Sometimes, even I am taken aback by the jokes that life plays on me. You would think, given all of my years on the planet, that I would know better.
You would think...
So two weeks ago, I left work early for a doctor appointment. I was feeling really nervous that Monday. I had seen this doctor before and knew the appointment would be fine, but I was anxious nonetheless. I left work early enough to run a quick errand before heading to my doctor's office, and on the way there, my chest started to hurt. My heart was beating faster and faster, and it was hard for me to catch a breath. Since I didn't want to crash my vehicle on account of what methinks was a mini panic attack, I tried to control my breathing. Then I started pushing on my chestal area, in an attempt to quell the thumpings of my heart.
I am not really sure what I thought the pushing would do and I am certain that to the passersby I appeared to be groping myself.
With adrenaline in my heart, I made it to the doctor's office with enough time to use the restroom. Let me say at this point, that I have used this restroom before. I have even used the exact toilet in that exact stall before. But this day, panic attack day, all things were new.
I...uh...sat, took care of things and then, before standing and redressing, I flushed. I don't usually flush prior to reassembly, but for some reason that day, I did. And then it happened.
Water.
Floods of water. Spraying everywhere. I jumped up and tried to get my clothes on quickly and continued to be rained on by the angry, angry toilet water.Water that sprung inexplicably from the pipe at the back of the toilet and all over me, the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.
You know how on the TV, a pipe will break and the character in the show will sit there and let the water keep flowing at them and you are thinking, "why are they just standing there?" They are frozen in place and blocking the torrent of water with spirit fingers instead of getting out of the way.
I will never wonder that again.
I could not move from the downpour. I HAD FORGOTTEN HOW TO MOVE. I was without the ability to unlock the stall door. I just kept standing there, stunned, and getting more and more wet.
Finally, something clicked and I made it out of the stall without slipping on the puddle of water on the floor. I went to the sink to ironically wash my hands. There was water in my hair and on my face. My shirt was soaked. (Had I not been wearing black,I would have been escorted out of the building for being a girl gone wild, lost in Wisconsin and seeking medical assistance.) I was still in shock and wasn't sure if I was covered with poo water or just water from the pipes, so I was trying to smell myself. (It wasn't poo water.) I grabbed paper towels and tried to dry myself off. Then, I returned to the stall.
I do not know why. I was curious, I guess? I am deranged?
I saw the water beading on the ceiling and dripping down to the puddle on the floor. I saw that the toilet had flushed but nothing appeared broken. I almost flushed it a second time just to see what would happen, when it occurred to me that what would happen is the toilet erupting all over me, again.
I washed my hands one more time and left the bathroom. I checked-in with the receptionist for my appointment. I must have appeared normal because she didn't make any comments, like, "Wow, you smell of poo." Or, "yikes! Is it raining outside?" So I told her in brief, that the toilet exploded water all over me and that they might want to let a janitor know. The other receptionist heard the story and whipped around at me. It was a flabbergasting story, I knew. I was so flabbergasted, that when I finally sat down with my doctor, the first thing I said was, "so, would you like to hear what just happened to me?" He did, and we both laughed.
Interestingly, the crazy toilet times squashed my anxiety. For some people, yoga, or talk therapy, or medication might help them calm down, but for me, being unexpectedly drenched in water from a public commode distracted me enough to bring inner peace.
Yikes.
me
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Dear Oversharer
A couple of weeks ago, I went to get my hairs cut. I was a little bit nervous because even though I don't have that much hair, there is actually still skill required in cutting it. I have learned this the hard way. When I first made the decision to stop the relaxing of the hairs and cut it all off (which always makes me think of the Kanye line that goes, "she had hair so long that it look like weave; then she cut it all off and now she look like Eve," even though my hair has never been long enough to fool anyone into thinking it was a weave, nor did cutting it off make me look like Eve, but still. The two are connected in my mind.), I believed I could go to anyone and ask them to remove the offending follicles and I would be set. That is not true. Even with no hairs, it can still be a messed up cut.
I have found one woman who has mad skills and cuts it for a mere ten dollars. She talks while she cuts it but not too much, which I enjoy. Frankly, the salon can be a touch intimidating to me. Usually, I look tore up when I go in and we women still don't support each other, so when we see another tore-up looking woman, we are secretly pleased, as if this means we are inherently better. All the men will be ours, we think inside. Except, it's not just inside. The judging shows on our faces. Our eyes glint and glare.
Then you sit in the salon chair and the stylist starts talking. I honestly prefer this to the stylist who starts asking me many, many questions. Most of which are personal, probably since they are performing a personal task. They are molding my head suit, to it's very roots. Surely they should know who I am seeing and for how long and where do I live and on, and on and on. If I were more of a sharer, I think I would find this delightful, but I am not, so all of my responses come out awkward and forced. Which I can feel, so I then compensate with horrible jokes.
Things don't often go well with the humans.
So, since I am not the type that goes to the salon hoping for chat times, I usually don't mind if the stylist does all of the talking, after ascertaining what I want done with my hairs. So when I went for my most recent cut, the stylist who always does a good job was gone on maternity leave and another stylist was there. The stylist must have been in the shop alone all day because the second I sat down, she started talking and she did not stop once until she removed the cape and I'd paid her. I know very many personal details about this woman, the former stylist (and how she STILL had not brought her new baby in), her daughter, her grandchild, the family drama, her lifestyle, her work schedule and several other things I blocked from my mind from sheer horror.
Truthfully, I don't mind that she told me what she did. I honestly feel like it is a honor to have someone else tell you all the things in their heart. We don't all just do that; except in my experience, everyone does do that, because for whatever reason, all people tell me their business. Even strangers.
"Oh, excuse me! I didn't see you there, complete-stranger Sherry. Here is my life story."
I mean, seriously. I have been in line at grocery stores, washing my car, pumping gas, waiting for a bus and heard all of the things about someone I have never seen before in my life. And not just, "you're waiting for the bus, too, huh?" It's all of their secrets, it's revelations about their family, it's admissions of depression and sadness.
And that's the part that gets me. Part of me listens because I am so sad that the state of the world is such that we feel like the only person to tell what we are holding in our hearts to is the random person on the street. Or maybe that is easier because we will never see that person again. There are no repercussions from opening up to a stranger, really.
Part of me admires it. I have people I have known for years, years, that I would never tell my innermost feelings, too. If they came straight out and asked me, which shockingly, very few do, I would still consider whether or not opening up was a good idea. I have run my mouth in the past and I regret a lot of those conversations. Not all; some of them were the wonderful kind. The kind where you feel freer from getting the burden off your shoulder and out in the world. The kind where you feel a bond with the hearer. The kind that give you the clarity to feel a bond with yourself. Most, though, were not that way. Most were, oh, Liantonio. Why do you ever speak?
Anyways...it was an intriguing haircut. The stylist talked and talked. She also kept asking why I hadn' t been in to have my eyebrows done since I always get them done there. Interestingly, I have only had my eyebrows done there once. I am pretty sure she had me confused with someone else.
Hmmm...maybe that was why she was talking so much?
Uhm...disregard above.
me
I have found one woman who has mad skills and cuts it for a mere ten dollars. She talks while she cuts it but not too much, which I enjoy. Frankly, the salon can be a touch intimidating to me. Usually, I look tore up when I go in and we women still don't support each other, so when we see another tore-up looking woman, we are secretly pleased, as if this means we are inherently better. All the men will be ours, we think inside. Except, it's not just inside. The judging shows on our faces. Our eyes glint and glare.
Then you sit in the salon chair and the stylist starts talking. I honestly prefer this to the stylist who starts asking me many, many questions. Most of which are personal, probably since they are performing a personal task. They are molding my head suit, to it's very roots. Surely they should know who I am seeing and for how long and where do I live and on, and on and on. If I were more of a sharer, I think I would find this delightful, but I am not, so all of my responses come out awkward and forced. Which I can feel, so I then compensate with horrible jokes.
Things don't often go well with the humans.
So, since I am not the type that goes to the salon hoping for chat times, I usually don't mind if the stylist does all of the talking, after ascertaining what I want done with my hairs. So when I went for my most recent cut, the stylist who always does a good job was gone on maternity leave and another stylist was there. The stylist must have been in the shop alone all day because the second I sat down, she started talking and she did not stop once until she removed the cape and I'd paid her. I know very many personal details about this woman, the former stylist (and how she STILL had not brought her new baby in), her daughter, her grandchild, the family drama, her lifestyle, her work schedule and several other things I blocked from my mind from sheer horror.
Truthfully, I don't mind that she told me what she did. I honestly feel like it is a honor to have someone else tell you all the things in their heart. We don't all just do that; except in my experience, everyone does do that, because for whatever reason, all people tell me their business. Even strangers.
"Oh, excuse me! I didn't see you there, complete-stranger Sherry. Here is my life story."
I mean, seriously. I have been in line at grocery stores, washing my car, pumping gas, waiting for a bus and heard all of the things about someone I have never seen before in my life. And not just, "you're waiting for the bus, too, huh?" It's all of their secrets, it's revelations about their family, it's admissions of depression and sadness.
And that's the part that gets me. Part of me listens because I am so sad that the state of the world is such that we feel like the only person to tell what we are holding in our hearts to is the random person on the street. Or maybe that is easier because we will never see that person again. There are no repercussions from opening up to a stranger, really.
Part of me admires it. I have people I have known for years, years, that I would never tell my innermost feelings, too. If they came straight out and asked me, which shockingly, very few do, I would still consider whether or not opening up was a good idea. I have run my mouth in the past and I regret a lot of those conversations. Not all; some of them were the wonderful kind. The kind where you feel freer from getting the burden off your shoulder and out in the world. The kind where you feel a bond with the hearer. The kind that give you the clarity to feel a bond with yourself. Most, though, were not that way. Most were, oh, Liantonio. Why do you ever speak?
Anyways...it was an intriguing haircut. The stylist talked and talked. She also kept asking why I hadn' t been in to have my eyebrows done since I always get them done there. Interestingly, I have only had my eyebrows done there once. I am pretty sure she had me confused with someone else.
Hmmm...maybe that was why she was talking so much?
Uhm...disregard above.
me
Monday, July 25, 2011
Dear Courage
I really want us to be the closest of friends. I want this because I just think you are amazing. I think you are full of power and that if I could just spend enough time with you, if I could just figure out how to hold on to you and make you stay, that we could just conquer the world. Or, we could conquer my world.
I will be the neediest of friends at first, I admit. I will constantly be looking for your reassurance and support. I will be desperately trying to please you. I want you to feel that I am worth your time. I want you to think the world of me. I long for you to wish to be with me always.
I need you because there is so much I want to do yet. There is so much that I feel needs to be said; so much that I have finally understood, or have begun to understand or even just realize. I want it to be known, but I don't know how to say it in a way that will be heard. There is so much that needs to be recognized; to be seen.
I locked so much away. I hid it, changed it, or denied it to please so many variations of others and it won't be kept in the tower anymore. Yet the habit means I don't know how to let it be free. The light feels too bright, the noises are too loud and there is no safety net. The uncertainty as to how to manage it or share it is maddening. There is always, always the fear of it being criticized or mocked or misunderstood. The fear is terrible. The idea that it would all be locked up again is worse.
I need your help while I figure it out. I will stumble and falter but I want to go forward. I feel like I can hear you saying to me already:
Things will change. There will be criticism and mocking. Some people are looking and others are not. None of that matters. It is too hard holding it in now. You have to let it go. You have to make the changes.
I already agree with you. I am reasonable, Courage. I will listen. I want to change. Changing doesn't seem so scary to me, honestly. I am afraid of doing it wrong. I am afraid of making more mistakes. I am afraid of more regret.
Someone said something today that made me think of you. They said they were ready to be brave enough to not hold on to the comfort of misery anymore. Or something along those lines, but I got it. I got it. I will need your help because I think the sort of fearlessness I desire will be isolating and I need you to remind me that it's still right, at least right for me.
I know how desperate I sound. I know that there are so many more important issues in the world. I know that to anyone else, it seems very easy. You just do it. I wish it was so easy for me because I think that I would do it if it were. For me, it is hard, and I want your help with that, too, please.
Please.
I will do the work. I will try to be better. I will sit in adoration at your feet. I will praise you to the hills. Take a chance on me.
What do you have to be afraid of?
me
I will be the neediest of friends at first, I admit. I will constantly be looking for your reassurance and support. I will be desperately trying to please you. I want you to feel that I am worth your time. I want you to think the world of me. I long for you to wish to be with me always.
I need you because there is so much I want to do yet. There is so much that I feel needs to be said; so much that I have finally understood, or have begun to understand or even just realize. I want it to be known, but I don't know how to say it in a way that will be heard. There is so much that needs to be recognized; to be seen.
I locked so much away. I hid it, changed it, or denied it to please so many variations of others and it won't be kept in the tower anymore. Yet the habit means I don't know how to let it be free. The light feels too bright, the noises are too loud and there is no safety net. The uncertainty as to how to manage it or share it is maddening. There is always, always the fear of it being criticized or mocked or misunderstood. The fear is terrible. The idea that it would all be locked up again is worse.
I need your help while I figure it out. I will stumble and falter but I want to go forward. I feel like I can hear you saying to me already:
Things will change. There will be criticism and mocking. Some people are looking and others are not. None of that matters. It is too hard holding it in now. You have to let it go. You have to make the changes.
I already agree with you. I am reasonable, Courage. I will listen. I want to change. Changing doesn't seem so scary to me, honestly. I am afraid of doing it wrong. I am afraid of making more mistakes. I am afraid of more regret.
Someone said something today that made me think of you. They said they were ready to be brave enough to not hold on to the comfort of misery anymore. Or something along those lines, but I got it. I got it. I will need your help because I think the sort of fearlessness I desire will be isolating and I need you to remind me that it's still right, at least right for me.
I know how desperate I sound. I know that there are so many more important issues in the world. I know that to anyone else, it seems very easy. You just do it. I wish it was so easy for me because I think that I would do it if it were. For me, it is hard, and I want your help with that, too, please.
Please.
I will do the work. I will try to be better. I will sit in adoration at your feet. I will praise you to the hills. Take a chance on me.
What do you have to be afraid of?
me
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Dear HORROR
Sooooooooooo remember when I was all, I will take pictures and see the world anew? Yeah...that didn't happen. I tried. I carried my camera with me everywhere and I kept repeating to myself: see the things like it is the first and last time.
Nothing. The only thing I consistently wanted to take a picture of was food and that just didn't seem emotionally healthy. I was feeling discouraged with my photographing ways when the universe, i.e., you, sprung this on me:
Is that not the scariest thing you have ever seen?! Imagine my terror at leaving my apartment for work in the morning, walking to my car and seeing that, that, staring down at me. Sure, you might see a child's toy, but I see demon eyes. Why would anyone procure that for an innocent child? And do you know the scariest part? It wasn't there when I returned home from work that evening. All windows were evil stuffed animal spawn free. BUT! When I left the next morning for work, IT. HAD. RETURNED.
I took a picture because I couldn't believe the horror and also how fortunate it was that I had finally happened on something that I could imagine I was seeing for the first and hopefully the last time. The devil doll hasn't reappeared but I look for it everyday.
Watch your backs, you humans. Those eyes follow you.
Everywhere.
me
Nothing. The only thing I consistently wanted to take a picture of was food and that just didn't seem emotionally healthy. I was feeling discouraged with my photographing ways when the universe, i.e., you, sprung this on me:
Is that not the scariest thing you have ever seen?! Imagine my terror at leaving my apartment for work in the morning, walking to my car and seeing that, that, staring down at me. Sure, you might see a child's toy, but I see demon eyes. Why would anyone procure that for an innocent child? And do you know the scariest part? It wasn't there when I returned home from work that evening. All windows were evil stuffed animal spawn free. BUT! When I left the next morning for work, IT. HAD. RETURNED.
I took a picture because I couldn't believe the horror and also how fortunate it was that I had finally happened on something that I could imagine I was seeing for the first and hopefully the last time. The devil doll hasn't reappeared but I look for it everyday.
Watch your backs, you humans. Those eyes follow you.
Everywhere.
me
Monday, June 20, 2011
Dear Distracted
Whilst engaging in my morning beauty regimen, I took some of my hair mousse, glanced at it and began to rub it on my forehead. I then looked at myself at the mirror and yelled: "LIANTONIO!" (Interestingly, I often do this. I yell at myself by my last name. Like, LIANTONIO! Why did you watch that movie? LIANTONIO! Look out for those pedestrians! LIANTONIO! Hair mousse doesn't go on your forehead!) I quickly realized that there aren't any hairs on my forehead which require mousse and wiped it off.
My forehead has held it's shape all day.
Methinks I might require a vacation. Or post it notes on all a.m. products reminding which should be applied where.
me
My forehead has held it's shape all day.
Methinks I might require a vacation. Or post it notes on all a.m. products reminding which should be applied where.
me
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Dear Idea
So I finally finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I loved it. Near the end of the book, there was this quote:
"To look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: thus is your time on earth filled with glory."
I think these are such inspiring words. This, to me, is what makes reading magical. The truth in what someone else has said. The transformation that can occur within from reading for a few moments on a weekday night.
I have decided to try looking at things this way. I am also going to use this as an inspiration to take more pictures. If I take a snapshot of what I am seeing as though it's the first and last time, I hope to find beauty, inspiration, humor and happiness. Here is picture one:
My office has this Bucky Badger blanket (which I purchased from the Craigslist to cover up the ugly white walls). My friend and I started dressing Bucky-THE BLANKET up for various times of year. As you can see here, Bucky was celebrating the winter Olympics from a couple of years back.
The thing is, I really think the mascot itself is horrifying, but when I look at the blanket I will remember the first time I came here to begin college. Those first days were scary and challenging but on the day that I finally leave, I will think of all that I experienced, how fundamentally changed I am from leaving home at 18 to the person that I am today.
The glory was in the learning.
Until picture number two...
me
"To look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: thus is your time on earth filled with glory."
I think these are such inspiring words. This, to me, is what makes reading magical. The truth in what someone else has said. The transformation that can occur within from reading for a few moments on a weekday night.
I have decided to try looking at things this way. I am also going to use this as an inspiration to take more pictures. If I take a snapshot of what I am seeing as though it's the first and last time, I hope to find beauty, inspiration, humor and happiness. Here is picture one:
The thing is, I really think the mascot itself is horrifying, but when I look at the blanket I will remember the first time I came here to begin college. Those first days were scary and challenging but on the day that I finally leave, I will think of all that I experienced, how fundamentally changed I am from leaving home at 18 to the person that I am today.
The glory was in the learning.
Until picture number two...
me
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