I don’t know if everything is a disorder. They call this thing Sensory Processing Disorder. The inputs and outputs get confused. Look at this list. Isn’t this everyone?
If I can feel the tags in my shirts and they drive me insane, that isn’t a disorder to me. It’s just normal. I think manufacturers should do something about their damned tags. Is that not reasonable? Why do you want to drive a significant portion of the buying public insane with your sewn-in tags? I don’t just mean sewn-in, I mean incorporated into the seams. What the heck? You can’t remove the tags without leaving a hole in the seam. Man, that’s just not right.
I’ve never been diagnosed. I never asked. I just did the normal thing and avoided physical activity and the cologne aisle at the department store.
I don’t steal, normally. But I tell you what I have done as an SPD person. It’s a crime, but a small one. I have taken the air fresheners out of public places like bathrooms, and I have thrown them away. I know. Technically stealing, but it’s a public service. You’re being poisoned by those things. You just don’t know it. I do. I can feel it because I have a headache for three hours afterward.
The dog daycare has started putting this room freshener on the counter that spews out scent. It looks like a small stereo speaker. It has a purple light. And it KILLS me. If it hurts me, what is it doing to dogs like mine, who can smell a treat in my pocket from across the street? I don’t know if I can go back anymore.
I have always known I liked being weighed down. I looked forward to dental X-rays, because having that lead apron on me made me feel so good. It was like being home. It was so good that I didn’t even mind the little cardboard X-ray holders cutting into my gums.
At the County Fair, I always loved the Tilt-a-Whirl, not for the thrill of it, but for the extra gravity being in a centrifuge provided. Aaaah. Home. Totally worth the couple bucks it cost me.
When I first saw a weighted blanket online, I knew I needed one. I finally ordered a blue fleece 10 lb blanket filled with the little glass beads like Beanie Babies have in them. God knows how you clean the thing, but I don’t care.
I bunch it all up on top of my chest and I sleep like a baby. I’m an adult. You might say I have Sensory Processing Disorder. I just say I have super sharp senses. And I like extra gravity. It feels normal to me. Goodnight.
Thank You, Kelly
I remember being irritated at Kelly. Not big irritated, just enough to make me sigh and refrain from rolling my eyes.
We were at BlogHer – probably 2007 in Chicago. Kelly had just asked, from the audience of a panel discussion about something completely not related to race (in my opinion) why women of color weren’t better represented.
I thought, whatever. Why is she going on about this? It wasn’t something I had considered or ever had to consider, but I already knew Kelly and liked her, so I checked my snark impulse.
When a whole group of women gathered around her after the discussion ended, eager to keep talking, I thought “Hm. What’s up with that?”
I thought it would all blow over. BlogHer was such a cool thing and we were all cool people and certainly none of us were racists, so there were probably no problems to overcome. Right? Right?
Kelly didn’t drop it, though. Fueled by her desire to make the world a better place and most likely encouraged by the feedback she got from that comment, she started writing more about race and justice and What the Hell She Was On About. You can read some of her posts on race here.
And because I liked her, I followed along. Prodded by her thoughtful posts, I began to dig deeper into my own prejudices, of which I have many. I could no longer let my assumptions about race go unchallenged.
Whenever I had a thought that began “Black people [insert stereotype here]…” (rinse and repeat with other races, religions, backgrounds, social classes) I found myself asking “Is that true? How do you know? What kind of evidence do you have? What makes you think that?”
It isn’t comfortable to confront the ugly, ignorant parts of yourself, but it is good to do so. It’s like you walk around wondering why the world smells so bad and you find that you have dog poop on your own shoe. It’s nasty to find and nastier to deal with, but once you clean your shoe, the world is a better place.
I don’t think I ever would have bothered to look at my privilege and prejudice if it weren’t for Kelly. She’s so smart and funny and beautiful that you kind of have to listen to her, annoying as it can be. She’s also brave and dedicated and strong as hell. I’m glad she came into the world 44 years ago today.
Happy Birthday, Kelly. Keep on doing what you do. I’m thankful for it.
And besides all that, this picture makes me laugh so hard.
Determination
Abbie and I were walking through the alley behind the grocery store this morning. She likes walking there because it gives her a chance to flirt with the employees who are standing around on break and maybe get some affection.
She ducked her head down and stopped to sniff something that looked like the sole of an old boot.
But it wasn’t a boot sole or any other part of a boot. It was, rather, a huge hunk of dirt-coated, well-aged roast beef. Who knows how it got there? Fell out of the trash? Got dropped when the food bank van came for a pick-up? Abbie did not care. Today was the luckiest day of her life, as far as she was concerned.
She began to hoover the nasty old meat down, pretty much without chewing. I was yelling “Put that down!” as she attempted to swallow the thing whole, knowing I was going to try to stop her.
I grabbed her face. I tried to pry her jaws open. They were clamped shut like a bear trap. I put my finger in front of her nose, assuming that if I had my mouth full and someone stopped my nose up, I would open my mouth, and if it worked for me, it would work for her.
Wrong. She was not giving up. She glared up at me. She had the Eye of the Tiger. She clamped down even harder. She even growled a little.
I determined not to let her eat some spoiled alley meat. I grabbed onto as much of it as I could and pulled. She pulled back. I was suddenly locked in a game of Alley Meat Tug-of-War.
Do you know how hard it is to hang onto a greasy meat flap when your 60-pound dog is fighting for the right to party with some delicious chow, especially when you don’t really want to have your hands full of greasy spoiled meat?
We tugged and pulled. She kept gaining on me. She wasn’t going to let her prize go without a fight.
Finally, I conceded. The dog had me beat. 1.4 seconds later, the nasty hobo meat was in her belly and I was wondering what the hell I should wipe my hand on (for the record, there was nothing. I let Abbie lick my hand and called it clean).
I spent the day waiting for the inevitable consequences, the volcano of badness spewing from one end of my dog or the other. But guess what? Nothing! I guess all that hard training she has put in eating cat poop every day has strengthened her system.
Tell me again why I waste my money on that premium grain-free dog food?
Once a month, whether I need it or not
Looking back over my post history, I have been posting about once per month. A monkey with a typewriter could do better.
It’s so different from the early blogging days when I had to hold myself back from posting more than once per day…but that was before all these other outlets for my blather. At least I Instagram daily, mostly pictures of flowers and Abbie.
Part of it was that winter was awful. Or that I was awful in winter. I have been eating too much, started drinking again and barely exercised other than twice-daily dog walks. I’m fat again, have had entirely too much red wine over the winter and am so incredibly disappointed in myself.
Ok, I’ll say it: I’m mad about menopause. It has been driving me pretty literally crazy.
But Suebob, you say helpfully, you were pretty literally crazy before menopause.
Shut up and bring me a popsicle, I snarl in response, mopping my sweaty brow.
Because I most certainly have a sweaty brow. Hot flashes at least twice per hour, every hour of the day and night. My friend Kyle wanted to know what it felt like.
“You know when you have the oven up to 450 degrees and you open the door and that whoosh of heat comes out? Like that,” I said.
I also started getting arthritis. I hobble out of bed on stiff feet walking like a pelican. My hand joints are getting knobby. My neck crunches like a bag of potato chips.
Yes, my friends, I’m having a big old pity party and you are the guest of honor.
I’m considering my options. I had dinner the other night with a woman who went on hormone therapy to cure her night sweats and sleeplessness. Did I mention sleeplessness? Because gah. It stinks. And crabbiness. She had crabbiness. I may have a tiny touch myself.
I might try it. Until then, I’ll be here with my blue chilly towel around my neck and a fruit icee in my hand.
Bruce Sinclair Swasey 1928-2015
Bruce died almost a month ago. Peacefully, at age 86, surrounded by his children, as one would want.
Much like my dad, he died with no trouble or fuss to anyone. He decided it was time, quit eating, and called his children to come. Hospice came in two days before he passed. The night before he died, he awoke at 3 am and chatted through the night with his son, Chad, even going through some math problems. Bruce was a technical guy, and loved math problems.
It’s hard to overestimate how important he was to us. Not just to me, to us, our community of Toastmasters. He belonged to so many clubs – it was impossible to determine how many. Toastmasters was his social life, his true calling. He welcomed and drew people in and helped them take their first shaky steps into public speaking. He encouraged and called, or more often wrote. He wrote notes and letters and cards. I have a whole file folder full, and I only kept maybe a third of them.
You know that phrase “covered in glory”? That’s what it felt like to be loved by Bruce. He covered me in glory. He praised me endlessly and acted like I was a goddess sprung from a clamshell. He was effusive, concerned, honest. He took my petty offerings with such open-hearted enthusiasm, like the time I gave him a book of poetry the girls in a writing mentorship program had written, and he stayed awake all night reading it. He reported back that it had given him new courage and enthusiasm to write poetry himself. This was a man in his 80s, unabashedly diving into writing poetry, cheered by the bravery of teenaged girls to put pen to paper.
About six months before he died, he began telling us all, his friends, that he loved us. He said he had decided that he didn’t want to leave this world without us knowing that. So at every parting, we said “I love you.” We said it often.
God, I miss him so much. At his memorial the other day, we sang “What a Wonderful World,” together. I think it was a perfect tribute, because if everyone behaved like Bruce, what a wonderful world it would be.
Bruce, on the right, doing what he loved most – goofing around at a Toastmasters meeting.
1000 Posts for Compassion
1000 Posts for Compassion
Updated: haha I posted a month early! I guess I’ll be back doing this again on Feb. 20, the real date. I don’t mind. More kindness and compassion is better than less.
Today I’m joining with 999 other bloggers to fill the internet with posts about compassion and kindness, so now I guess I have to say something profound.
Compassion comes from a the root words meaning “to suffer with.” Suffering. The last thing we ever want to do. The thing we try to avoid at all costs. If we want to be compassionate, though, we suffer with.
Suffer with. Be with. Sit with. Share in the moments where certainty is not given. Breathe. Pray. Hold. Hold on.
Everything in modern America tells us not to do this. Run away! Take a drink. A pill. A vacation. Get away. Make an inspirational quote photo. Do anything to get the hell away from that pain.
I dated a guy who had a stroke when he was about the age I am now. Not a devastating one, but serious enough to require a cardiac pacemaker due to heart damage brought on by years of untreated high blood pressure. He had no health insurance, so he had to go to our county hospital, a creaky old place with no air conditioning.
There was a more modern hospital across the road, but there was no way he could afford it. I was afraid the care he got at County would be sub-par, but what was there to do? To top it off, he was terrified. He had never suspected, until he had the stroke, that he was in any way unwell. He was in shock.
A nurse who looked to be about 45 came in to the hospital on her day off. She had heard about his situation. She told him that she, too, had a cardiac pacemaker. She told him she had felt scared and devastated by her heart problems, certain she would never be the same. She pulled back her shirt collar and let him run his fingers over her pacemaker, right there under her skin. She explained that the pacemaker allowed her to continue her life much as it had been before.
The nurse gave him exactly the care he needed at that moment – the experience only someone else with a pacemaker could share. She had the compassion to come in when she didn’t have to because she knew there was a human in need. He was instantly better, calmer, ready. She had given him something the most modern hospital couldn’t offer – a light on the path, shone by a human soul.
All the Meals that Have Loved Me
One of my cookbooks said that part of classical Indian cuisine is to enter the kitchen with a loving heart – that part of creating a nourishing meal is the mood with which the chef cooks.
The best meals are created with the eater in mind – part of the pleasure of the cook is the cook imagining the pleasure of the eater. Each ingredient is chosen and prepared as a gift.
The worst meals can feel like an assault. When the food is before you, you think “No one cares about me,” or worse, “The person who made this hates me.”
I remember a salad with green apples I ordered at a Marie Callender’s that was prepared so carelessly that it made my heart hurt for the world. I know that sounds melodramatic, but the sight of that limp, browning lettuce and hacked-up apples made me feel like a trust had been broken. The message from the person on the other end of that salad was “This will probably make you unhappy. I do not care.”
Then there are the other meals, meals that feel like a blessing. I remember a meal from more than 10 years ago that a friend made and served on his Santa Monica patio – a pasta alla checca that was simple and fresh and so perfect for the evening. It was, in a word, beautiful. He took a great deal of pride in his cooking, and the friends that gathered that night were fed by his love of food and his care for us.
I made a berry cobbler for a church potluck last year that prompted a man to grab my hands and declare “Marry me!” We both laughed – he’s already married – but I’m happy he could feel my care in that food.
I was meditating this morning on things I love to do (I’m going through Mark Nepo’s ‘The Book of Awakening’) and cooking came up. This year, I want to cook for more people. I want to let them know they’re important and cared for. It’s a small thing, a passing thing, but in the end, even the Parthenon falls. Most of us will build no great buildings, but we can build small moments of great care. That’s what I want to do.
The other side of the Gilmore Girls coin
Now we flip the coin over to come to the important question of the ages: Which Gilmore Girls character is most awesome? There is so much awesome to go around!
Candidate 1: Lorelai
Evidence: She’s a strong independent woman. Expert at witty repartee. Looks good in clothes. Seems to get a lot of work done without putting forth any visible effort. Apparently a smart businesswoman because she can afford a staff of 20 at the inn, with only 10 rooms.
Candidate 2: Rory (she doesn’t get a bolded name because everything about her is so not bold. She’ll be lucky to make italics).
Evidence: Smarty pants. Hard worker. Not an ounce of trouble to anyone. Rules follower. Trustworthy. Eventually a cute dresser.
Candidate 3: Emily
Evidence: Nobody’s fool. Will of iron. Snappy dresser. Doesn’t miss much. Makes gorgeous floral arrangements.
Candidate 4: Richard
Evidence: Gentleman. Good head for business. Sharp dresser, articulate, kind to everyone but the business partner he knifed in the back.
Candidate 5: Dean
Evidence: Hard worker. Humble. Athletic. Nice to everyone he meets. He built his girlfriend a car. Dated for 2 teenage years apparently without pressuring his girlfriend for sex.
Candidate 6: Jess
Evidence: Kinda cute. Employee of the month. Knows how to drive a forklift. Um…reaching here.
Candidate 7: Taylor
Evidence: Strong sense of civic duty. Good businessman. Um….
Candidate 8: Kirk
Evidence: He has all the jobs. Speaks forthrightly. And…what else?
Candidate 9: Sookie
Evidence: Cutie pie. Awesome chef. Good friend. Good wife and mom. Sweet as a meringue cookie.
Candidate 10: Luke
Evidence: Manly. Hard-working. Looks good in jeans (though a little too much like my brother for my perving purposes). Honest. Loves his dad. Super dependable. Handy.
Candidate 11: Michel
Evidence: Kind to his dogs. Looks good in suits. And…I’m out.
Ok, there’s 11 good solid candidates. I could reach into the second-string, slightly less awesome ranks of Miss Patty, Babette and Rory’s vaguely-drawn roommates. And I’m leaving out Paris because I couldn’t think of any good attributes.
It just goes to show you, we’re all lovely if you think about it hard enough. Or at least the characters in Stars Hollow are. Take your pick.
Ok, step up and vote. Who will take the Crown of Awesomeness?
Which Gilmore Girls character is most odious? An exploration.
Now we come to the important question of the ages: Which Gilmore Girls character is most odious? There is so much odious to go around!
Candidate 1: Lorelai
Evidence: She’s an adult who acts as entitled as a Disney stepsister. She lies a lot, but gets furious when people don’t tell her the truth. She left her fiancee at the altar for no discernable reason and then didn’t bother to leave a post-it note. She sleeps with her ex-husband on the reg, even when he’s involved with someone else. She talks ALL THE DAMN TIME. She drank up ALL THE COFFEE.
Candidate 2: Rory (she doesn’t get a bolded name because everything about her is so not bold. She’ll be lucky to make italics).
Evidence: Everyone thinks she’s so great, but I can’t figure out why. Has she ever done anything for anyone else? She moons around with her doe-eyes and tiny voice all through her freshman college year, never making friends beyond the electric-sander-voiced Paris. People do amazing things for her all the time – like pay her way through a fancy-pants private high school and YALE fergodssake and she barely seems to acknowledge it. She dumps a great guy for a loser, then puts up with a lot of boring crap from him without ever yelling “WTF??” at him for being such a noodge. She’s supposed to be BFFs with Lane, but she never invites Lane to anything. When she finally loses her virginity, it’s to a married guy. She’s inexplicably popular with guys, which is annoying as hell.
Candidate 3: Emily
Evidence: She’s the world’s biggest snob, and that is in a world with 7 billion people. She bumps Baptists off airplanes so she can take her grandaughter on a spur-of-the-moment European tour. She bosses people around in a way that would make Sheryl Sandberg ok with calling her bossy. Can’t keep a maid. She serves escargot to people she knows hate escargot.
Candidate 4: Richard
Evidence: Convinced that insurance is a dynamic and interesting field. Wears bow ties. Destroy’s his partner’s career, just to save his own bacon, even though his daughter is dating the partner. Forces a guy who runs a diner to buy golf clubs he can’t afford. Complicit with his wife in scaring his granddaughter’s boyfriend away. Sings the Yale bulldog song proudly and in public. Doesn’t know he’s a cliche.
Candidate 5: Dean
Evidence: Floppy hair. Has never said an interesting sentence in his life. Deploys wounded puppy dog eyes as a weapon. Is apparently a sexless eunuch in 2 years of teen dating, until he suddenly cheats on his cute wife, who just finally learned to cook a roast for him, dammit.
Candidate 6: Jess
Evidence: Emo-ier than anyone has ever emoed before. Tries for darkly brooding, but the effect is ruined by his poofy chicken hair. Causes trouble and havoc wherever he goes. Is rude to customers. Horrible to anyone who comes near him. Reads Kerouac and Bukowski. Also doesn’t know he’s a cliche.
Candidate 7: Taylor
Evidence: Petty bureaucrat with complicated facial hair. Know-it-all. Dresses in old-timey outfits whenever he gets the chance.
Candidate 8: Kirk
Evidence: More anxious than Woody Allen. Lives with his mom. Takes all the jobs from everyone who needs them. Runs amok naked.
Candidate 9: Sookie
Evidence: She claims to be a chef, yet is clumsy and thinks small peaches are watery. Needs a kitchen brigade of 5 in an inn with 20 guests max. She uses a whisk to make meringue and whipped cream and this is AFTER the invention of electricity. Often speaks in a high-pitched baby voice. Wears kerchiefs.
Candidate 10: Luke
Evidence: Cranky to everyone. Lets his no-good nephew sponge off him. Has some weird kind of razor that leaves him with 3-day stubble every single day. Dresses like a serial killer, the kind that disappears into the woods afterwards. Yelly. Gets married on a whim. Takes Monte Cristo sandwiches off the menu.
Candidate 11: Michel
Evidence: Almost forgot him, but he is the person I’d be most likely to throttle if I met in real life. Complete customer service jackass, yet works in customer service. Works the desk at an inn, but acts like he’s running the Ritz EXCEPT THE RITZ WOULD NEVER HIRE THIS GUY. Gives the French a bad name. Likes Chow dogs.
Ok, there’s 11 good solid candidates. I could reach into the second-string, slightly less annoying ranks of Miss Patty, Babette and Rory’s dopey roommates. And I’m leaving out Paris because: too obvious.
It just goes to show you, we’re all annoying if you think about it hard enough. Or at least the characters in Stars Hollow are. Take your pick.
Ok, step up and vote. Who will take the Crown of Annoyingness?
Suebob's Red Stapler 