culture

Only the Names Have Changed

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To borrow a line from Jon Bon Jovi: “It’s all the same, only the names have changed…”

This weekend I was back at my old high school to attend a play with which my niece and nephew were both involved. Going back there is always like traveling back in time. Looking around at the familiar speckled floors, weathered wood and red and gray painted cinderblock, I can’t help but remember what it was like to inhabit this space on a daily basis 18 years ago.

In the bathroom at intermission I found myself alone, gazing into an all-too-familiar mirror. The face in the reflection was the same yet different. I squinted at the glass trying to remember what I looked like all those years ago. A million stories have now been written in the laugh lines and worries have a funny way of hiding in the crows feet. If I had known then all that I know now… would my life be any different?

I ducked into a stall and that’s when the real fun began. Reading the graffiti on the walls reminded me that although life has a tendency to rush past us at an alarming pace, much of it stays exactly the same. Though the walls had been painted over and over again—layers of industrial gray paint attempting to hide years and years worth of crude comments, jokes and etchings—the messages still remained.

It was then that my thoughts turned from deep introspection to the much more entertaining realization that there are four kinds of graffiti artists in women’s bathrooms. They are, in no particular order: The Insulter, The Defender, The Editor and The Random Messenger.

The Insulter needs no introduction or explanation. They are the voice of the accuser… The nasty novelist, the crass critic… the bitchy biographer. They pen their dirty, little messages in this place for all to see. Hurtling insults at the speed of a flush.

But Insulters, usually blind with hatred or bent on revenge, tend not to be the sharpest Sharpies in the backpack. And this is usually where the Editor steps in. The Editor feels the need not to correct the sentiment or the morality of the statement being made… but rather the grammar and spelling with which the acrid accusation was crafted.

Inevitably, the Defender WILL step in. Usually a friend of the Insulted… they feel compelled to set the record straight. This might be done by lodging a similar and equally ugly complaint about the Insulter or simply saying something kind about their friend. Sadly, the impotent Defender typically does nothing more than toss additional fuel on the fire.

And the Random Messenger? Let’s not leave them out. For they are a vital, albeit random, part of this primitive femme culture too. They’re the ones responsible for drawing the peace signs and daisies, quoting song lyrics and writing poems. They are the peace keepers. The hippies of high-school toilet hieroglyphics. The members of the why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along crowd. And you gotta love ’em… because they mean well… And they entertain us.

As I left the stall (I know, it seems like I was in there a long time, doesn’t it?) Anyway… as I left the stall I had forgotten about the laugh lines and the haunting memories of days gone by… and I was laughing at the thought of this graffiti and how it hadn’t … in 18 years … changed one bit.

It was then that I ran into a former school mate. We briefly exchanged pleasantries and I remarked about the graffiti and how it is probably exactly the same as it was when we were here. She laughed and said: “Yep. Only the names have changed.”

To which I countered: “I know… According to the third stall… some poor girl named Courtney is the one to call for a good time this year.”

Friday Night Lights: The Playoffs

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Minerva Lions — 2011 NBC Champs / Photo courtesy of Liz Smith, 2011

Situated halfway between Cleveland and Pittsburgh lies a sleepy little village called Minerva, OH. And it’s pretty safe to say that inside this tiny speck on the map there isn’t much going on. Most of the year it is fairly quiet. Until football season that is.

Between the months of August and November Minerva and all of the surrounding specks on the map turn into quite different places. We may not have the ocean, the mountains, 365 days of sunshine or celebrities on parade — though we do have several zoos… But that’s another post for another day.

One thing we do have is high school football.

It’s hard to explain to people who aren’t from here just what all the fuss is about. But I can tell you that it’s about community and pride and the spirit of competition. It’s about cramming as many of your friends and neighbors and maybe your not-so-friendly neighbors into the bleachers on a crisp, Friday night and sharing an experience. Enjoying, for once, what it means to have everything in common… if only for a few hours.

In this place we love our team whether they are good or bad… but even more so when they’re good. And this year, in Minerva, the team is good. Really good. After completing a thrilling 10-0 season and securing the 2011 Northeastern Buckeye Conference Championship, they made history one week ago today by winning our first playoff game EVER. Our team has gone to the playoffs plenty of times, but we’ve never known what it’s like to go on after that. And while that may not seem like a very big deal to you… trust me, around here… IT’S A BIG DAMN DEAL.

Tonight, for the first time in the history of small town Minerva Lions football, we will get our chance…

The following is something that I wrote three years ago, during my first football season after moving back “home” from New Mexico. I honestly don’t know that I can capture the emotion of it any better than I did in my original Friday Night Lights piece. For those of you who don’t quite “get it” when it comes to small mid-western towns OR football… please tune in on Monday when I’ll have something different to offer.

But for all of you who do get it and who will be cheering from the stands right beside me… Enjoy… Post this to your Facebook page… Email it to your friends… But most importantly… GO LIONS!!

Photo courtesy of Liz Smith, 2011

When to Hold, When to Fold

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In this game we call Life, knowing when to hold’ em and knowing when to fold’ em is the million-dollar question. Just ask Kenny Rogers since he liked to sing about it so much.

From a very early age we are taught to never give up. Ever. No matter how hard things get, how rough the road, how choppy the sea, how sick you become at the thought of continuing on with… <insert your own perceived challenge here>, we must NEVER, EVER GIVE UP.

I can understand this logic as it applies to many things. When your child is struggling with Math and they just need to hang in there and give it some more time and effort. Or when a relationship hits a rocky patch (as inevitably happens) and both parties need to try a bit harder.

But sometimes I think this “NEVER GIVE UP” black and white thinking can cause us a lot of unnecessary anguish and trouble. Especially when something threatens our very wellbeing — mentally, physically or otherwise. Perhaps staying in a toxic or abusive environment for too long… or wasting precious years and energy on people incapable of change… investing heavily in endeavors that are seemingly bound for nowhere.

I think there are times when “folding”—as unpopular as it may sound in our highly-driven-claw-our-way-to-the-top society—is the healthiest choice we can make… regardless of what others think of us as a result. Times when tearing a page from Life’s Playbook, lighting it on fire and watching it burn is the best thing we can possibly do.

How do we know when that time has come? Well, your gut will have to tell you that. Everyone’s journey is different. But I can tell you from personal experience that when you’re miserable more than you are happy or you awaken daily beneath heavy blankets of depression, anxiety or fear… When the people who love you the most are the ones being consistently hurt by your inability to function as a loving, caring and giving human being… When you’ve completely forgotten the sound of your own laughter…

Maybe it’s time to fold.

Maybe it’s time to walk away, pick up a completely different deck of cards and start up a whole new game.

So… That Happened

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I am fascinated by language. I think it’s a safe bet to say that most writers are. Language is a living, ever changing thing that reflects the constant evolution of our culture. Recently, a new phrase has entered our collective vocabulary with which I have become quite taken. I have heard friends and co-workers use it, made note of it popping up on television as part of a scripted dialogue, read it on Facebook (naturally) and overheard it being used on the street.

I get it. I think it’s funny and at times the perfect thing to say… almost like putting a period at the end of a sentence after something has… well… happened. I am confident that I could use it appropriately in a situation and maybe even garner a few laughs. But, given my affinity for words, I was still curious about its true, intended meaning. Therefore, I consulted with what else but the Urban Dictionary to see if it could shed any more light on this new addition to our current pop-culture vernacular.

The Urban Dictionary defines “Well, That Happened” as: A phrase used when something random and/or inexplicable has occurred. It serves as both an invitation to discuss the recent incident or a way to cut off a possible conversation about the incident.

Example:
You witness your naked neighbor being chased by a dog. Suddenly he is hit by a car, leaving him sprawled in the intersection while the dog licks him.

You: “Well that happened.”

Your Friend: “Yup.”

There are also some variations of this form of language that I wish to explore with some examples of my own such as: “This happened”  if you are standing in the immediate presence of something interesting, peculiar or random.

Example:
Out of sheer anger and frustration you take a hammer and smash your wireless mouse to bits, scattering shards of grey plastic and particles of circuitry all over the crime scene. See Of Mice and Hammers for more details on this specific example.

You: “So… This happened.”

Your Friend: “Yup.”

Or… “There’s this” as a way of showing someone something that you find cannot be explained any other way or you just don’t feel like saying any more about it.

Example:
Your friend discovers a photo taken of you during middle school and posts it on Facebook for the world to see. You’re standing with about 3 other friends sporting giant 90’s hair, oversized bomber (or denim) jackets worn atop horrid cable-knit sweaters, turtlenecks and acid-washed-mom-jeans… New Kids On The Block concert tickets in hand.

Photo caption: “And… There’s this.”

All Your Facebook Friends: “Uproarious laughter and comments galore”

There's This.

Supernormal?

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I am not this woman. Nor will I ever be. I could torture myself for not having her 5’11’’ willowy frame or for the daylight that cannot be seen streaming between my thighs when I walk. I could curse my reflection for a lack of sinewy arms and a concave stomach. I could beat myself bloody for the dewy, pore-less skin and silky, disgustingly thick hair that I’ll never have. I could pout endlessly that I am not a supermodel…

OR…

I could accept that I was born a normal girl to a normal middle-class family in the middle of normal America. It was not my lot in life to strut down catwalks in the latest fashions, party like a rock star drinking champagne until 3 a.m. and sleep past noon for that necessary “beauty rest.” Personal trainers, chefs, estheticians, dieticians and all kinds of other “ticians” are not at my beckon call.

It was my lot in life to go to college, get an 8 to 5 job, slurp my coffee from a travel mug given to me by the bank when I opened my meager account, grab Subway on the go for my “power lunch” and watch episodes of The Office while folding laundry in my modest 2 bed/2 bath house. This was my lot… just like the other 90% of America. OK, I don’t honestly know the actual statistics. But there is some kind of ridiculous majority out there living exactly like I do.

Our idea of a good time is tailgating before watching a baseball or football game and eating pizza and drinking beer with our equally normal friends after its over. If we’re fortunate, the occasional tropical, exotic or adventurous escape is something to enjoy and forever cherish… all the while knowing—as we sit at that charming café or under that umbrella at the beach—that this is, in fact, NOT OUR REALITY. Our reality is lurking just around the corner… waiting to kick our ass upon our immediate return.

But it’s not all bad. I get to exist on more than egg whites and sugar free Red Bull for a daily diet. There is no punishment or excommunication for gaining 5 pounds while on vacation and not taking it off for another 6 months. There is no paparazzi camped outside my home waiting to snap a picture of my all-of-the-sudden-suspiciously-fat butt or catch me in some compromising situation. And no one looks at me cross-eyed for sporting last year’s trends.

I don’t know why we as women are so hard on ourselves for not looking like we stepped from between the pages of Vogue. No one asks us to. No one expects us to. We do it to ourselves. Maybe some of us do it to each other. But really… It is NOT our job. Our job is just to be “normal” so that they can be “super” — and what in the world could be wrong with that?

Now… would I trade places with her if given the chance by my fairy godmother? Probably. But until then… I’ll just get the towels out of the dryer and reach for another slice of pizza… and the remote.

"Normal" me... in a "normal" seat... at a "normal" Red Sox game.

 

Domain Thing

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It wasn’t that long ago I didn’t even know what a domain name was. I avoided the whole technology thing for awhile… Or at least longer than many of my peers. I put off getting a cell phone for a LONG time until it became necessary. I told people it was because I quote: “Did not want to be that accessible.”

Amazing how time changes things. It’s almost impossible to remember life before email or the internet, isn’t it? Then a few years ago it was Facebook. Sometimes I literally sit and hurt my head trying to recall what life was like Pre-FB. What in the hell did I do with all of that extra time? I don’t think I read more books. I don’t think I exercised more. I certainly didn’t bake, crochet, cook or clean. Maybe I just watched more CSI and Survivor.

So now I find it extremely curious that 2 days ago I broke down and bought and registered my own domain name: womaninthrisis.com. That’s right. I’ve become one of “those people” that I swore I thought I’d never become. I own a website. I am a blogger. And it’s a little unsettling.

Back in the CSI and Survivor days, bloggers and people with their own websites were (to me) nerds who never saw the light of day. They were spindly with translucent skin and bloodshot eyes. They slept all day and stayed up all night in their dark little caves, stabbing away at the keyboard with great gusto illuminated by the other-worldly glow of the monitor. They wrote about conspiracy theories, dark matter, worm holes and absolute zero.

While I, with my expensive, fake tan, french manicure and well-toned muscles did “normal” things like sit on my ass all day at Starbucks drinking iced-caramel machiattos and people-watching… Or perfecting my downward-facing dog, warrior and sun salutation in the mornings and paying $50 a month to literally get the crap beat out of me by my kickboxing instructor every other night.

My, my, my how things have changed. See, the thing is… I love to write. I have ALWAYS loved to write. Except that now I have discovered there is this amazing community of people all over the world just like me who enjoy sitting down at the computer, basking in it’s other-worldly glow and pecking away at the keyboard sharing thoughts, ideas, observations and inspirations about day-to-day life… And anything and everything from conspiracy theories to the perfect french manicure. And I have found it to be fascinating and fun.

Though, I do have just one question…

Do my eyes look bloodshot to you? Maybe it’s time to drag out the yoga mat… Or hit the gym. UGH. As the proud, sole owner and proprietor of  Woman In Thrisis, who has time for all of that now anyway? Soooo… make my caramel mach a double, please. And where’s the number for that tanning salon?

Of Mice and Hammers

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I killed a mouse in my house last night… with a hammer. It was a little disturbing at first, bits and pieces of it flying all over my kitchen and raining down upon me like shrapnel after an explosion as I lifted the hammer high in the air in order to strike again and again. But I’m not gonna lie, it was also a little invigorating.

Why the hammer you ask? Isn’t that a little overkill for something so small? Well, I just wanted to make sure it was dead. I couldn’t stand the thought of it lying on the top of my garbage can, half alive and suffering. Such uncertainty could keep a person up at night you know.

Now, before you go passing judgment or reporting me or my blog to PETA… I’ll tell you that it wasn’t cute, furry and capable of speaking Russian like Fievel the Disney mouse. It was a Logitech mouse. And I had reached the end of my virtual rope.

I should have been mad at the bank who YET AGAIN changed their security measures and thus made ME change MINE. Why does the bank feel it necessary to change things every 5 minutes anyway?

Or I could have been angry with my computer because it’s getting up there in years and painfully slow. It doesn’t exactly snap to attention quite as quickly as I would prefer.

So I lost it. And I took out my rage on an innocent, little grey mouse who didn’t deserve what it got. I didn’t bash it to smithereens right away. I actually just set it down on my desk a bit too hard… and when I tried to revive it… nothing happened. It just sat there… lifeless… the red light on it’s optic sensor forever darkened.

And THEN, I was no longer angry with the bank or my PC’s sluggish processor… I was angry at myself. Livid to be more exact. Mad because I had let my stupid temper get the better of me and now I was crippled and mouse-less. So I placed the dying mouse on the rug, took out my hammer and finished it off by smashing it into a million, tiny pieces.

Not yet done with my computer work, I snuck next door and borrowed a mouse from my mother. I rushed into my parents’ house, stealthily snagged THEIR mouse and declared: “I’m borrowing this! My mouse is broken! Will return it in the morning!”  I then rushed right back out the door like I was fleeing the scene of a crime.  Also, before they had the chance to ask any questions.

Like I said… it did feel good. Who doesn’t fantasize now and then about violently destroying a piece of the very computer equipment by which we often feel enslaved?

Happy computing, y’all!

Dethroned

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This is Wrigley. Otherwise known as Wriggles, Wrigleyville or Mr. Wriggles. And this is his story.

Not long after my friend Jan got married and bought a house, she and her hubby—like many young couples—began to feel a growing void. As is typical with most newlyweds who put down roots and establish a home together, the need for “something more” takes a hold of them and they, in turn, take a trip to the local pet store.

Many sleepless nights, soiled and tattered towels, destroyed shoes, half-chewed squeaky toys and bottles of carpet cleaner later… they settle in with their newest addition and deem their squirmy little puppy the King of the Castle… Lord of the Manor… and Love of Their Lives.

They honestly don’t know how they ever got along without this furry bundle of joy and he becomes the center of their world… their baby. He is regularly walked, obscenely spoiled with designer toys and gourmet treats and taken to “Doggie Daycare” or the grandparents’ homes when mummy and daddy are away.

Fast-forward a couple of years. Biology has worked its magic and now there is a new sheriff in town. That’s right, folks. Procreation has occurred. You know the good ol’ perpetuation of the species and all that crap. A tiny new bundle has entered the home and nothing is ever the same. This one is hairless and cries constantly and unlike the furry variety, it seems to demand much, MUCH more attention.

And suddenly, without warning, the former King of the Castle is literally cast aside in order to make room. Chew toys, tug-of-war ropes and tennis balls are shoved into dark, dusty corners to make way for pack-n-plays, bouncy-chairs and activity mats.

Excuse me... Where are all of MY toys?

Zero sleep and constant feedings and changings have made mummy and daddy rather cranky and impatient and rendered the notion of a daily walk or a game of catch virtually impossible. Life feels as though it will never return to normal.

UGH. I personally don't see what all the fuss is about. I'm WAY cuter than she is. Aren't I?

I’ve seen Wrigley’s story play out time and time again as my friends have done their reproductive duty and multiplied. The animal—once so adored—has now become an object of scorn and frustration. During a recent visit to meet the newest human addition to my friend’s family, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Wrigley (I personally like to call him Mr. Wriggles). Me being a perplexed, non-parent, I asked my friend how it was possible for them “hate” their once-cherished pet.

“He’s annoying. He jumps too much, barks too loud and begs mercilessly for attention. We worry constantly that he’s going to wake the baby. He is just one more thing for us to deal with. Now that we have 2 kids, it feels like we actually have 3.” She answered.

At least she was honest.

They admitted to giving some consideration to the thought of handing Wrigley over to a neighboring family who could offer him more attention—but being the sometimes-optimist that I am—I see their oldest, Brady, approaching 3 and I believe that perhaps Mr. Wriggles will soon get back his throne. Maybe he will become King … (OK that’s reaching) make that Prince of Brady’s world. And before long, there will be someone to take walks and play catch with once again.

Um... Are you old enough to take me for a walk yet?

Road Rage, Invisible Groundhogs and Hypocrisy

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I am a self-professed tailgater. And I’m not referring to the tailgating that occurs before football games around here. I am referring to the riding-other-drivers-asses variety of tailgater.

My dad and Lee both get after me about this A LOT. As well they should. Tailgating is rude and obnoxious, not to mention dangerous. But being the extremely impatient narcissist that I am… I just can’t seem to help myself. I can start out on a trip with the best of intentions and before I know it, I’ve memorized every scratch, dent and ding on the bumper in front of me… and I’ve probably fantasized about ramming into it too.

Yesterday on the way to work I got “brake-checked” by the guy in front of me (YES, an individual I happened to be tailgating at the time) and I had to slam on my brakes because he literally STOPPED in the middle of the road. He didn’t just tap his breaks to warn me that I was beginning to annoy him… He STOPPED… In the middle of a 55 MPH zone! Now, unless he was stopping for a squirrel, cat or groundhog—that I for one did not see—he was clearly sending me the “get-off-my-ass-NOW!” message.

I am well acquainted with this form of non-verbal, vehicular communication because I am not just your garden-variety tailgater. I am what you might call a “hypocritical tailgater.” I WILL tailgate you… but don’t you DARE tailgate me… or I WILL brake-check you until you get the message.

I feel it also worth mentioning that the guy who brake-checked me today was also a hypocritical tailgater because after he slammed on his brakes for me and resumed his speed… he practically crawled up the tailpipe of the guy in front of him. I must have been in a fairly decent mood because after re-securing all of my belongings back into the passenger seat from the floor to which they had fallen at the time of the aforementioned brake-check incident… I laughed. HARD.

I just laughed and laughed and backed the hell off. I got his message LOUD AND CLEAR. And maybe, just maybe, I secretly hoped that the driver whose tailpipe the break-checking-hypocritical-tailgater was currently sucking on would also stop suddenly in the middle of the road for an invisible squirrel, cat or groundhog… and well, you know the rest.

Some Truth About Honesty

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I have never regretted anything I have not said.

Words to live by. As a talker, this mantra has proved invaluable to me… and would be even MORE beneficial if only I practiced it all the time… every single day of my life.

We are raised on the principle that honesty is the best policy. That damage can be minimized—if not altogether avoided—by simply telling the truth… all the time… to everyone… about everything. If we would just tell the truth, everything will be better.

The truth shall set you free. Right? Another popular one. We are taught to believe that shining the light of truth on things will invariably and inevitably fix them. However, I am learning that this “honesty policy,” so deeply ingrained in us, couldn’t be further from the truth.

Trust me. I know. I have told the truth… the whole truth… and nothing but the truth many times in my life operating under the false assumption that it will make everything better, only to discover—through devastation of epic proportion—that I should have kept my damn mouth shut.

Now, before you go on thinking that this is an endorsement for lying and dishonesty, let me clarify. I am referring to the things that we DO NOT NEED TO SAY, rather than saying false things. There is a big difference. As a compulsive talker and an obsessive clearer-of-the-air, I cannot begin to tell you how many times telling someone exactly what is on my mind has come back to bite me in the ass.

I have done it in all areas of my life, and in all areas of my life it has—on more than one occasion—backfired. Big time. Just because it pops into my head or is nagging at me or causing me to toss and turn at night, doesn’t mean that I must spew forth the thoughts (no matter how true) like word vomit all over the intended target or anyone who will listen.

Sometimes “holding your cards close to the vest” or “not revealing your hand” or practicing the “silence is golden” rule really is the better option, even if it means that you are occasionally guilty of the sin of lying by omission.

Think before you speak… because on now and then… honesty is not always the best policy.