothing whatsoever to sit momentarily, tense and wary, her ears flattened against the back of her head and then turning this way and that, to see if she can hear the quiet padding of invisible feet. And then, with a Mrrrt! instead of a "Beep-beep-zip-BANG!" she is off again, traveling at the cat equivalent of warp speed.
As a stray, homeless and Kate-Moss-skinny, she learned to hunt, and learned it well. In the few days after she found us when we had not yet brought her in, I saw her dispatch a mouse on the lawn, and trot by with a garter snake from I wasn't quite sure where. She ate asparagus out of the garden—a trick she has not cared to repeat since arriving in of doors, where a bowl of crunchy, easy-to-pounce-upon crumpets awaits her always. But she has dispatched a disturbing number of mice here, too, only doing so more with an attitude of intensely-engaged play than for survival.
FRISKitty can be quite tolerant, and was so of Little Girl from the very beginning. She would permit Little Girl to carry here hither and yon outside, and inside, she continues to do so ... to this very day, although she will now, on occasion, protest such treatment with loud, warning MROWWWWLLing, and is sometimes driven to run and hide. She is also very good at hiding, although Little Girl caught on to the tunnel-space behind the couch fairly quickly.
In her rare moments of lap-kitty-dom, FRISKitty is no less charming than in her high-speed rocket-cat states. Perhaps because these times are so very much not the norm, I am more than willing to put off other tasks to have my currently-too-ample belly roughly massaged by kneading cat feet. The rough, grumbling purr that accompanies such tummy-rearranging is not so much soothing, but it is extremely charming, accompanied by the sight of FRISKitty's typically wide eyes narrowed into half-sleeping bliss, and the occasional butting of her furry head against my chin as if to say, "Oh yeah. It doesn't get any better than this! And you know it."
Recently, FRISKitty has noted that she has more chances to assault my lap when I am reading blogs than in my more unusual moments of television-watching. Having her pop up into my lap at such times is bittersweet, because Old Lady Cat—who is still moving along, albeit stiffly and in the confines of the bedroom, with occasional bathtub privileges—was the one who previously took advantage of those times. But FRISKitty has never been one to be anyone other than herself, and so she does not often descend up into my lap at such times, which makes it alright with me. Though I am glad Old Lady Cat can't see it, as she would most haughtily not approve of even the most casual usurping of my lap.
Anyway, not long after the unfortunate demise of my $2.50 laser pointer/pet entertainment device, FRISKitty leapt up into my lap as I read the latest writings of my favorite bloggers. She kneaded enthusiastically, she gazed into my face with her typically unguarded uninhibitedness, and she eventually settled into a half-nested position, facing the same direction that I was. And as she sat there, relaxed, and I read there, absorbed, something strange happened.
I didn't notice it at first, so subtle was the catching of mellow FRISKitty's attention, but soon her posture unfolded to full alertness again, her eyes locked with the mouse. Blissfully unaware, I read on, flipping from one subscription to another with practiced ease that didn't feel very quick, but must have been. For after a moment, FRISKitty leaned forward, and now my attention was engaged.
"What are you doing, silly?"
FRISKitty did not answer, of course, but her scholarly posture of alert awareness said it all. She was watching something, and she was watching it carefully. Because I didn't see what that something was, I went back to my reading, although it was moderately subdued by the knowledge that there might be something small, gray, and furry out there, nearby.
And then, it happened: the cord got stuck. I pulled it briskly, which is usually enough to dislodge it, and FRISKitty could not contain herself any longer. She lunged across the keyboard and lifted one paw, and as she batted, curious, at the strange little arrow that zipped this way and that across the monitor, I finally understood that she'd been absorbed by my mouse pointer, there on the screen.
Yes, where a cheap laser pointer had failed, regular mousing motions had succeeded, and FRISKitty stayed there for some time, moving her head this way and that, tracking the rapid path of her virtual prey with more curiosity than determination. And she put one paw up lightly to try to stop the thing, until I realized that, should she decide to engage another paw, the monitor would be in more than a little danger.
I sure hope this story doesn't end the way Harriet's did.
As a stray, homeless and Kate-Moss-skinny, she learned to hunt, and learned it well. In the few days after she found us when we had not yet brought her in, I saw her dispatch a mouse on the lawn, and trot by with a garter snake from I wasn't quite sure where. She ate asparagus out of the garden—a trick she has not cared to repeat since arriving in of doors, where a bowl of crunchy, easy-to-pounce-upon crumpets awaits her always. But she has dispatched a disturbing number of mice here, too, only doing so more with an attitude of intensely-engaged play than for survival.
FRISKitty can be quite tolerant, and was so of Little Girl from the very beginning. She would permit Little Girl to carry here hither and yon outside, and inside, she continues to do so ... to this very day, although she will now, on occasion, protest such treatment with loud, warning MROWWWWLLing, and is sometimes driven to run and hide. She is also very good at hiding, although Little Girl caught on to the tunnel-space behind the couch fairly quickly.
In her rare moments of lap-kitty-dom, FRISKitty is no less charming than in her high-speed rocket-cat states. Perhaps because these times are so very much not the norm, I am more than willing to put off other tasks to have my currently-too-ample belly roughly massaged by kneading cat feet. The rough, grumbling purr that accompanies such tummy-rearranging is not so much soothing, but it is extremely charming, accompanied by the sight of FRISKitty's typically wide eyes narrowed into half-sleeping bliss, and the occasional butting of her furry head against my chin as if to say, "Oh yeah. It doesn't get any better than this! And you know it."
Recently, FRISKitty has noted that she has more chances to assault my lap when I am reading blogs than in my more unusual moments of television-watching. Having her pop up into my lap at such times is bittersweet, because Old Lady Cat—who is still moving along, albeit stiffly and in the confines of the bedroom, with occasional bathtub privileges—was the one who previously took advantage of those times. But FRISKitty has never been one to be anyone other than herself, and so she does not often descend up into my lap at such times, which makes it alright with me. Though I am glad Old Lady Cat can't see it, as she would most haughtily not approve of even the most casual usurping of my lap.
Anyway, not long after the unfortunate demise of my $2.50 laser pointer/pet entertainment device, FRISKitty leapt up into my lap as I read the latest writings of my favorite bloggers. She kneaded enthusiastically, she gazed into my face with her typically unguarded uninhibitedness, and she eventually settled into a half-nested position, facing the same direction that I was. And as she sat there, relaxed, and I read there, absorbed, something strange happened.
I didn't notice it at first, so subtle was the catching of mellow FRISKitty's attention, but soon her posture unfolded to full alertness again, her eyes locked with the mouse. Blissfully unaware, I read on, flipping from one subscription to another with practiced ease that didn't feel very quick, but must have been. For after a moment, FRISKitty leaned forward, and now my attention was engaged.
"What are you doing, silly?"
FRISKitty did not answer, of course, but her scholarly posture of alert awareness said it all. She was watching something, and she was watching it carefully. Because I didn't see what that something was, I went back to my reading, although it was moderately subdued by the knowledge that there might be something small, gray, and furry out there, nearby.
And then, it happened: the cord got stuck. I pulled it briskly, which is usually enough to dislodge it, and FRISKitty could not contain herself any longer. She lunged across the keyboard and lifted one paw, and as she batted, curious, at the strange little arrow that zipped this way and that across the monitor, I finally understood that she'd been absorbed by my mouse pointer, there on the screen.
Yes, where a cheap laser pointer had failed, regular mousing motions had succeeded, and FRISKitty stayed there for some time, moving her head this way and that, tracking the rapid path of her virtual prey with more curiosity than determination. And she put one paw up lightly to try to stop the thing, until I realized that, should she decide to engage another paw, the monitor would be in more than a little danger.
I sure hope this story doesn't end the way Harriet's did.
January 8, 2008
Reading, My Alethiometer
As a child, I got into science fiction early and read it often. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of the adventures I had while reading, absorbed into the splendid, thought-provoking and artfully described places of another person's imaginings.
No fancy pants or frilly dolls for me, oh no. And when my collection of largely genre-specific books outgrew its three-level shelf, I advanced it across the top, and into a second row on each of the three levels after that, aided by length-cut-to-fit 2x4s hidden behind the first rows. Once the reading bug has bitten you, it's hard to shake the stubborn beast loose, and that goes at least double for the robot insect of science fiction—it also has deep-embedding fangs rather than tiny little bug teeth.
In the beginning, I believe there may have been an odd fantasy tale or two betwixt the mostly hard science fiction stories that lined my shelves like double-walled reality insulation. But I soon disdained that related genre, finding such things generally difficult to read, or beyond my brain's ability to fully saturate within.
The dragons, ye see, more often than not, spoke in riddles, peppered with undefined terminology, and their worlds were often over-spiced with political intrigue that frustrated my ability to comprehend it, and prevented me from enjoying it.
The intervening years, of grown-uppedness and child-rearing and mundane concerns like eating and paying the mortgage, have been largely reading-free. There's even a few parenting books sitting straight, alone, and dusty where the shiny legion of science fiction once reigned—science fiction, with cracked bindings to attest to great and frequent use. Somewhere after college, I ran out of time or will or perhaps even need to drown myself in worlds where I was challenged in ways that were sure to make me happy, and make me more than I was—worlds that, unlike this one, didn't stand a chance of hurting me or making me withdraw further into myself.
But the controversy over The Golden Compass, and the strong endorsement of The Righter for the quality of the story behind the heated debate of its thematic and/or designed heresy, overrode the practice and practicality of those lean science fiction years. And not even my discovery that The Golden Compass was of the personally-trying fantasy genre would deter me, no! I bought it while Little Girl was cheerfully engaged in obliterating her first Christmas bookstore gift certificate and moving right over to tap into the second.
It took me three days to read it, and considering that I can't recall the last time I blazed through a book with such fervor, that's saying a lot about The Golden Compass right there. I suppose you could argue that I was starved for a fortifying fantasy, or dehydrated for want of a quenching draught of theme. If you didn't like the book yourself, you might say I'm just a reading-deprived idiot, and that's fine, too, because I had so much fun reading that damn book that I don't much care what you say, whoever you are, because you probably don't like melodic death metal, either!
HERETIC!
I would've read the book in one day, frankly, but I doubt my boss at corporate would have approved of me extending my half-hour luncheon to an all-day, fantasy affair, and so it was two days before the blessed weekend, and on Saturday, I devoured the remainder with ferocious joy. It was good! It was engaging! It was clever and elaborate and intricate and it turned a few facets of our too-real world around and examined them from the perspective of an alternate reality, largely unbound by our feeble constraints.
Whatever else it may be to those who have—and have not—read it, to me, it was sweet release from a place where the basic rules of time and space are a lot harder to break, and it was so far removed and so clearly defined in its fantasy-ness that I had no difficulty whatsoever distinguishing it from reality. Not for a moment, not even that long, blissful succession of moments that I was plucked out of reality and suspended somewhere else, somewhere that tested my ability to comprehend things I had failed to imagine for myself, and tried my skill to do so even as it was neatly spelled out before me.
So what I'm saying, my invisible friends, is that I LIKED The Golden Compass. I liked it a lot, and I bought the two books that complete the trilogy rather than groceries yesterday, because although the supplies are running down, there's still some dry pasta in the pantry, but what I need right now is some rich, saucy food for thought.
(I'll comment on the controversy after I finish feasting, although that may take some time, because I'm not going to binge, no matter how difficult the temptation—otherwise, that darn novel is never going to get done!)
No fancy pants or frilly dolls for me, oh no. And when my collection of largely genre-specific books outgrew its three-level shelf, I advanced it across the top, and into a second row on each of the three levels after that, aided by length-cut-to-fit 2x4s hidden behind the first rows. Once the reading bug has bitten you, it's hard to shake the stubborn beast loose, and that goes at least double for the robot insect of science fiction—it also has deep-embedding fangs rather than tiny little bug teeth.
In the beginning, I believe there may have been an odd fantasy tale or two betwixt the mostly hard science fiction stories that lined my shelves like double-walled reality insulation. But I soon disdained that related genre, finding such things generally difficult to read, or beyond my brain's ability to fully saturate within.
The dragons, ye see, more often than not, spoke in riddles, peppered with undefined terminology, and their worlds were often over-spiced with political intrigue that frustrated my ability to comprehend it, and prevented me from enjoying it.
The intervening years, of grown-uppedness and child-rearing and mundane concerns like eating and paying the mortgage, have been largely reading-free. There's even a few parenting books sitting straight, alone, and dusty where the shiny legion of science fiction once reigned—science fiction, with cracked bindings to attest to great and frequent use. Somewhere after college, I ran out of time or will or perhaps even need to drown myself in worlds where I was challenged in ways that were sure to make me happy, and make me more than I was—worlds that, unlike this one, didn't stand a chance of hurting me or making me withdraw further into myself.
But the controversy over The Golden Compass, and the strong endorsement of The Righter for the quality of the story behind the heated debate of its thematic and/or designed heresy, overrode the practice and practicality of those lean science fiction years. And not even my discovery that The Golden Compass was of the personally-trying fantasy genre would deter me, no! I bought it while Little Girl was cheerfully engaged in obliterating her first Christmas bookstore gift certificate and moving right over to tap into the second.
It took me three days to read it, and considering that I can't recall the last time I blazed through a book with such fervor, that's saying a lot about The Golden Compass right there. I suppose you could argue that I was starved for a fortifying fantasy, or dehydrated for want of a quenching draught of theme. If you didn't like the book yourself, you might say I'm just a reading-deprived idiot, and that's fine, too, because I had so much fun reading that damn book that I don't much care what you say, whoever you are, because you probably don't like melodic death metal, either!
HERETIC!
I would've read the book in one day, frankly, but I doubt my boss at corporate would have approved of me extending my half-hour luncheon to an all-day, fantasy affair, and so it was two days before the blessed weekend, and on Saturday, I devoured the remainder with ferocious joy. It was good! It was engaging! It was clever and elaborate and intricate and it turned a few facets of our too-real world around and examined them from the perspective of an alternate reality, largely unbound by our feeble constraints.
Whatever else it may be to those who have—and have not—read it, to me, it was sweet release from a place where the basic rules of time and space are a lot harder to break, and it was so far removed and so clearly defined in its fantasy-ness that I had no difficulty whatsoever distinguishing it from reality. Not for a moment, not even that long, blissful succession of moments that I was plucked out of reality and suspended somewhere else, somewhere that tested my ability to comprehend things I had failed to imagine for myself, and tried my skill to do so even as it was neatly spelled out before me.
So what I'm saying, my invisible friends, is that I LIKED The Golden Compass. I liked it a lot, and I bought the two books that complete the trilogy rather than groceries yesterday, because although the supplies are running down, there's still some dry pasta in the pantry, but what I need right now is some rich, saucy food for thought.
(I'll comment on the controversy after I finish feasting, although that may take some time, because I'm not going to binge, no matter how difficult the temptation—otherwise, that darn novel is never going to get done!)
January 6, 2008
Meeting The Other Me
Yesterday, I finally met the other me. I've known about her for some time now, but we'd kept missing each other at the pharmacy where we both get our mutually-exclusive prescriptions filled.
I first learned about the other me several years ago when I appeared to claim a new prescription, and Cheerful Pharmacist Chickie-Boo—believe me, it's appropriate—launched into a story about her.
"You've got the EXACTLY same first name," she said, "and your last names are very similar."
"That's odd," I said. I didn't really care at the time, being more concerned with the potential interactions of my new prescription with old ones.
"I had to check several times before I saw the difference," she went on, shaking her head as she shook a few pills out of the bottle for my inspection.
That wasn't, apparently, the first time our pharmacy tried to pass my meds to her—or mine to her—and it wouldn't be the last, either. Which puts on the board yet another point in favor of these annoying "consultations" with the pharmacy, and given my general paranoia, I'm surprised I didn't get a chill when the pharmacist so chipperly told me about the other me's fairly narrow miss with meds she didn't need.
After that first, casual fly-by of a non-meeting, I became occasionally accustomed to peripheral encounters with the other me, and her medications. It didn't happen every month, but it did happen often enough that I was not at all surprised by it.
"No, that's the other me," I'd say nonchalantly, although I'd say my first name instead of "me," and then spell out my last name again, more S-L-O-W-L-Y this time.
But yesterday, as I stood all spaced-out in line with a lot of other inattentive Friday-night prescription-picker-uppers, it so happened that the other me was in line right behind me. And she had such a hearty laugh that I'd swear now she had to have been snickering when I oh-so-routinely spurned her medication, but I didn't hear her, or even really look at her, until I was tucking my wallet back into my purse, and she stepped up beside me and I heard that laugh for the first time.
And she said, "I'M the other me."
I looked up in shock, and she smiled at me.
"Oh, HI!" I blurted, my self-unassurance inexplicably absent. "It's really nice to finally meet you!"
And it was nice, I thought, there in the mundane, unhealthy environment of the pharmacy, to be surprised by someone whose name—something that seems so unique, but isn't, really—was so close to mine, and yet I'd never know if I passed her on the street. It made me consider that similarities can be as superficial as differences, and yet, a good joke of fate can be easily recognized.
To judge by the goofy grin the other me shared with me before I turned, still smiling myself, to leave, she got it, too.
I first learned about the other me several years ago when I appeared to claim a new prescription, and Cheerful Pharmacist Chickie-Boo—believe me, it's appropriate—launched into a story about her.
"You've got the EXACTLY same first name," she said, "and your last names are very similar."
"That's odd," I said. I didn't really care at the time, being more concerned with the potential interactions of my new prescription with old ones.
"I had to check several times before I saw the difference," she went on, shaking her head as she shook a few pills out of the bottle for my inspection.
That wasn't, apparently, the first time our pharmacy tried to pass my meds to her—or mine to her—and it wouldn't be the last, either. Which puts on the board yet another point in favor of these annoying "consultations" with the pharmacy, and given my general paranoia, I'm surprised I didn't get a chill when the pharmacist so chipperly told me about the other me's fairly narrow miss with meds she didn't need.
After that first, casual fly-by of a non-meeting, I became occasionally accustomed to peripheral encounters with the other me, and her medications. It didn't happen every month, but it did happen often enough that I was not at all surprised by it.
"No, that's the other me," I'd say nonchalantly, although I'd say my first name instead of "me," and then spell out my last name again, more S-L-O-W-L-Y this time.
But yesterday, as I stood all spaced-out in line with a lot of other inattentive Friday-night prescription-picker-uppers, it so happened that the other me was in line right behind me. And she had such a hearty laugh that I'd swear now she had to have been snickering when I oh-so-routinely spurned her medication, but I didn't hear her, or even really look at her, until I was tucking my wallet back into my purse, and she stepped up beside me and I heard that laugh for the first time.
And she said, "I'M the other me."
I looked up in shock, and she smiled at me.
"Oh, HI!" I blurted, my self-unassurance inexplicably absent. "It's really nice to finally meet you!"
And it was nice, I thought, there in the mundane, unhealthy environment of the pharmacy, to be surprised by someone whose name—something that seems so unique, but isn't, really—was so close to mine, and yet I'd never know if I passed her on the street. It made me consider that similarities can be as superficial as differences, and yet, a good joke of fate can be easily recognized.
To judge by the goofy grin the other me shared with me before I turned, still smiling myself, to leave, she got it, too.
Post-War on Christmas
A few of my Christmas cards—and yes, even though I'm an unwashed heathen (at least until my shower, approximately 30 minutes from now, after which I will be a pristinely clean heathen), I do send unabashedly CHRISTMAS cards, among others—have yet to arrive at their destinations. Since it took me awhile to come up with the perfect Christmas card this year, I ran a bit late on the sending part, too. I figure it's okay, as long as they get there by Epiphany on January 6, which—barring any bad addresses in the bunch—they should. Except for the one that's going to my European physicist friend, and I don't think he'll mind.
Anyway, with the cards out the door and at least on their way, it finally seems like post-Christmas to me, and so, in an attempt to be somewhat timely, I'm going to conduct a short post-War on Christmas analysis. (You're lucky I got up late this morning, or it would be the usual, long-tailed beast of a blather that you have come to expect from my bad NC-17 self.)
Now. The "War on Christmas," as I understand it, is defined by a few, cranky Christians—not at all the norm—who take exception to the fact that their Lord and Savior shares His birthday with at least one other person (*waves to The ListMaker*). These rather vocal anti-"Happy Holidays!" folk, for whom even lawn signs carry a screaming, supporting role ("KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS!"), also tend to glower when they encounter signs of any December 25th-ish holiday other than Christmas itself. And they believe that those of us who celebrate anything other than Christmas are actually trying to do away with Christmas altogether.
*gasp*
Now. Aside from the fact that Christian scholars—who study the Bible at a level of detail that most of the rest of us would be hard-pressed to imagine, much less emulate ... and not just the popular translations, but ancient texts that are untranslated from the languages in which they were originally written—are pretty much in agreement regarding that Jesus was not actually born on December 25th, how would one celebration possibly negate another? I think we can all agree that Mr. William Donohue could not, even at under threat of Happy Naked Pagan Dance, would not waver from the CHRISTMAS celebration of his choice.
No, not even if he were surrounded by chanting Wiccans, and by the way, has he been thus harassed? NO, and can you guess why? YES! Because while he and others like him are bemoaning the fact that other things DARE to happen on December 25th—the day that was chosen for a celebration of Jesus's birth—other people are simply celebrating their chosen winter holidays, including Christmas and happily so. Gracious, some are even interested in other goings-on, because pretty much anything worth rejoicing in is also worth sharing, and every winter holiday that I've ever heard of involves renewal, family, and light. What's not to like?
I wonder, has the typical "War on Christmas" fighter not heard of sharing? Have they never postponed an event, such as a holiday celebration, due to another intervening event? A birthday? A school play? A concert? A—Heaven forbid—funeral? Is it not possible to celebrate the birth of Jesus while your neighbor celebrates a secular Christmas with her/his family? Or Yule? Or Kwanzaa? What is the mechanism, exactly, by which one person saying "Happy Holidays!" to another auto-black-magically detracts from the Christmas—CHRISTIAN—joy experienced by that other?
It seems to me that the only people who are losing the spirit of Christmas by virtue of recognizing that other people have other traditions are those who let it. There is no inherent devaluation in whatever anyone chooses to celebrate, as long as those celebrants hold in their hearts and minds the TRUE MEANING of that which they purport to value so very, very much. Christmas is said to be a remembrance of the arrival on Earth of God in human form—"God, who so loved the world ..." the whole world, not any one group of people on it—and as such, how can anyone who truly believes do anything less but wish everyone they encounter merry, be it in Christmas, Solstice, Chanukah, Festivus or any other holiday I've not mentioned as yet?
I don't understand war in general, but "War on Christmas" seems plain silly to me even as a concept. My investment in the holiday, while admittedly not spiritual, runs as deep and cherished as if it were, and yet the more I learn about other winter holidays, the better: it brightens the dark and warms the cold, creating feast out of famine and fellowship out of isolation. Celebrating, and rejoicing in the celebrations of others, unites people around the world, and even a cynic such as myself can see that happens more around and about December 25th than not.
"War on Christmas," indeed. I prefer peace on all holidays, and I think the way to get it is to spread it out across all religions:
The preceding image is the front of a card I sent to friends and family for Christmas 2006; it had its origins in "War on Christmas" articles and opinions, so I guess I can't say *nothing* good came out of that. Thinking of it has got me quite sappy about other holiday cards I've made, and if I can round up a few more of them, I'll scan them in and post the lot of 'em, just for cornball's sake.
The inside of this card read:
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Anyway, with the cards out the door and at least on their way, it finally seems like post-Christmas to me, and so, in an attempt to be somewhat timely, I'm going to conduct a short post-War on Christmas analysis. (You're lucky I got up late this morning, or it would be the usual, long-tailed beast of a blather that you have come to expect from my bad NC-17 self.)
Now. The "War on Christmas," as I understand it, is defined by a few, cranky Christians—not at all the norm—who take exception to the fact that their Lord and Savior shares His birthday with at least one other person (*waves to The ListMaker*). These rather vocal anti-"Happy Holidays!" folk, for whom even lawn signs carry a screaming, supporting role ("KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS!"), also tend to glower when they encounter signs of any December 25th-ish holiday other than Christmas itself. And they believe that those of us who celebrate anything other than Christmas are actually trying to do away with Christmas altogether.
*gasp*
Now. Aside from the fact that Christian scholars—who study the Bible at a level of detail that most of the rest of us would be hard-pressed to imagine, much less emulate ... and not just the popular translations, but ancient texts that are untranslated from the languages in which they were originally written—are pretty much in agreement regarding that Jesus was not actually born on December 25th, how would one celebration possibly negate another? I think we can all agree that Mr. William Donohue could not, even at under threat of Happy Naked Pagan Dance, would not waver from the CHRISTMAS celebration of his choice.
No, not even if he were surrounded by chanting Wiccans, and by the way, has he been thus harassed? NO, and can you guess why? YES! Because while he and others like him are bemoaning the fact that other things DARE to happen on December 25th—the day that was chosen for a celebration of Jesus's birth—other people are simply celebrating their chosen winter holidays, including Christmas and happily so. Gracious, some are even interested in other goings-on, because pretty much anything worth rejoicing in is also worth sharing, and every winter holiday that I've ever heard of involves renewal, family, and light. What's not to like?
I wonder, has the typical "War on Christmas" fighter not heard of sharing? Have they never postponed an event, such as a holiday celebration, due to another intervening event? A birthday? A school play? A concert? A—Heaven forbid—funeral? Is it not possible to celebrate the birth of Jesus while your neighbor celebrates a secular Christmas with her/his family? Or Yule? Or Kwanzaa? What is the mechanism, exactly, by which one person saying "Happy Holidays!" to another auto-black-magically detracts from the Christmas—CHRISTIAN—joy experienced by that other?
It seems to me that the only people who are losing the spirit of Christmas by virtue of recognizing that other people have other traditions are those who let it. There is no inherent devaluation in whatever anyone chooses to celebrate, as long as those celebrants hold in their hearts and minds the TRUE MEANING of that which they purport to value so very, very much. Christmas is said to be a remembrance of the arrival on Earth of God in human form—"God, who so loved the world ..." the whole world, not any one group of people on it—and as such, how can anyone who truly believes do anything less but wish everyone they encounter merry, be it in Christmas, Solstice, Chanukah, Festivus or any other holiday I've not mentioned as yet?
I don't understand war in general, but "War on Christmas" seems plain silly to me even as a concept. My investment in the holiday, while admittedly not spiritual, runs as deep and cherished as if it were, and yet the more I learn about other winter holidays, the better: it brightens the dark and warms the cold, creating feast out of famine and fellowship out of isolation. Celebrating, and rejoicing in the celebrations of others, unites people around the world, and even a cynic such as myself can see that happens more around and about December 25th than not.
"War on Christmas," indeed. I prefer peace on all holidays, and I think the way to get it is to spread it out across all religions:
The preceding image is the front of a card I sent to friends and family for Christmas 2006; it had its origins in "War on Christmas" articles and opinions, so I guess I can't say *nothing* good came out of that. Thinking of it has got me quite sappy about other holiday cards I've made, and if I can round up a few more of them, I'll scan them in and post the lot of 'em, just for cornball's sake.
The inside of this card read:
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
January 2, 2008
Priceless
Little Girl and I went after-Christmas shopping on the very first day after Christmas. I didn't plan it that way, being the anti-social, crowd-phobic worrywart that I am, but between the weather and various family obligations, that's how the snowball bounced.
Because Little Girl had a full house of gift cards, and two more up her sleeve, we were kept quite busy visiting the stores whose names graced those cards, but she was gracious enough to allow her driver a side-stop, too. And that's where I found the laser pointer.
Little Girl's daddy had received a rather non-utilitarian—by his unusual standards—timepiece that included, of all strange things, a red light on one side. It was not a laser pointer by any means, and especially by focused means, but we'd nonetheless tried to interest FRISKitty in playing with it. (She disdained it entirely.)
So when I happened across a laser pointer marked 50% OFF!, I knew I had to have it. At $2.50, it was hardly in danger of breaking the bank, and if it caused as much feline delight as the clip-on, red-light watch, well! It was at least cheaper than a box of All-Bran, and ought to be more fun, too.
Anyhoo, with Little Girl's unexpected fascination with the bargain-basement laser—that still warned quite grimly about the dangers of eye injury, adding sternly: THIS IS NOT A TOY!—I ended up stashing it away someplace and forgetting about it for a few days. So it came as no surprise to anyone, really, that when I finally dredged it out while Little Girl was off sledding with Neighbor Girl that FRISKitty was nowhere to be found.
"Try it on Bad Dog," Little Girl's daddy suggested, and Bad Dog perked up her ears at the sound of her name, and then ducked her head as if she'd recently done something to live up to it.
I swore up and down that it wouldn't work on a DOG, and then I sketched a path across the floor in front of her.
"HUNT 'EM UP!" Little Girl's daddy helpfully shouted, and pointed at the red dot dancing before the naughty labrador. Who, to my amazement, promptly lowered her snout and shot off like a kibble-powered rocket in hot pursuit of the red dot on the floor.
Oh, them was good times, I tell you, and Little Girl's daddy and I laughed ourselves silly as Bad Dog, with dedication—and occasional confusion, when her odd little quarry eluded her—hunted the point of the laser all over the living room and part-way into the kitchen. Little Girl's daddy even took a turn at the game, and then snuffed it out abruptly, claiming he wanted to save some of the fun for later, lest Bad Dog tire of it.
When later came, and FRISKitty had been assembled alongside Bad Dog, of course, that questionable-quality, $2.50 laser didn't work at all. FRISKitty took off in a flurry of fur, and Bad Dog adopted her forlorn, sorrowful expression yet again—losing it immediately when I went to prepare Old Lady Cat's canned skank-scented supper.
I bet you're thinking I'm going to throw out some dreary sort of moral to this pointless tale, like how we all have our cheap laser pointers that we chase and we shouldn't be surprised when they quit working. But since I wasn't at all surprised when ours did just that—even if it was premature even according to my low expectations—I can't oblige you.
Besides, I think maybe the moral is more along the lines of enjoying metaphorical cheap laser pointers wherever you find them, and follow them along for as long as you can. Because the fun you have—however short-lived, and however simple—is also priceless.
Because Little Girl had a full house of gift cards, and two more up her sleeve, we were kept quite busy visiting the stores whose names graced those cards, but she was gracious enough to allow her driver a side-stop, too. And that's where I found the laser pointer.
Little Girl's daddy had received a rather non-utilitarian—by his unusual standards—timepiece that included, of all strange things, a red light on one side. It was not a laser pointer by any means, and especially by focused means, but we'd nonetheless tried to interest FRISKitty in playing with it. (She disdained it entirely.)
So when I happened across a laser pointer marked 50% OFF!, I knew I had to have it. At $2.50, it was hardly in danger of breaking the bank, and if it caused as much feline delight as the clip-on, red-light watch, well! It was at least cheaper than a box of All-Bran, and ought to be more fun, too.
Anyhoo, with Little Girl's unexpected fascination with the bargain-basement laser—that still warned quite grimly about the dangers of eye injury, adding sternly: THIS IS NOT A TOY!—I ended up stashing it away someplace and forgetting about it for a few days. So it came as no surprise to anyone, really, that when I finally dredged it out while Little Girl was off sledding with Neighbor Girl that FRISKitty was nowhere to be found.
"Try it on Bad Dog," Little Girl's daddy suggested, and Bad Dog perked up her ears at the sound of her name, and then ducked her head as if she'd recently done something to live up to it.
I swore up and down that it wouldn't work on a DOG, and then I sketched a path across the floor in front of her.
"HUNT 'EM UP!" Little Girl's daddy helpfully shouted, and pointed at the red dot dancing before the naughty labrador. Who, to my amazement, promptly lowered her snout and shot off like a kibble-powered rocket in hot pursuit of the red dot on the floor.
Oh, them was good times, I tell you, and Little Girl's daddy and I laughed ourselves silly as Bad Dog, with dedication—and occasional confusion, when her odd little quarry eluded her—hunted the point of the laser all over the living room and part-way into the kitchen. Little Girl's daddy even took a turn at the game, and then snuffed it out abruptly, claiming he wanted to save some of the fun for later, lest Bad Dog tire of it.
When later came, and FRISKitty had been assembled alongside Bad Dog, of course, that questionable-quality, $2.50 laser didn't work at all. FRISKitty took off in a flurry of fur, and Bad Dog adopted her forlorn, sorrowful expression yet again—losing it immediately when I went to prepare Old Lady Cat's canned skank-scented supper.
I bet you're thinking I'm going to throw out some dreary sort of moral to this pointless tale, like how we all have our cheap laser pointers that we chase and we shouldn't be surprised when they quit working. But since I wasn't at all surprised when ours did just that—even if it was premature even according to my low expectations—I can't oblige you.
Besides, I think maybe the moral is more along the lines of enjoying metaphorical cheap laser pointers wherever you find them, and follow them along for as long as you can. Because the fun you have—however short-lived, and however simple—is also priceless.
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