Who am I?
My story’s not important. I’ve lived with IBS since late 2011 and after months of pain and no help from the medicinal world I took the future into my own hands. My sporadic research has led me to knowledge every person with IBS ought to know. This quick run-through should help anyone, new or old to the topic, on their quest to health. I am NOT a health professional. The idea here is to give you all the information 1,5 – 3 years of research on the internet will give you. Continue reading
Considering the personal nature of the blog, and the nature of the somewhat less-important-in-the-larger-scale-of-things topics I usually discuss (which, obviously, I find perilously important for life), it makes sense to write about the recent carcrash I experienced.
Which angle should I take on? The adrenaline kicking my perception of life into another frame? The fright of setting a foot outside my door and the general pile of arguments against ever doing so? The relieved, almost religious, realization that everything is all right?
It matters little. The whole affair passes quickly and the most interesting thing about it was that right after hearing the crash, and being pushed forward and then pulled back by the seatbelt, my first thought was: “Now dad has another thing to worry about. How should I break this to him?”
My next thought was whether anything had happened to my back and if I’d be able to compete in the pole championship next week.
Such trivial thoughts, but they put life and the accident in a neat frame, the frame called “narrow, personal perspective”. It’s what a writer calls Point Of View. And so we can give it different names and argue about the meaning of a perfectly meaningless incident.
To quote Austen: “The whole thing will pass – no doubt faster than it should.”
(By the way, nobody was hurt)
My friend, O: My parents help me too much. Sometimes my sister and I have to be like “stop it, dad, let us take care of ourselves.” We have to grow up, you know?
Me: I get it.
O: And then I just think … wow, I’m lucky to have such parents. They’ll catch me if I fall.
Me: yeah, we’re very lucky. Do you ever think about that? We’re upper middleclass without traumas, non-divorced parents – irony underscored by the fact that I’m saying non-divorced and not still-together parents – white women
O: in the best time to be a woman!
Me: Exactly! We’re white, straight women from upper middleclass and ee have all this technology, all these possibilities. Our part of the world isn’t involved in any crazy wars, we’re both getting educations we really like and we’ll probably live pretty solid lives throughout.
O: Yup. We’re so ordinary.
Me: *Laughter* I know a few people who would disagree.
O: *Frown* Yes. And they’d be correct. In fact, we’re not ordinary at all. As I said, we’re lucky. Privileged is the word.
Me: You’d think I’d be bored at this prospect, but to be honest I’m just sort of looking forward to it.
”People in Scandinavia have a better tolerance for cow milk than other places because we were more dependent on it,” I said. “If you couldn’t eat it you died.”
“Yeah, or maybe you died from old age,” my grandfather laughed.
“No, what I mean is, you wouldn’t get to old age.”
“And, anyway,” my grandmother said, “in other lands, like Germany and France, they have that disgusting milk that stands outside the fridge. Long-time milk. That can’t be healthy.”
“That’s not the point,” I tried feebly. “In the past they didn’t have that. And actually, the further south you get the more normal it was to drink goat milk than cow’s milk.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“So the farther you get from Scandinavia the more likely it is to be allergic to cow’s milk.”
“Gitta and Frank drink a lot of milk, too,” my grandmother said.
I sighed, giving up.
“I always figured being someone’s girlfriend would be easy,” I told my boyfriend. “I like gaming and so my boyfriend would get to play a lot and I wouldn’t complain and he could even teach me a game or two. I knew I’d be a great girlfriend like that. That magic unicorn all guys are looking for – the girl who wants to join the game.” I sighed. “And then I have to go and find you. The one man who doesn’t play games.”
My boyfriend looked befuddled before he recomposed himself and said: “I always figured it would be easy to find a great girlfriend. Most girls don’t game, so I wouldn’t need to worry about finding a gamer girl. And then I have to go and find you.” Continue reading
It’s happening. Finally.
The dance studio I attend are having their first pole championship and I’m in the beginner category. I have 6 months to prepare my routine and I’m so freaking excited. During the past three months I could barely hear a song without imagining what it might be like dancing to it.
And now it’s time to pick a song.
Here’s the candidates I’m considering so far:
Totally EPIC music. But can I pull it off? Do I have the moves (and the STAMINA) to do this?
I think Shake It Out would be the easiest. Good beat, nice lyrics, a music video for inspiration and a theme. (Shaking the devil out.) I’d also love to do Florence the honor of using her song.
Hard beat but I positively adore this song. Piper and Alex 😉
This, as well, would be epic (and cut down).
What do you guys think? Know that I have 6 months to practice and I enhance fast when I have specific tricks to focus on. Ideas for combos from the pole lady audience would also be neat!
“So are you both lactose and gluten allergic?”
“Sure. Let’s say that.”
“Oh, I see. You’re pissed because it’s that time of the month, right?”
“Ugh, kids are so gross. I’m not going to have any until I’m much older. If at all. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, actually, I think I may have to start trying pretty early.”
“Really? You want to be a young mom?”
“That’s not what I meant …” Continue reading
When I was little I used to swing every day. Not in a club. This was a huge swing in our yard and I’d go up as far as I possibly could, to the point where falling down wasn’t just dangerous, it was lethal.
A PROFESSIONAL SWINGER! NO, WAIT! THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!
My childhood was filled with vivid dreams of predators, all starring our back yard as the new habitat of some crazy species. I remember the shark dream best (where our house was underwater, of course, and there were sharks swimming over our yard and house, of course) and the wolf dream: Continue reading
When I miss my boyfriend I have conversations with him in my head.
Me: ”By the way, thank you for lending me that thermos. It’s been a life saver.”
Him: “No problem. By the way, where’s my shirt?”
“Here. That one was a life saver, too. I’m gonna miss it.”
“Aw. Hey, is that my sock?”
“I recognize it.”
“Well, yes. But I’m gonna keep that.”
“Keep it? It’s my sock.”
“Yes. But I’ll have it in my drawer and it can remind me of you. When I miss you I’ll wear it. It’ll be like a hug. For my feet. Technically foot.”
“I need that sock.”
“Not as much as I do. Look, I’ll buy you new socks and then eventually I’ll steal those, too. That way I get my little reminders and you get a new wardrobe. Do you like colors?”
“I don’t understand why you need the damn sock!”
“Look, you’re already taking the shirt so just give me this one!!!”
My boyfriend’s coming over tomorrow and I’m not sure I’m letting him get away with the shirt, either …
Love is the currency of fiction. We pay good money to be led into the mind of some empty mask-character whom we can inhabit and experience a new love through. It’s a great way to get around adultery, really, as your certain other will never suspect just how serious that crush on Mr. Grey, Darcy or other dashing brooding dude.
(I’m not comparing Grey and Darcy. No, NO THAT’S NOT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT DAMN IT!)
Point blank, before the rambles go too far, as they invariably do: You’ve got this story and there’s a hero or heroine and about ten minutes into the story you meet this person of the other sex (or, as in “Imagine me and you” from the same one) who is obviously going to be the love interest.
From an author’s viewpoint I sort of get it. Continue reading