On my way to work today, I was behind a sports car. The vanity plate read "SEXU UP" and as I pulled up next to the drivers side I noted that the driver, a man, was of a certain age (over 50) and had a rather youngish, platinum blond passenger who might have just graduated from college. Maybe.
On the way home, I was behind a hybrid. The vanity plate read "EVOLVED" and as I pulled up next to the drivers side I noted that the driver, a man, was probably in his mid 30's wearing dark rimmed glasses and a button up shirt with a sweater vest over it. From the open window I could hear Death Cab for Cutie playing as we waited for the light to turn green.
Somebody let the stereotypes out to play today.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Potater
Did you know that paprika is pronounced pa-PREE-ka? I was unaware of this and have been pronouncing it as PAH-pri-ka for all of my 32 years. This is what comes of growing up with foreigners...you don't learn the proper pronunciation of things and then become the butt of dinner party jokes when you mention that the predominant spice in the kick ass potato salad that you made is PAH-pri-ka.
Get over it, people. Especially since around the table sat one Southerner and one Texan and lets not even get started on how the English language becomes bastardized by the both of them after a few glasses of wine, y'all.
The potato salad WAS good, though. So suck it.
Get over it, people. Especially since around the table sat one Southerner and one Texan and lets not even get started on how the English language becomes bastardized by the both of them after a few glasses of wine, y'all.
The potato salad WAS good, though. So suck it.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
100 and not a wrinkle in sight! Do you botox?
Good morning internet. I'm realizing, as I write this, that this is my 100th entry on this little blog of mine. I shall light a candle on a cupcake later in celebration, and as I blow out the flame, wish for my mothers continued ignorance as to this websites existence. I'm regularly thrown out of the will, people, but I'm in her good graces right now...let's keep it that way.
Normally, I try to infuse these pages with humor in the hopes of giving you a giggle mid way through your work day, but if you'd permit me some navel gazing, I'd appreciate it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of this being my centennial entry...I'm getting old.
I was having a conversation with a friend last week who has been going through some personal trials and battling what appears to be depression. I don't often speak about my own struggles with depression as I was raised in a family where any kind of emotional weakness was verboten. You just walked it off. My friend came from a similar background and I believe finally spoke to me because she felt as though she might drown in her own misery. When I shared with her that I have been in therapy myself, on and off for years, she was simultaneously shocked and comforted, happy to note that the strong exterior I present to the outside world is a thin veneer for someone who sometimes feels as though she is barely holding her shit together.
While I never swung to any particular extreme, my mother used to comment that as a child I had made friends with my sadness and would often withdraw from social settings, not really feeling comfortable anywhere. I chalked it up to German melancholy and went about my business, hiding that there were often days when I felt as though it might be to everyone's benefit if I just stayed in bed and didn't come out into the world.
Of course, this doesn't work once you reach adulthood. I had days where paying a phone bill seemed impossible, keeping up a friendship too big of a task. The beautiful thing, however, being that I was now in charge of my own mental health and so trotted off to a doctor who said "Your head needs some help." And so to therapy I went.
And to therapy I still go. I see no shame in this. I don't feel as though I'm a weaker version of myself for asking for help when I need it. I sometimes think there should be more honesty amongst friends; perhaps if we shared our struggles more openly, we wouldn't feel so alone and as though our complexities were just a bother and something to be hidden from others. If by my bearing my own weaknesses and imperfections, I save someone some anguish, then I am happy to do so.
My friend and I concluded our conversation with her less frightened about seeking out help and without feeling like she was a failure as an adult and a wife. If you're in a place where you're afraid you're drowning in your own sadness, stress, whatever it may be, then know that there are tools to help you get to the other side of it and you shouldn't allow societies notions about therapy or medication keep you from living a better life. I think sometimes, some of us just need a little bit of help pushing whatever boulder we've been given up the proverbial hill. So get it if you need it. And if you don't, support your friends who do.
Normally, I try to infuse these pages with humor in the hopes of giving you a giggle mid way through your work day, but if you'd permit me some navel gazing, I'd appreciate it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of this being my centennial entry...I'm getting old.
I was having a conversation with a friend last week who has been going through some personal trials and battling what appears to be depression. I don't often speak about my own struggles with depression as I was raised in a family where any kind of emotional weakness was verboten. You just walked it off. My friend came from a similar background and I believe finally spoke to me because she felt as though she might drown in her own misery. When I shared with her that I have been in therapy myself, on and off for years, she was simultaneously shocked and comforted, happy to note that the strong exterior I present to the outside world is a thin veneer for someone who sometimes feels as though she is barely holding her shit together.
While I never swung to any particular extreme, my mother used to comment that as a child I had made friends with my sadness and would often withdraw from social settings, not really feeling comfortable anywhere. I chalked it up to German melancholy and went about my business, hiding that there were often days when I felt as though it might be to everyone's benefit if I just stayed in bed and didn't come out into the world.
Of course, this doesn't work once you reach adulthood. I had days where paying a phone bill seemed impossible, keeping up a friendship too big of a task. The beautiful thing, however, being that I was now in charge of my own mental health and so trotted off to a doctor who said "Your head needs some help." And so to therapy I went.
And to therapy I still go. I see no shame in this. I don't feel as though I'm a weaker version of myself for asking for help when I need it. I sometimes think there should be more honesty amongst friends; perhaps if we shared our struggles more openly, we wouldn't feel so alone and as though our complexities were just a bother and something to be hidden from others. If by my bearing my own weaknesses and imperfections, I save someone some anguish, then I am happy to do so.
My friend and I concluded our conversation with her less frightened about seeking out help and without feeling like she was a failure as an adult and a wife. If you're in a place where you're afraid you're drowning in your own sadness, stress, whatever it may be, then know that there are tools to help you get to the other side of it and you shouldn't allow societies notions about therapy or medication keep you from living a better life. I think sometimes, some of us just need a little bit of help pushing whatever boulder we've been given up the proverbial hill. So get it if you need it. And if you don't, support your friends who do.
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