The Original Assignment: Write a blog post about the history of Christmas ornaments.
The Status: I've spent 6 hours researching, writing, and revising. I now hate writing.
The New Assignment: Write it again, only this time in my own voice, with no concern for my audience.
The Outcome:
Evergreens were used by ancient people to symbolize eternal life. Then a British dude named Saint Boniface went to Germany to convert the pagans to his religion. The pagans wanted to either A. chop down an oak tree or B. kill a boy, and His Holiness stopped them by splitting the oak tree in half, obviously. Then a fir tree either A. grew up from the middle of the oak tree fully formed, because God, or B. was nearby. So Boniface told the heathens that the fir tree was a symbol of the Holy Trinity because it was a triangle shape, and then his buddies put candles in the tree so he could keep preaching at the heathens after sunset.
Apparently the Germans loved this new idea and became fervent Christians who put on Church plays with fir trees in them. They decorated the trees with apples because of the "Tree of Paradise" (you know, the one from which treacherous Eve made perfect Adam eat, and it made them ashamed of their bodies). Some of them may have hung the trees upside down from the ceiling. I don't know why, but I will probably adopt this tradition because its awesome.
Ok, then Martin Luther took a walk in the forest and may or may not have eaten some hallucinogenic mushrooms (none of my research indicates that he did, but I'm pretty sure of it), so he was looking at the sky and it was so beautiful with the twinkling stars and evergreen branches. When he got home, instead of using words to describe what he saw, he brought a fir tree inside and attached candles to it and was all "take these mushrooms and then look at this tree with me, wife!" Or maybe he had kids and told them it reminded him of Jesus. Either way, they saw the tree and it was good.
Then everyone in Europe had Christmas trees. The Germans loved Christmas trees most of all and made ornaments out of lead and glass, then they immigrated to America, where all the Puritans were like "NO." One dude even outlawed decorations and singing and stuff, because Baby Jesus was super insulted by people having fun in his honor, I guess. But then someone sketched Queen Victoria standing in front of a Christmas tree and published it in an illustrated London newspaper, and everyone in America was like, "I NEED THAT."
So then ornaments were a thing in America. Mostly Germans made them, and then the Japanese exported them to us, and also Czechoslovakia. Then an American was like "the war is coming, how will my glass making company stay in business?" And the answer was to use a light bulb-making machine to make a whole butt load of ornaments at once. So that happened, and now everyone makes and sells and buys ornaments, even Jews and Buddhists and stuff.
Merry Christmas the end.
Sep 18, 2014
Jan 15, 2014
The Heavy Sad / No Cheer Found Here Today
This winter has been hard. Dark, cold, wet and relentless. Every year, it steals my joy. Just sucks the life right out of me, and all I want to do is get under the covers and sleep the sad away. Most days, I'm able to fight back. Muster some courage, keep the candle lit, force a smile until it finds something to latch on to. Most days I'll even laugh. The darkness is there, tugging at me, but most days, it's not all there is.
Then there are days like today. My body weighs a millions pounds, like my veins are filled with wet cement. I stare at nothing, and hope no one comes looking for me, because a single question can take minutes to reach my brain. And finding the answer is an underwater sprint, and halfway to the finish line I forget where I'm going or why. My face is frozen in a downward turn, and I'm aware of how unattractive this must make me, but I just. Don't. Fucking. Care.
I think of all the things I'm supposed to be grateful for, and the things that are supposed to bring me joy. But my broken brain and my aching heart won't let light enter. Closed for business. In the periphery, I'm vaguely aware of my "toolbox" of spiritual resources, but I don't bother. They're useless without the energy or drive to wield them. When the sad is heavy like this, I don't want to feel better. Because the heavy sad magnifies obstacles, and at the same time it puts a buffer between me and them. It tells me that if I feel better, I'll have to deal with all those problems I can't possibly manage, so I might as well stay in bed where its warm and no one can find me and ask me to do things. So many things to do, and none of them seem to fucking matter. Not a damn bit.
I don't usually write about this shit publicly. Because it's bleak, and I want my writing to give hope. But it's also honest, and maybe someone out there needs that honesty. We live our lives trying to hide this shit, thinking we are protecting ourselves or protecting others or both. Sadness is inconvenient, unpleasant, impolite. But it's real and it's human, and I've never much cared for polite conversation anyway. So here it is, my great big heavy sadness. And I'm not going to apologize for it, or justify it, or dress it up in false hope I don't really feel. I'm not even going to to reassure you that I'm sure it will pass and tomorrow will be a better day, as well-meaning friends will tell me, but I don't feel that way either. I just feel shitty. And that's all I wanted to say.
Then there are days like today. My body weighs a millions pounds, like my veins are filled with wet cement. I stare at nothing, and hope no one comes looking for me, because a single question can take minutes to reach my brain. And finding the answer is an underwater sprint, and halfway to the finish line I forget where I'm going or why. My face is frozen in a downward turn, and I'm aware of how unattractive this must make me, but I just. Don't. Fucking. Care.
I think of all the things I'm supposed to be grateful for, and the things that are supposed to bring me joy. But my broken brain and my aching heart won't let light enter. Closed for business. In the periphery, I'm vaguely aware of my "toolbox" of spiritual resources, but I don't bother. They're useless without the energy or drive to wield them. When the sad is heavy like this, I don't want to feel better. Because the heavy sad magnifies obstacles, and at the same time it puts a buffer between me and them. It tells me that if I feel better, I'll have to deal with all those problems I can't possibly manage, so I might as well stay in bed where its warm and no one can find me and ask me to do things. So many things to do, and none of them seem to fucking matter. Not a damn bit.
I don't usually write about this shit publicly. Because it's bleak, and I want my writing to give hope. But it's also honest, and maybe someone out there needs that honesty. We live our lives trying to hide this shit, thinking we are protecting ourselves or protecting others or both. Sadness is inconvenient, unpleasant, impolite. But it's real and it's human, and I've never much cared for polite conversation anyway. So here it is, my great big heavy sadness. And I'm not going to apologize for it, or justify it, or dress it up in false hope I don't really feel. I'm not even going to to reassure you that I'm sure it will pass and tomorrow will be a better day, as well-meaning friends will tell me, but I don't feel that way either. I just feel shitty. And that's all I wanted to say.
Jan 8, 2014
Let's Get Domestic! Now with Recipes!
It's the New Year, which means time for new pursuits. Step Two: Bitch is getting domestic up in this piece! (Step One was - obviously - Be a gangsta!)
You see, dear reader, for as long as I can remember, I've prided myself on my lack of domestic skills. Or at least, I've adopted an attitude of pride in order to mask my ineptitude at cooking, cleaning, home decorating, and responsible pet ownership. It is an attitude that has served me well, much like growing an elaborately-styled mustache and smothering one's enthusiasm in irony has helped many a hipster escape the discomfort of vulnerability.
But, as a woman recently indoctrinated in the ways of 30-Something Sophisticates, standing as I am on the very brink of self-actualization, I have decided that this is the year in which I expose myself... as an embarrassingly amateur homemaker. So, it begins.
Confession #1: I have slow cooker recipes. Two of them. I will share them with you now, to show you that I'm for reals.
You see, dear reader, for as long as I can remember, I've prided myself on my lack of domestic skills. Or at least, I've adopted an attitude of pride in order to mask my ineptitude at cooking, cleaning, home decorating, and responsible pet ownership. It is an attitude that has served me well, much like growing an elaborately-styled mustache and smothering one's enthusiasm in irony has helped many a hipster escape the discomfort of vulnerability.
But, as a woman recently indoctrinated in the ways of 30-Something Sophisticates, standing as I am on the very brink of self-actualization, I have decided that this is the year in which I expose myself... as an embarrassingly amateur homemaker. So, it begins.
Confession #1: I have slow cooker recipes. Two of them. I will share them with you now, to show you that I'm for reals.
Thanksgiving Turkey Meat!
1. Buy a frozen turkey breast from the store
2. Figure out how to get the wrapper off without getting frostbit fingers
3. Put the frozen meat in the slow cooker
4. Add a can of cranberry sauce (sans can) and a packet of Italian salad dressing mix
5. Set to low and wait 6-8 hours. Maybe do something domestic to pass the time, like knit a scarf.
Hawaiian Pork Meat!
1. Buy a big lump of pork roast meat
2. Stab it all over with a fork
3. Put liquid smoke and sea salt on it
4. Rub it in! Or lightly dab at it with a napkin, if you're a Puritan.
5. Set to low and wait 6-8 hours
That's it! Try them now, please, and tell me how it went.
1. Buy a frozen turkey breast from the store
2. Figure out how to get the wrapper off without getting frostbit fingers
3. Put the frozen meat in the slow cooker
4. Add a can of cranberry sauce (sans can) and a packet of Italian salad dressing mix
5. Set to low and wait 6-8 hours. Maybe do something domestic to pass the time, like knit a scarf.
Hawaiian Pork Meat!
1. Buy a big lump of pork roast meat
2. Stab it all over with a fork
3. Put liquid smoke and sea salt on it
4. Rub it in! Or lightly dab at it with a napkin, if you're a Puritan.
5. Set to low and wait 6-8 hours
That's it! Try them now, please, and tell me how it went.
P.S. The cookbook will be coming out soon. I've entitled it, "Making Food To Eat!" and it contains all two of my slow cooker recipes, plus classic favorites like "Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich," "Two Kinds of Cereal in One Bowl!" and "Anything Microwavable from Trader Joe's!"
Jan 7, 2014
A Nap Time Conversation About Royalty, In Which I Meet My Match While Tiny Brains Conspire Against Us
This is a recent conversation/battle of wit that my boyfriend and I recently had. Most of it is accurate, according to my memory. I think.
Me: Sometimes I wish I was a pretty pretty Princess.
Boyfriend: You are a pretty pretty Princess.
Me: I don't have any subjects.
Boyfriend: Don't be ridiculous, you have Norm and Tilly*
Me: Oh! Yes! I rule them with an iron fist!
<raises iron fist triumphantly, then, turning to him with an inexplicably demonic grin>
Me: And you are my Prince.
Boyfriend: Yes.
<momentarily satisfied, there is a brief silence>
Me: My Prince?
Boyfriend: Yes, my sweet?
Me: How many, um… <searching for word>
Boyfriend <helpfully>: ...Princes do you get?
<in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, I respectfully concede defeat; Boyfriend raises iron fist in victory; fade to blackout..>
*My subjects, who may or may not be hatching a coup in their tiny, tiny brains:
Me: Sometimes I wish I was a pretty pretty Princess.
Boyfriend: You are a pretty pretty Princess.
Me: I don't have any subjects.
Boyfriend: Don't be ridiculous, you have Norm and Tilly*
Me: Oh! Yes! I rule them with an iron fist!
<raises iron fist triumphantly, then, turning to him with an inexplicably demonic grin>
Me: And you are my Prince.
Boyfriend: Yes.
<momentarily satisfied, there is a brief silence>
Me: My Prince?
Boyfriend: Yes, my sweet?
Me: How many, um… <searching for word>
Boyfriend <helpfully>: ...Princes do you get?
<in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, I respectfully concede defeat; Boyfriend raises iron fist in victory; fade to blackout..>
*My subjects, who may or may not be hatching a coup in their tiny, tiny brains:
Oct 15, 2013
The Madness of Crowds / Alogical Feelings
Saturday night at Subterranean. Ezra Furman's CD release show for his latest album, Day of the Dog. Two thirds into Take Off Your Sunglasses, and we're getting to the best part, fully prepared to join Ezra in his manically crescendoing refusal to think about things we don't want to think about in the middle of the night. Instead, our evening's protagonist steps out onto the edge of the stage and calls our attention back from anticipation, into the very moment itself:
"Do you feel that? That is musical tension and the madness of crowds."
We laugh, we cheer, we revel in the showmanship and bravado of this Evanston-bred musician whose talent for lyricism is surpassed only by his raw and sometimes terrifying vulnerability on stage. I've never seen him so confident, though he's always been the most courageous performer I've ever been privileged to watch. There is something contagiously joyful in his stage banter, which isn't so much banter as it is an insistence on connecting, on drawing us in to what he himself experiences and desires from music. He's sincere, and he's playful, and most of all, he's a goddamn rock and roll star who's doing exactly what he's meant to be doing.
And it brings me happiness to the point of embarrassment. But it also makes me ache. I cannot watch good art without feeling this longing, which verges on pain even while it contains profound ecstasy. It's the realization that this - good art - is the most important thing. Because when you find yourself in the presence of true beauty, which is also called love, and also called god, nothing else matters. Walls crumble and inhibitions melt, the world becomes clear and sharp, and we understand that life is our shared struggle, that none of us is an island, and that the best we can do to help ourselves is to help one another see our truth, the way we perceive it.
I don't know if any of that is true. But I'm starting to believe their is no such thing as objective truth. And if there is, I'm not interested in it. I'm not interested in the facts, so much as the feelings. And the feelings at an Ezra Furman show are always intense. If you don't have an Ezra, I urge you to find one. Someone who's art makes you feel alive, expands your perspective, inspires you to embrace those "alogical feelings" and abandon reason for just a little while, in order to experience the divine inebriation of a soul set free and moved to dance. It's the most important thing.
"Do you feel that? That is musical tension and the madness of crowds."
We laugh, we cheer, we revel in the showmanship and bravado of this Evanston-bred musician whose talent for lyricism is surpassed only by his raw and sometimes terrifying vulnerability on stage. I've never seen him so confident, though he's always been the most courageous performer I've ever been privileged to watch. There is something contagiously joyful in his stage banter, which isn't so much banter as it is an insistence on connecting, on drawing us in to what he himself experiences and desires from music. He's sincere, and he's playful, and most of all, he's a goddamn rock and roll star who's doing exactly what he's meant to be doing.
And it brings me happiness to the point of embarrassment. But it also makes me ache. I cannot watch good art without feeling this longing, which verges on pain even while it contains profound ecstasy. It's the realization that this - good art - is the most important thing. Because when you find yourself in the presence of true beauty, which is also called love, and also called god, nothing else matters. Walls crumble and inhibitions melt, the world becomes clear and sharp, and we understand that life is our shared struggle, that none of us is an island, and that the best we can do to help ourselves is to help one another see our truth, the way we perceive it.
I don't know if any of that is true. But I'm starting to believe their is no such thing as objective truth. And if there is, I'm not interested in it. I'm not interested in the facts, so much as the feelings. And the feelings at an Ezra Furman show are always intense. If you don't have an Ezra, I urge you to find one. Someone who's art makes you feel alive, expands your perspective, inspires you to embrace those "alogical feelings" and abandon reason for just a little while, in order to experience the divine inebriation of a soul set free and moved to dance. It's the most important thing.
Sep 27, 2013
Confessions of a Happily Single Lady
I'm having one of those rare days in which I actually sort-of-secretly think it might not be so bad to have a partner in life. I know, I know, I'm an independent lady, unfettered by conventions, laughing with defiance in the face of society's expectations for me to settle down, get married, have kids, buy a house and be a grown-up. I love being single and selfish and wild and free to do whatever I goddamn please. 98% of the time. But it's been a 2% kind of week. Let me explain.
I just took my 14-year-old(?) cat, Tilly, to the vet for the first time ever. The 4-1/2 mile drive took us 45 minutes, and when we got there a mean man honked at us for jaywalking and I yelled bad words back at him, which is not what Buddhas do, but I have a cold and I'm cranky from traffic and the guilt of irresponsible pet ownership, and secretly I'm afraid Tilly is dying and it's my fault and she's my little tiny friend since forever.
Inside, the animal hospital reeked of ammonia and betrayal, which is probably what Tilly felt as she lay splayed on the aluminum exam table while a strange man - who looked a little bit like Abed from Community but with less humor - stuck a cold metal stick up her butt and stripped her of all remaining dignity. She took it like a champ, old girl, which broke my heart even more. Because she was just defeated. Then the doctor asked me questions and told me some stuff that I didn't fully understand because of his accent and my ignorance, but then he came back in and showed me the bill, and I understood that I was being punished for my poor cat-parenting. But I said, okay, do what you need to do, doctor. And he took her x-rays and some of her blood and gave her shots and I sat in the waiting room, worrying about money and vowing not to spend any for the next two to three months.
Then the doctor took my money, gave me my cat and some medicine, and I drove Tilly home to rest while I went to the store to get her the food she likes, because she been so brave. But I got distracted by products, because shopping makes me feel better about life for a minute, and I ended up spending $50 on cleaning supplies, snacks, a hair mask, bath salts, lip gloss, and cilantro, then I felt even more guilty and vowed to return the cosmetics and hair mask, and as I was walking to my car with my plastic bags of shame, I realized I just wanted a hug. I just wanted to not have to confront every life crisis alone. Because it's not just the big stuff, like my sick cat. It's the big load of laundry and sink full of dishes and dining room strewn with clothing and unpacked boxes (because where else do such things go?). It's not knowing how to hang pictures or clean anything properly. It's the stupid color I dyed my hair, and the responsibilities that are really benefits but often look like eventual disappointment on faces I've let down. It's the constant goddamn struggle to stay afloat in recovery and love and hope, when the weight of depression, anxiety, addiction and a million little nagging voices are clawing to bring me low.
And listen, I know I don't need to be in a committed relationship in order to not be alone. I have amazing friends who would be more than willing to lend me their wisdom, their sympathy, their support, their arms, or their empty flattery, depending on the demands of the crisis at hand. So don't get me wrong, this isn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for help or a white flag surrendering my independent ladydom. It's just an honest observation that sometimes being single is tough. And a clear indication that I need to work on asking for help. Because no matter how much time I spend on Buzzfeed DIY, I just can't seem to create the perfectly organized, cleverly-decorated, Pinterest-worthy apartment that the internet has led me to believe I need.
I just took my 14-year-old(?) cat, Tilly, to the vet for the first time ever. The 4-1/2 mile drive took us 45 minutes, and when we got there a mean man honked at us for jaywalking and I yelled bad words back at him, which is not what Buddhas do, but I have a cold and I'm cranky from traffic and the guilt of irresponsible pet ownership, and secretly I'm afraid Tilly is dying and it's my fault and she's my little tiny friend since forever.
Inside, the animal hospital reeked of ammonia and betrayal, which is probably what Tilly felt as she lay splayed on the aluminum exam table while a strange man - who looked a little bit like Abed from Community but with less humor - stuck a cold metal stick up her butt and stripped her of all remaining dignity. She took it like a champ, old girl, which broke my heart even more. Because she was just defeated. Then the doctor asked me questions and told me some stuff that I didn't fully understand because of his accent and my ignorance, but then he came back in and showed me the bill, and I understood that I was being punished for my poor cat-parenting. But I said, okay, do what you need to do, doctor. And he took her x-rays and some of her blood and gave her shots and I sat in the waiting room, worrying about money and vowing not to spend any for the next two to three months.
Then the doctor took my money, gave me my cat and some medicine, and I drove Tilly home to rest while I went to the store to get her the food she likes, because she been so brave. But I got distracted by products, because shopping makes me feel better about life for a minute, and I ended up spending $50 on cleaning supplies, snacks, a hair mask, bath salts, lip gloss, and cilantro, then I felt even more guilty and vowed to return the cosmetics and hair mask, and as I was walking to my car with my plastic bags of shame, I realized I just wanted a hug. I just wanted to not have to confront every life crisis alone. Because it's not just the big stuff, like my sick cat. It's the big load of laundry and sink full of dishes and dining room strewn with clothing and unpacked boxes (because where else do such things go?). It's not knowing how to hang pictures or clean anything properly. It's the stupid color I dyed my hair, and the responsibilities that are really benefits but often look like eventual disappointment on faces I've let down. It's the constant goddamn struggle to stay afloat in recovery and love and hope, when the weight of depression, anxiety, addiction and a million little nagging voices are clawing to bring me low.
And listen, I know I don't need to be in a committed relationship in order to not be alone. I have amazing friends who would be more than willing to lend me their wisdom, their sympathy, their support, their arms, or their empty flattery, depending on the demands of the crisis at hand. So don't get me wrong, this isn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for help or a white flag surrendering my independent ladydom. It's just an honest observation that sometimes being single is tough. And a clear indication that I need to work on asking for help. Because no matter how much time I spend on Buzzfeed DIY, I just can't seem to create the perfectly organized, cleverly-decorated, Pinterest-worthy apartment that the internet has led me to believe I need.
Sep 4, 2013
A Very Touching Mother and Daughter Moment
Over the weekend, I went over the my parents' house. My mom asked me how my cats were doing. I told her I'd been training them to sit in boxes. Then, like a proud parent, I showed her this picture:
She was very impressed. But I wasn't satisfied. So today, on g-chat, I sent her this gif in order to illustrate the full extent of my ambitions:
She replied: "I understand!!!"
But I wasn't sure that she did, so I sent her this:
But she didn't respond right away. So I followed up with a little:
She was very impressed. But I wasn't satisfied. So today, on g-chat, I sent her this gif in order to illustrate the full extent of my ambitions:
She replied: "I understand!!!"
But I wasn't sure that she did, so I sent her this:
But she didn't respond right away. So I followed up with a little:
Finally, I got the validation I was seeking all along.
That's when I knew, she really gets it. She really, really gets it.
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