Earlier I received some news that lit-trally (said like the Rob Lowe character from Parks and Rec) made me shake my fist at the ceiling from frustration times. Whilst I was doing it, I thought of that part in Stranger Than Fiction, where Will Ferrell is yelling at the sky and the voice over says, "shouting at the heavens in futility." And he replies, "No, I'm not you stupid voice! I'm shouting at you!" But really, it was futile. Just like my fist shaking. It didn't change the present or the past. In the long-run, the perceived injustice will not matter and maybe even one day I will become the sort of emotionally-evolved, self-possessed person who can honesty say they do not care.
This was not that day. It still isn't. I would still be shaking my fist except that I am too tired to do so.
Sometimes all you are left with is a great line from a movie.
me
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Dear Legs
Some summers ago, I was walking in downtown Madison. I was bare-legged, in a knee-length skirt and some wedge heels. I passed a woman as I headed to a building on the south end of campus. The woman was a bit older than me, but sped up her pace until she matched mine. She looked at me and said:
"I want to tell you that you have nice legs. And you should enjoy them, because they won't last."
I awkwardly thanked her and kind of laughed to myself about what she'd said. But on days like today, when it is freakishly warm for Fall in October in Wisconsin, and I am bare-legged, in a knee-length skirt and some heels, I think of that unsolicited advice from that random citizen, and I work the legs.
And I enjoy it.
me
"I want to tell you that you have nice legs. And you should enjoy them, because they won't last."
I awkwardly thanked her and kind of laughed to myself about what she'd said. But on days like today, when it is freakishly warm for Fall in October in Wisconsin, and I am bare-legged, in a knee-length skirt and some heels, I think of that unsolicited advice from that random citizen, and I work the legs.
And I enjoy it.
me
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Dear Roof
I climbed onto a roof today to help tear off the old shingles and whatnot. I helped carry the whatnot over the roof and dumped it into a dumpster. I was very scared beforehand because I have no for reals building or construction skills and I have never been on a roof before. Standing on the roof at first was initially terrifying, but after about an hour and a half of walking all over it, I was feeling a little more comfortable. I even sat down and chatted with my friend who has actual roofing abilities. I met a new person. I learned some new skills. In addition, I became dehydrated and sweaty way too quickly for my likings.
But.
I was on a roof today. Me. I was scared and tried anyway. I am tired and realized I still have more growing to do.
Still.
Liantonio. Roof.
I am nonplussed.
me
But.
I was on a roof today. Me. I was scared and tried anyway. I am tired and realized I still have more growing to do.
Still.
Liantonio. Roof.
I am nonplussed.
me
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Dear Toilet Eruption
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
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
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
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