you are what you eat

it's very important to get the food right at an intervention.

during this current period of financial non-denominational "rapture", it is now becoming more urgent for the start-up-former-herbal-candle-making-entrepeneur to recognize the stressors that are patently spilling over into the general populus' over-taxed interpersonal relationships-- and consequently expand (exploit?) the relevant skill set, in order to meet the need of a new demographic of diagnostic consumer.

confronting anyone party to a domestic violence situation, should only be accented with fare that is soft, cold and non-acidic. the ethiopian food genre maintains an overall theme promoting pacifism for any such gathering, being that it is both malleable and lacking in any crockery. however, should picky eaters, the allergy prone, or a nutritional neophyte be in attendance, hummus, brownie batter (no nuts or chips), and jello pudding/jello salad/jello sundaes/jello corn dogs are typically more marketable sustenance to the less discerning McPalate. * additionally, preparation is key; cooked (and chilled) asparagus is acceptable, grilled or blanched is not. unfortunately, a long time potluck favourite, green bean casserole is cuisine non grata due to the walmart made in china, china and it's volcanic temperatures upon presentation. neither is chili a viable option. or kebabs. or fondue. in fact anything requiring chopsticks is potentially more hazardous than serving pigs in unleavened blankets at a bar mitzvah. finally, pineapple, avacados and peaches should be left for the clinically depressed and obsessive compulsives; pits leave bruises.






* catering for the sex addict's hopeful 'wake-up moment' is more limiting than a kosher-vegan diet; no hot dogs, baguettes, pies, pumpkins, or even a benign tureen of oatmeal-- and definitely no pesto. cornflakes and toast are about as experimental as things should get.

babymama drama

men are rumoured to be ruled by their hormones, women are renowned for it; teenage girls, pregnant teenage girls, pregnant women, new mothers, menopausal grandmothers. and yet many in possession of an excess of, cycling with, or reduction in oestrogen appear to need to "prove" that they can do it all. hear me roar, cry, and then deconstruct my feelings for you on colour coded, scented index cards before i chop wood with my right pinky (blindfolded).

strenuous physical activity is a wonderful way to sublimate aggression. or...a place to work out "daddy just didn't give me enough attention" issues. my flag football team recently witnessed one 'not so delicate flower', break two fingers in the pre-season scrimmage (requiring surgery and a cast), only to throw herself into a mid-game brawl this past weekend. both she and the hubby (a burly quarterback more than capable of taking care of himself) appear to share a preponderance towards a very active, non-verbal expression of their anger. while mr. QB was using the universal sign of "i am about to beat your face into a bloody pulp" towards our QB, his mrs charged onto the field to fight for Her Man's honour. fortunately she exercised exquisite judgement in her choice to drop baby-on-hip and toddler-in-hand at the sideline, thus ensuring them an uninterrupted view of "conflict resolution".

it required significant self control not to hand her a business card.

coping strategies, by lewis carroll

last week's full moon has left some residual chaos in it's wake. either that, or it's the fact that i work in a residential treatment facility and am supervising a staff that showcases "womens' hormones through the ages". the sensitive 20-something cat owners, the swollen-ankle-not-quite-dilated "hatchers", a menopausal matriarch, and even a chick with more facial hair than pavarotti, all of whom provide a baseline of "harried" and "hysterical" at this non-profit tea party. vocational interval training has alternated between protracted bouts of putting out proverbial fires, and chasing rabbits (and social workers) down holes. all with no pee breaks. relief finally came in the form of a 7 year old asking if i had seen the movie "constipated". ("it hasn't come out yet").

my own professional wonderland does have a strong supporting cast; the caterpillar (currently starring the shift supervisor behind his desk/toadstool) was subjected to the kidnapping of his small plastic hippopotamus (not a euphemism). a ransom note was left demanding a $3 lunch ticket for the safe return of aforementioned hippo. several hours, and a trip to the fax machine, later there was the lunch ticket. the ante was further upped when a miniature ape and elephant were left bound and gagged (in dental floss) with an additional note demanding 30 crisp, and unmarked, agency "bucks". the day culminated in a chase by one clinical specialist (my soon to be office mate) onto the house, by another clinical specialist (that would be me) ending in a pulled groin muscle (mine). i am now looking for a rabbit hole to crawl into.

i scream, you scream (i scream, again!)

"vanilla", when it is does not involve dairy or cake, tends to be a synonym for "plain" and "boring", and generally references a proper noun. for example; "mary drives a honda civic, lives in a cookie cutter apartment complex by the mall, and wears white hanes, she is soooooo vanilla" (note, the other bakery reference for "boring" and "generic").

apparently, the non-vanilla "moose tracker sherbert ripplers" are out there piercing their fleshy bits (belly buttons being a popular destination for the gun), inking up their skin (barbed wire/butterfly/dolphin tattoo anyone?), and dying/chopping/shaving/mohawking their hair. they can also be found engaging in acrobatic, yogatastic sex in aeroplane/burger king/your next door neighbour's waterbed, who you are housesitting for while they are away in florida's, bathroom.

"vanilla", as i understand it (and have on occasion been labeled), implies a paucity of adventure, risk and change. oddly enough, the true dictionary definition describes vanilla as a flavouring "agent".

ex and the city

in a week that has been nothing but full-on drama, pounding in wave after relentless wave of hurt feelings and unmitigated hysteria, it was inevitable that an exclamation point would punctuate friday's grand finale, as evidenced by the manic texting, furtive phone calls, and not so subtle hiding behind trees and other random strangers.

louisville has an art gallery trolley hop once a month, where the streets empty out of smelly homeless schizophrenics with 40 oz's and are replaced with french manicured young professionals clutching designer purses and plastic cups of free boxed wine, all while standing at the corner of market street looking like flocks of starbucks courtesans. (i was there too).

my accomplice du jour (would that be a 'wingwoman'?) was "the gap girl". under the dictionary definition of "she who has her shit together" you will find this girl's name. sometimes i like to spend time with her in the hopes that some of the "shit togetherness" will rub off on me- i am obviously still waiting (or not putting in enough hours). "gap girl" confirmed that she too had been feeling the secondary effects of a full moon, having spent the week fending off an amorous ex who had resurfaced. upon arrival at the cross-section of "hip" and "trendy" i made "i know you, but i cant quite place you" eye contact with 'creepy, older, hippy dude', until i realized this was my housesitting friend's former paramour of 7 years, who in true soap opera coincidence was meeting us with her new hubby momentarily ('heads up' calls placed: 1). we proceeded a couple of galleries down the street when i saw a former grad school classmate's ex (fortunately she is now living in seattle), with what appeared to be his new boyfriend in tow (this confirmed previous suspicions, especially given he lives in "the big pink house").

'heads up' calls received: 1. another friend, let's call her "old navy girl" (mostly has shit together, but not enough to make me panic), had also been dealing with "ex stress" this past week and needed to purge, unfortunately mid purge, "random stranger with poor boundaries and depleted social skills" felt the need to interrupt my conversation to fire a monologue of oh-so-ho-ho-ho-original british nouns at me; "bloke", "tea and crumpets", "the queen", "cucumber sandwiches", and "the beatles" (what, no monty python?). he was issued with an equally british "bugger off" and i resumed my phone call. meanwhile, "gap girl" had been cornered by a different ex's SUPER BUBBLY/FRIENDLY/UNMEDICATED new girlfriend (oh hell, she's 24, she's supposed to sound like a care bear on crack), who would not shut up; "my father is on drugs", or go away; "i just HAD to come over and say hi to the pretty girl".

yes; i will be going to next month's episode, er, trolley hop.

invasion of the body snatchers

i believe that there has been some rare strain of contagious PMS permeating my (only my) orbit this week. many of my nearest and dearest appear to have had a logical reasoning lobotomy. obviously the common denominator in this little bipolar mood swing equation is myself, and i am aware that i can be difficult/perplexing/trying/exasperating/patience testing, amongst all the other "synonyms for a 5 year old for $400, please alex". but it is not a full moon this week, and i want my friends back.

i should be irritable, my chigger bite count is up to 30. i am itchy.

degrees of separation

"a cookout and cornhole" was the condensed version of the invitation for the gathering i attended last night. sadly it was not nearly as 'rated for a mature audience' as it sounded. mature is probably the antithesis, in fact.

as is tradition at any gathering in louisville, initial introductions involve a lengthy process to establish how many degrees of separation you are connected to this new stranger by. it turns out (and this will obviously only be of interest and relevance to me, the rest of you really couldnt give a shit) that the hostess's former roomate's son, is now married to my ex's, ex (who is also darth vader's brother's auntie's former physical therapist's pre-school teacher), but his (the ex) sister's husband's nephew was also in attendance. she (ex's ex) did not attend due to family obligations, however, he (ex's ex's husband) and i shared an interesting moment of conversation before we became engrossed in a rather competitive game of cornhole.

1:30am- as the party petered out, the majority (of which i was not one) ruled in favour of walking to a nearby dive bar * to laugh at the locals doing karaoke. as the designated driver i could have exercized my veto power, but truth be known i had hoped conceding to the bar would mean i could get out of driving everyone's ass 45 minutes to boz-fest (live music, drinking, debauchery and camping in a field), out in la grange, ky. that would put this grandma in her pyjamas around 4am; not cool. karaoke in germantown was every bit as blue collar as i expected it to be. tattoos, mullets, missing teeth, engorged and turgid beer bellies (on the men too), and the mandatory '3 pack a day' gravelly soloist belting out leann rhimes.

3:30am- (old navy pyjamas with a scent of "ash tray") the only time i ever see these numbers displayed on my watch are when i am sitting upright in my economy class seat (clutching the arm rests) concentrating on keeping the plane up in the air for 6 hours across the atlantic.



* this is one of the only bars in louisville that plans to ignore the upcoming smoking ban and suck up the fines. i, obviously have no future plans of frequenting this particular establishment in the immediate or remote future.

its my territory and i'll pee all over it if i want to (and other wacky co-workers)

"i need to talk to you" is a phrase that induces the 5 year old "oh no i've disappointed the big people" or "uh oh, mum found the stash of broken doll's house toys under my bed and now im going to be in even BIGGER trouble for not owning up when i first broke the car/rocking chair/bed" feeling somewhere in my upper intestine. it is not a good sign when i feel chronic and situational "indigestion" around a staff person that i supervise.

"i would have pulled rank on you if i had to" (a program supervisor who's self-esteem issues are commensurate in size to that of her obsessive love towards her cat), i am aware that my hair is sometimes blonde, but i dont recall signing up for the military? although it would have made the whole morning 'what-to-wear?' routine so much simpler. the differences between she and i are manifested in how we sublimate our same low sense of self (although i really am the better supervisor). i do not feel the need to linguistically "piss" all over people by constantly using possessive pronouns to refer to "my" staff. however, perhaps i need to throw a leash around my own labrador personality (please, please, please like me) and get a little pit bull when i feel some indigestion coming on.

my solution is to dye my hair grey, bake some wrinkles into my skin, and eat bon bons until a nicely shaped "mom butt" develops. at which point i will start wearing pink floral skirts with elastic waistbands, and perhaps then i will be recognized as an "authority", or mistaken for an elementary school teacher. of course i did run into community based services' art therapist in the clearance section at target. she was buying pyjamas. to wear to work. everyone LOVES her.

can someone, please, give me a time out?

the reccomendation is 1 minute for each year of life. this means that i should get 32 minutes (i dont mind rounding up, my birthday is next month) of sitting in a quiet area with no one talking to me. if i were to start swearing or getting out of my seat i would get an extra minute added for each infraction; 2 "bloody hells", 1 "christ on a cracker" and i lost track of how many variations of "shit". that would add up to a lot of peace, quiet, and reflection (of better ways to not be heard next time).

yesterday i went to the mecca of the 'themed holiday sweater brigade'; the parent teacher store. my mission was to find a special kind of "time timer" which shows the leftover minutes as a block of colour that disappears; very useful for the teeny tiny tots, the developmentally delayed, or the easily impressed. i was looking forward to seeing little johnny throw his cereal across the room/smack little susie/swear like a sailor to test it out. little did i know that i would need to implement it on staff.

"an argument takes two people, with just one person, its a temper tantrum" (some developmental big wig i read recently, 2007). there have been tears (not mine) and pouting (not the 5 year olds). this is what happens when you have this many women (two of which are pregnant) working in such close quarters. i fail to see how polygamy sounds like a good idea.

no man is an island: "the office"

as with neighbours, siblings and parents, you cannot escape co-workers. if you want to be able to pay your mortgage, cell phone bill, or outstanding tab at thoroughbred lounges I through V (a local chain of southend louisville strip clubs) then they become part of the daily vocational gauntlet.

workmates generally comprise a cluedo (US trans: "clue") cast of characters. professor plum is typified in the paternal and somewhat aged hippie colleague, generally owning a sweater collection that rivals mr rogers' and a sense of humour that combines large quantities of cheese with that of an 8 year old schoolboy. miss scarlett is characterized by the the office slut bag; the one who is bar/bed hopping, and her sentences over utilize "i" statements. colonel mustard is usually located somewhere in upper management and likes to crunch numbers and send emails about productivity. he will create hours of power point presentations to demonstrate the implementation of new policies and procedures that will yield increased performance improvement and customer satisfaction to bore you silly at quarterly review meetings. finally, there is an unspoken magnetic pull that draws the mrs peacock's to come and fuss over the state of your cold/love life, or just tell you about her varicose vein related problems.

i can generally be found; in the break room, with miss scarlett, smiling and nodding about the intricacies of her latest paramour, while imagining a candlestick piercing through her carotid.



* these are based on true stories and real people.
** i am not miss scarlett.
*** well, maybe mrs peacock.

and people think kentucky is backward and boring...

i was recently talking to a friend of mine who told me that one of her friends (who is a lesbian) is in a comitted relationship and wants to have a child. her (the committed lesbian's) mother is a midwife, and has been coming over to inseminate the daughter with a turkey baster.

i bet the story of the sperm donor is an interesting one too.

sticks and stones

it's not nice to call people names (to their face). no matter how angry i get i will bite my tongue against "bastards", "son's of bitches", and "aresholes". i will use "turdhead", "fart munch", "dorkus", and "craphead" as terms of endearment. stuffing one's anger is not generally a healthy thing because trying to solve a problem with a mute IS a problem. however, there is something to be said for holding back on these derogatory labels, because while they can be said in anger, once they are said and you are no longer angry and no longer "mean it", they have still been "heard".

letting go

when you hold on tightly, you cannot trust yourself or others with the consequences of letting go. this means moving forward. it means saying goodbye. you can forgive, but how do you forgive yourself if you cant forget what your own actions have created? if you let go of everything, what do you have left? if you keep running, eventually you have to stop. if you keep thinking, you never have to do. if you keep doing, you never have to think. if you keep arguing, you never have to be alone. if you dont trust, you never have to hurt. if you break trust, you never have to move beyond their inflicted pain. if you ignore, you never have to change. if you stay angry, blame, harbour guilt and bitterness, lie, conceal, ridicule, pretend, deny, obsess, resent, punish, remind, and control; you will be alone. you will lose because you cannot let go.

addiction

it is hard to raise your hand and acknowledge the truth. lies feel so much easier, denial is safe.
geography is temporary.
drama is energy.
anger feels good, it is real, it is emotion, it is something concrete to respond to.
anger is scary.
so is reality.

where do you go from here with what's left?