The Anti-Thanksgiving

My friend Di gave me the book The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery) for my birthday this year and I've begun reading it while vacationing in Tofino (Vancouver Island) over Thanksgiving weekend. The self-professed child genius, Paloma, enters the story with the following,

Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is. They complain without understanding and, like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don't want to go. The most intelligent among them turn their malaise into a religion..."

I'm somewhat frightened to read this and realize how accurately it reflects my own sense of the world. I'm not sure where this story is going yet, and what will become of our young Paloma, but is it really possible that my view of the world is so stark?

As I read everyone giving thanks on their little Facebook posts, and remarking on how "blessed" they are, I just can't help feeling terribly cynical and judgmental. I mean, really ... blessed? Or is it just random chance that you weren't born in a mosquito-infested mudhole in Sudan? Are you blessed because God likes you better than those poor souls suffering under the crushing weight of a tyrannical militia in some far-off country whose name we cannot even pronounce? Is there any real reason behind any of this, other than whatever meaning we randomly assign it? I am inclined to think that the only real meaning in the universe is what we decide for ourselves.

Ironically, I do not say any of this without gratitude. For I do wake up every day wondering how I got so goddamned lucky to have been born in this beautiful place with ample opportunity and access to those things I need to be comfortable. And I want other humans to have just as much, if not more, than what I have. It makes me sick that there are people suffering and dying in places like Darfur because, basically, humans are sick horrible creatures that can do these things to other humans. But I guess, rather than clasping my hands together and thanking a God that is likely just a manifestation of my own brain's chemical reactions, I am just exhaling in the general direction of random luck, not really knowing how to express the relief I feel at being dealt such a lofty hand in this life.

I hope that someday I can be a better human being, that I can help others get what they need and have a better life. Maybe the only true path to happiness is to give away everything you were given and know what it is to stand naked against the force of the world. Will I ever be brave enough to do this? And if I am, and if I do what I think is right, perhaps then I will truly appreciate what it is to be thankful.

Positively Maniacal Sistah

This is probably the last thing you want to read about right now, and I apologize for the content of this post in advance, but I am compelled. Today I have raging PMS. I know, go ahead and check out now if you don't want to hear about it, because I am here to testify.

If you are a man and still reading, PMS is no laughing matter. For me, it involves being in an almost constant state of rage for about 24 hours. But the rage, especially if turned inwards, can quickly become a huge cry-fest and frightening shame spiral. And sometimes it is just plain depression. Feeling like the world is closing in, and you are such a pathetic loser that it doesn't matter if the world crushes you and you disappear forever. Sounds neat, right? I know!

Here is the what really scares me: From what I understand, menopause (or, to be technical, perimenopause) is like basically years of really bad PMS. Years! While trying to cheer me up, my Mom was forced to admit that her symptoms lasted like seven years. Okay, so after one day of feeling like a raving lunatic, I'm wondering how I will possibly survive menopause for even a week. I will probably lose my marbles, my husband, my dog and possibly my job before my body winds down. Holy hell!

Of course, what better thing to think about while you're having raging PMS but something even worse, like PMS that won't go away for a decade? Perhaps it's time to crawl under the bed and wait for these 24 hours to pass.

Facing the fear

The saga of the head pain continues. It has now been about six weeks since I started having headaches of varying nature and I've seen one dentist and one doctor thus far. Today I embark on a journey with dentist #2.

The appointment is seven hours away and I'm already starting to freak out. What is it about going to the dentist that scares me so much? Well, that is probably a question loaded with obvious answers. The drills! The sharp metal instruments! The smell of ... whatever that smell is! But I'm trying to be an adult, I'm trying to be brave. And above all else, I'm going there today with my voice intact.

You see, I am one of those people who completely loses her voice when she is at the mercy of anyone who could do her harm. That includes doctors, dentists and even a hair stylist. I psych myself up before each appointment, prepare my list of questions/demands/requests. Then I get in the chair (or the exam table) and I go mute. It's completely pathetic.

But today I vow to go forth and tell this new dentist exactly what I want and need. I will speak truth to power! I will face down the sharp tools and the drills and I will prevail! So help me God.

Waking up to war

I just finished reading The Forever War by Dexter Filkins. I'm pretty sure it took me several weeks to finish this book, and it was a huge relief to get to the last page.

Filkins was embedded in Afghanistan for two years, and Iraq for five, covering the wars there. He doesn't write about politics, or even the ethics of war. He reports what he sees, he explains the complexities of the cultures there, he draws a clear and brutal picture of what the wars are doing to the people who live in those countries. It's the kind of book that requires deep breathing on the part of the reader.

Towards the end of the book, Filkins begins to reveal his own experience in terms of what being around the war has done to him. The numbness, the feeling of invincibility (as so many others around him are getting blown up), the fatigue. This is not a guy who was staying in nice hotels and just popping out during the day to interview world leaders and military officials. He ran with the Marines, he got to know the Iraqi guards, he worked with people on both sides to try to locate and rescue kidnapped Americans. He was, as they say, in the shit.

What struck me the most from his book was the disparity between the amount of violence happening in Iraq and Afghanistan and what is regularly reported by our media. To live in the US for the past eight years, you would think there was hardly any real violence going on there. Of course, we see the bottom line of how many soldiers have been killed, but what is it really? Just a number. And compared to wars past (particularly Vietnam), those numbers don't really seem that bad, right? That has been my perspective thus far.

Filkins opened my eyes and cracked the shell of my own protective ignorance. I'm not sure what to do with this information. It's even difficult to know how to feel, other than outraged and deeply heartsick. But my awareness is raised, my nerves are firing, and I'm paying attention.

Reason #47 why I don't have kids

Buddy and I were making our way home from our walk tonight. We have a really great place to walk that is a nature preserve and Buddy gets to be off leash while we're there. But once we hit the street again, it's on the leash he goes for the three block walk home. About a block from home we saw a cat crossing the street up ahead. Buddy starting pulling on the leash and getting really excited. I jerked him back and gave him a couple of commands. We got home and he still seemed a little frisky, but no more so than usual. It was garbage day today so I needed to bring the can up from the street. I headed through the gate onto the back patio where we store the can. I thought, I'll just let Buddy off his leash now, walk around to the front of the house by myself, and come back for him via the back door. Apparently Buddy had other plans.

He went tearing out of the gate and was gone. I yelled after him and immediately thought that he probably just raced to the front door. He always gets fed when we get home, so he was probably just excited to get in the house. I ran to the front door, but he wasn't there. I headed towards the street only to see him doing his little roe deer jumps around our neighbor's yard. I realized quickly that he was probably going to head for the general area where he saw the cat cross the street. I started running towards the main road, which is really busy that time of day (despite a 25 mph speed limit, the average driver goes about 45 mph down our street). Sure enough, there he was bouncing around and running in the busy street. I yelled after him again and he started running towards me. He didn't stop, however, he ran right past me and towards the house. Rob had heard the commotion and had come outside. He was able to grab Buddy before he bolted for the neighbor's yard again.

In the few steps it took me to get back to the front step, I was ready to strangle the life out of that little dog. I didn't, of course, and logically I know striking a dog (or a person for that matter) would do no good. But I was red hot with anger. I realized not long after this moment of rage, if I could feel this pissed at my dog for disobeying me, how would I feel towards an unruly child? If I had children, I'd probably be on the evening news in no time, "Mother goes crazy, throws child from roof" or something awful like that. It's a wonder any of us survive childhood. Mother's Day & Father's Day just isn't enough to show our appreciation for these people who put up with our sassy-pants selves. Thanks Mom & Dad, you are braver souls than I.

'Self-diagnosis' or 'Only the Weak Go To Doctors'

So I've been to the dentist, who convinced me that doctors don't really know any more about what is going in my body than say, I don't know, a saltine cracker. Perhaps I should ask this snack in front of me what is wrong with my head. So last night I decided that my own self-diagnosis is most likely the correct answer in this mystery called a sometimes-there, sometimes-not headache that is sometimes in my teeth, sometimes in my ear, sometimes in my brain.

My diagnosis: A tension headache exacerbated by grinding really hard on an ill-fitting nightguard while asleep. There you have it; I just saved myself $40 in co-pays.

In other news, Buddy returned to the vet today to receive a clean bill of health, and me a sweet $50 charge. I was blown away by the fact that they charged me for a follow-up visit. Aren't those supposed to be free? I mean, they listened to his chest and gave him two treats. I bet the vet and the dentist are having dinner at fancy restaurant right now laughing their asses off at me.

Gifts from my father

I've been in pain for awhile now. It started as an occasional throbbing in my lower jaw, the result of some dental work. The dentist warned me that it might hurt for awhile. But the occasional throbbing has begun to morph into a dull stabbing inside my ear, sometimes traveling up the side of my head to the tippy top of my brain. Sometimes it travels into what I can only imagine is my sinus cavity, sometimes it goes into my throat. I've been kind of ignoring it for awhile, but it's gotten bad enough that I'm stepping foot inside the dentist's office tomorrow to start the lovely process of figuring out what is causing this (now constant) discomfort.

Of course, I have to admit, I am imagining the worst. While it is probably the result of an ill-fitting nightguard (that thing I bite down on while I sleep to prevent wearing my teeth away), I have already convinced myself that I probably have a brain tumor. I owe this amazing talent to my Dad, who has the most wonderful, fatalistic imagination I know.

It may sound like I'm poking fun, but I rather appreciate this ability. Sometimes it probably keeps me rather safe. For instance, every single time I get on my scooter I imagine getting slammed into by a big truck and flying fifty feet to my death. The result, I drive incredibly defensely and am always on the lookout for the driver not paying attention to me.

I remember fondly being tucked into bed at night by my Father. "Okay, Julie," he would say, "You wake up in the middle of the night and the house is on fire. What do you do?" My first answer, of course, is to run downstairs to find Mom and Dad. "No! No!" he says, "We are burned up already. Think about it! What do you do?" I, of course, have no idea where he is going with this, but eventually he explains that I should jump out of the window (despite the fact that we're on the second story) and don't take anything with me, not even my piggy bank or my stuffed animals. Just get out, and fast!

Despite his best intentions, I still don't know what I would do if I woke up to a burning house. But I have no problem imagining the many horrible things that may be going on in my body, in my neighborhood, even in the world as a whole! If only I had grown up in a spookier part of the world, I could have been the next Stephen King.