First: I might just be on here more often.
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]
Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.
The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.
.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.
Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.
.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Hey there! Remember me?
1. Yes - I'm awful at this. I keep promising myself to update, and I never do...
2. .... partially because I wonder if anyone ever reads this. If you do, Hi! Sorry!
3. Thursday is my 6 month anniversary. I never know how to approach these sort of things - most of my friends are enrolled in the "anniversary's are an invention of Hallmark" school, and there is a large part of me that agrees with them. When you care about a person, the passage of time should be secondary - enjoying the present should take precedence over the past. At the same time... I am my parents' child. (Literally and figuratively - I'll explain. Sheesh.)
Every anniversary, my Dad makes a point to go out and find my Mom this gorgeous and yet, humorous card... and fills it out with the most beautiful, heart-felt, loving message that I've ever read. Mom, on her part, is often less lovey-dovey oriented than Dad... she's affectionate in her own way. It's hard to explain, but it balances things out - you don't have to be over the top to let people know that you love them. Her cards, however, are the same way - meaningful, amusing, and with a message inside that leaves my Dad no doubt that they've belonged together for the past 25 plus years.
... it's the sort of message... the sort of writing... the makes you wish that, one of these days, you'll have something that amazing for yourself.
... Not just the card! Don't get me wrong - if I just wanted the card, I could write a pretty decent love letter to myself. It's the idea that you could spend the rest of your life with a person and continue to grow more and more in love with them the longer that you're with them. Most relationships grow tired, stale. People forget to appreciate the little things that made them so happy and focus only on the growing annoyances, insecurities... things spiral downwards until everything just explodes. A fireball of love-gone-wrong, if you will.
... so here's my... main malfunction. 6 months. For me - a HUGE deal. My mind has a skewed sense of reasoning and logic, and it takes something bigger than me to recognize when things are worth while. 6 months... compared to 25 years, pretty tiny, but on *my* scale, ridiculous. 6 months of making, enjoying, and working at a relationship with the person that I love. I didn't even believe I was capable of it. (This is growing quasi-emo, I know...) So yes, an anniversary is just another day to spend money, support the economy, and wear your fancy shoes... *however*... it's also a day to remember that, even after 6 months... or 25 years... two people still want to be together.
In other words - maybe I'll find a nice card.
... and then take him somewhere thoroughly un-romantic.
That... just might work.
2. .... partially because I wonder if anyone ever reads this. If you do, Hi! Sorry!
3. Thursday is my 6 month anniversary. I never know how to approach these sort of things - most of my friends are enrolled in the "anniversary's are an invention of Hallmark" school, and there is a large part of me that agrees with them. When you care about a person, the passage of time should be secondary - enjoying the present should take precedence over the past. At the same time... I am my parents' child. (Literally and figuratively - I'll explain. Sheesh.)
Every anniversary, my Dad makes a point to go out and find my Mom this gorgeous and yet, humorous card... and fills it out with the most beautiful, heart-felt, loving message that I've ever read. Mom, on her part, is often less lovey-dovey oriented than Dad... she's affectionate in her own way. It's hard to explain, but it balances things out - you don't have to be over the top to let people know that you love them. Her cards, however, are the same way - meaningful, amusing, and with a message inside that leaves my Dad no doubt that they've belonged together for the past 25 plus years.
... it's the sort of message... the sort of writing... the makes you wish that, one of these days, you'll have something that amazing for yourself.
... Not just the card! Don't get me wrong - if I just wanted the card, I could write a pretty decent love letter to myself. It's the idea that you could spend the rest of your life with a person and continue to grow more and more in love with them the longer that you're with them. Most relationships grow tired, stale. People forget to appreciate the little things that made them so happy and focus only on the growing annoyances, insecurities... things spiral downwards until everything just explodes. A fireball of love-gone-wrong, if you will.
... so here's my... main malfunction. 6 months. For me - a HUGE deal. My mind has a skewed sense of reasoning and logic, and it takes something bigger than me to recognize when things are worth while. 6 months... compared to 25 years, pretty tiny, but on *my* scale, ridiculous. 6 months of making, enjoying, and working at a relationship with the person that I love. I didn't even believe I was capable of it. (This is growing quasi-emo, I know...) So yes, an anniversary is just another day to spend money, support the economy, and wear your fancy shoes... *however*... it's also a day to remember that, even after 6 months... or 25 years... two people still want to be together.
In other words - maybe I'll find a nice card.
... and then take him somewhere thoroughly un-romantic.
That... just might work.
Friday, December 12, 2008
I can't decide - predictability vs. forced multiple personality disorder?
I need to get out of the dorms.
Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."
... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".
.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.
There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.
There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.
Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.
Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.
My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.
Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.
What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.
However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.
And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?
... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.
Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."
... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".
.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.
There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.
There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.
Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.
Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.
My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.
Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.
What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.
However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.
And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?
... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.
Monday, December 8, 2008
short (and stupid)
You know, it has never really occurred to me that relationship issues are fixable.
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Well, boy, am I bad at this.
So... I figured that by saving this page under "Bookmarks", I'd see the link enough to be guilt-tripped into updating regularly.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Another leaf-scone? Why, Mr. Bigglesworth, I just couldn't.
"But more puddle-tea would be lovely, thank you - Princess Garcia-Duck, this luncheon is absolutely delightful. I must accept your invitations more often."
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
It's got 120 calories! 25 grams of protein! Only 2 grams of sugar!
Only 57% OF YOUR DAILY SODIUM INTAKE PER SERVING!
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
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