I hope you read the previous blog. It lists many things that piss me off. Sometimes my anger varies by degrees, depending on my mood, the situation, and the other parties involved.
Most of the time I don't feel angry. I mean I get mad at situations that would make anyone mad, but I don't stay mad very long because to me, it's a bit pointless, really. I try to have enough dignity to understand that we all mess up sometimes. Life is relative. Anger is relative. I used to explode through blunt judgment and a sharp tongue. Now, I'd rather analyze.
In Matthew, Jesus turned over the tables of the temple because he was ANGRY. These men weren't doing their jobs and Jesus was pissed!
We're also told to be slow to anger, lalala. But anger is healthy. Stifled anger catapults more problems, more anger, more denial, more frustration, more depression.
When occurences make us angry...not a person, but the affect that person had on someone else/us... it reveals what we're passionate about. It reveals what we should emerse ourselves in...it reveals direction. This anger reveals character and it should NOT be stifled.
Let's knock over some tables.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Anger
-abandoned shopping carts that seem to roll their way into parking spots
-racial profiling
-gender profiling
-the Bible belt
-religion
-leg hair
-body hair in general
-mascara
-sexual dominance
-Victorianism
-American values
-West Virginia
-medicine
-having man voice
-being teased for my size or strength...don't try to make me feel butch. it pisses me off.
-holey socks
-poor transportation systems (in KY)
-women who don't know their own power
-men AND women who obsess over body image
-anyone who has ever sexually abused someone else
-athletes who do not finish college before going pro
-the lack of importance for getting a doctorate in a liberal arts program
-noise that thinks it's music
-Wuthering Heights
-a cluttered, dirty sink
-stinky garbage
-money
-numbers
-the letter 'v'
-being in class with grad. students who have grad-sized egos
-standardized tests
-people who slam Romanticism. if it's you, you anger me.
-the way women are treated in the Bible.
-my nearly-nonexistent relationship with my grandma
-my lack of motivation
-having my writing rejected
-my lack of confidence
-reliance on technology
-pens that don't work
-writer's block
-retirement
-racial profiling
-gender profiling
-the Bible belt
-religion
-leg hair
-body hair in general
-mascara
-sexual dominance
-Victorianism
-American values
-West Virginia
-medicine
-having man voice
-being teased for my size or strength...don't try to make me feel butch. it pisses me off.
-holey socks
-poor transportation systems (in KY)
-women who don't know their own power
-men AND women who obsess over body image
-anyone who has ever sexually abused someone else
-athletes who do not finish college before going pro
-the lack of importance for getting a doctorate in a liberal arts program
-noise that thinks it's music
-Wuthering Heights
-a cluttered, dirty sink
-stinky garbage
-money
-numbers
-the letter 'v'
-being in class with grad. students who have grad-sized egos
-standardized tests
-people who slam Romanticism. if it's you, you anger me.
-the way women are treated in the Bible.
-my nearly-nonexistent relationship with my grandma
-my lack of motivation
-having my writing rejected
-my lack of confidence
-reliance on technology
-pens that don't work
-writer's block
-retirement
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Of Vacuums
Of Vacuums
The Vacuum Gleaner
I remember when my adolescent, I-shave-my-legs-behind-my-mom’s-back self absolutely repelled any parental demand of doing chores or cleaning my room. For a whole day I boycotted the vacuum until Mom gave me the “or else” talk, in which I crawled around my new blue carpet, picking up fuzz balls and lint because I still refused the handiness of modern technology. Within thirty seconds, I realized the convenience of such a machine and quickly swiped the carpet of its symbolic, chaotic sprinkles of life that grace the musty, 70s-style green shag of my apartment.
Vacuuming is still not my style, but I’m a big girl now and sometimes, necessary tidiness trumps convenient mess. Vacuuming is like any other domestic chore: it’s a pain in the ass to think about, it generally takes little time to accomplish, and the after result is quite pleasing until the mess re-deflowers the squeaky cleanness and fresh smell. However, I like the precision of cleaning; when I iron or vacuum, I always amaze myself at how careful I am to rid my shirts of creases and pick up each speck of white against the rustic darkness of the carpet.
Then again, the brown triangle is still burned into my white curtains, and I hate hearing my easily-misplaced bobby pins get sucked up into the hairy, lint-spun mess of the vacuum where my discarded harvest dwells in tightly-spun disarray.
Old Lady Houses
My grandmother pays me ten dollars for less than ten minutes of vacuuming wen I go home on rare occasions. I always feel guilty for accepting the money, not only because I’m her granddaughter and should do these favors voluntarily, but because the house is ultimately spotless. I walk in, make small talk, plug the vacuum into the wall, turn on the light switch (to power the plug), and follow the same push-and-pull dance throughout the house. I roll through the rooms with bare feet and swipe away Mema’s “tracks” from her black, old-lady Reeboks.
The job is easy, but I always leave dissatisfied. I love the therapeutic hum of the vacuum, but I also love the crackled melody and vibrations from crumbs and other discarded little sneaks that are snagged by the machine’s powerful suction and devoured by the old-school bag of her musty vacuum. In old lady houses, those crumbs and small bits only accumulate around holiday season when the whole family gathers, as everyone is silently aware that every Christmas is drawing closer to Mema’s last. Because of this, I try to ask her as many questions as possible to understand my grandmother as a person and not a familial label. It’s hard to uncover any complexity to her: she is a former homemaker/war-wife who loves all things female-fittin’ and frowns at progressive ways. I ask her for stories and she gives me recollections, but no feelings. Then, she asks me about school and I reply with convoluted life plans that, with each syllable, sprinkle into the spotless fibers beneath my feet of the stiff chair.
Dancing Domestics
In high school, my mother had to quit the dance team because it was too far for her parents to drive. I’m sure Mema preferred that my mom do more useful employment like sew her own clothes--which she did-- and learn to cook--which she did (and I appreciate). But it makes sense. Mema spent most of her life baking and sewing and planting and preparing things for their extensive farm. She was a housewife, but as I swipe and scoot over the surface of her new carpet, I cannot imagine her vacuuming. Maybe my terrible memory prohibits me from recanting a time before her back was hunched—a time before her steps were short, uncoordinated staccatos propelled forward by her robotic arm-pumping that stirs around her bony hips.
When I vacuum, I pattern a stiffly-rhythmical, organized dance. Push forward, step forward, pull back, ball change, step left, start over. It’s a slower, less intense version of the Cha-Cha slide, much like my mechanical middle school dances that lacked rhythm and were plagued with whiteness. I cannot imagine Mema dancing. I can’t imagine her snapping her fingers or clapping to a beat.
Mema becomes increasingly proud of me now that I can iron and vacuum and cook without scolded instructions. Maybe I’m more domestic now, but it’s because I enjoy the rhythm—the movement--the pattern to things. In the apartment, I fix quick meals on the stove or mix batter to quick bursts of powerful beats; at home, Mom and I rotate among pots and pans to the classics as she demonstrates old dance routines, I with my microphone spatula and the same rotating, happy hips.
The Vacuum Gleaner
I remember when my adolescent, I-shave-my-legs-behind-my-mom’s-back self absolutely repelled any parental demand of doing chores or cleaning my room. For a whole day I boycotted the vacuum until Mom gave me the “or else” talk, in which I crawled around my new blue carpet, picking up fuzz balls and lint because I still refused the handiness of modern technology. Within thirty seconds, I realized the convenience of such a machine and quickly swiped the carpet of its symbolic, chaotic sprinkles of life that grace the musty, 70s-style green shag of my apartment.
Vacuuming is still not my style, but I’m a big girl now and sometimes, necessary tidiness trumps convenient mess. Vacuuming is like any other domestic chore: it’s a pain in the ass to think about, it generally takes little time to accomplish, and the after result is quite pleasing until the mess re-deflowers the squeaky cleanness and fresh smell. However, I like the precision of cleaning; when I iron or vacuum, I always amaze myself at how careful I am to rid my shirts of creases and pick up each speck of white against the rustic darkness of the carpet.
Then again, the brown triangle is still burned into my white curtains, and I hate hearing my easily-misplaced bobby pins get sucked up into the hairy, lint-spun mess of the vacuum where my discarded harvest dwells in tightly-spun disarray.
Old Lady Houses
My grandmother pays me ten dollars for less than ten minutes of vacuuming wen I go home on rare occasions. I always feel guilty for accepting the money, not only because I’m her granddaughter and should do these favors voluntarily, but because the house is ultimately spotless. I walk in, make small talk, plug the vacuum into the wall, turn on the light switch (to power the plug), and follow the same push-and-pull dance throughout the house. I roll through the rooms with bare feet and swipe away Mema’s “tracks” from her black, old-lady Reeboks.
The job is easy, but I always leave dissatisfied. I love the therapeutic hum of the vacuum, but I also love the crackled melody and vibrations from crumbs and other discarded little sneaks that are snagged by the machine’s powerful suction and devoured by the old-school bag of her musty vacuum. In old lady houses, those crumbs and small bits only accumulate around holiday season when the whole family gathers, as everyone is silently aware that every Christmas is drawing closer to Mema’s last. Because of this, I try to ask her as many questions as possible to understand my grandmother as a person and not a familial label. It’s hard to uncover any complexity to her: she is a former homemaker/war-wife who loves all things female-fittin’ and frowns at progressive ways. I ask her for stories and she gives me recollections, but no feelings. Then, she asks me about school and I reply with convoluted life plans that, with each syllable, sprinkle into the spotless fibers beneath my feet of the stiff chair.
Dancing Domestics
In high school, my mother had to quit the dance team because it was too far for her parents to drive. I’m sure Mema preferred that my mom do more useful employment like sew her own clothes--which she did-- and learn to cook--which she did (and I appreciate). But it makes sense. Mema spent most of her life baking and sewing and planting and preparing things for their extensive farm. She was a housewife, but as I swipe and scoot over the surface of her new carpet, I cannot imagine her vacuuming. Maybe my terrible memory prohibits me from recanting a time before her back was hunched—a time before her steps were short, uncoordinated staccatos propelled forward by her robotic arm-pumping that stirs around her bony hips.
When I vacuum, I pattern a stiffly-rhythmical, organized dance. Push forward, step forward, pull back, ball change, step left, start over. It’s a slower, less intense version of the Cha-Cha slide, much like my mechanical middle school dances that lacked rhythm and were plagued with whiteness. I cannot imagine Mema dancing. I can’t imagine her snapping her fingers or clapping to a beat.
Mema becomes increasingly proud of me now that I can iron and vacuum and cook without scolded instructions. Maybe I’m more domestic now, but it’s because I enjoy the rhythm—the movement--the pattern to things. In the apartment, I fix quick meals on the stove or mix batter to quick bursts of powerful beats; at home, Mom and I rotate among pots and pans to the classics as she demonstrates old dance routines, I with my microphone spatula and the same rotating, happy hips.
i love my ukulele so much i want to name it
so my title should pretty much tell you that i LOVE my uke. i've played it all of 30 hours and figured out many chords and a couple of songs. it's quite exciting, actually because i find it easier to sing with the uke rather than the piano.
oh and the ukulele is blue, too. isn't that cute?
despite its cuteness, i kept noticing that middle C was way off. i mean it was all twangy and twinny and whiny and any other adjective that could replace the ones i've just created. so i taught myself how to tune it by using my keyboard (which now has a pedal, thanks mom!) AND i realized that i had to tighten the screw on one of the little knob things on the back. i'm sure it has a name, but it's a knob thing at the moment.
so i've impressed myself because i know how to take care of my new baby uke! so since i know how to coddle it and play with it and maintain its ever-cute blueness and adorable sound, it needs a name.
i will let you know when this amazing event happens.
oh and the ukulele is blue, too. isn't that cute?
despite its cuteness, i kept noticing that middle C was way off. i mean it was all twangy and twinny and whiny and any other adjective that could replace the ones i've just created. so i taught myself how to tune it by using my keyboard (which now has a pedal, thanks mom!) AND i realized that i had to tighten the screw on one of the little knob things on the back. i'm sure it has a name, but it's a knob thing at the moment.
so i've impressed myself because i know how to take care of my new baby uke! so since i know how to coddle it and play with it and maintain its ever-cute blueness and adorable sound, it needs a name.
i will let you know when this amazing event happens.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
funny story
So I'm driving to work today, and I'm in a mellow mood...I got more sleep than usual, so my head still felt water-logged, but I wasn't in a particularly bad OR good mood. I just simply existed, I guess.
I'm getting close to my turn and I always feel bad when vehicles are stuck in a small road and no one on the main road (Scottsville Rd, in this case) will let them on. So I let the van turn in front of me because I like doing things like that. Then as soon as its back-end is completely facing me, I notice the "Sarah!" sticker on the back and immediately cringe in disapproval and near-regret. I immediately started thinking, "Uh, what idiots..." which led to "Oh my gosh, I shouldn't've let them..."
Then I started laughing. I was being so ridiculous! I instantly became perturbed because of a simple political disbelief. I couldn't quit laughing until I got to work-- I mean I couldn't stop.
I'd rather laugh at myself than scrutinize other people. I think it's healthier.
I'm getting close to my turn and I always feel bad when vehicles are stuck in a small road and no one on the main road (Scottsville Rd, in this case) will let them on. So I let the van turn in front of me because I like doing things like that. Then as soon as its back-end is completely facing me, I notice the "Sarah!" sticker on the back and immediately cringe in disapproval and near-regret. I immediately started thinking, "Uh, what idiots..." which led to "Oh my gosh, I shouldn't've let them..."
Then I started laughing. I was being so ridiculous! I instantly became perturbed because of a simple political disbelief. I couldn't quit laughing until I got to work-- I mean I couldn't stop.
I'd rather laugh at myself than scrutinize other people. I think it's healthier.
Friday, February 19, 2010
naked
I sent this as (part) of an email to a friend last night, and since I can't stop thinking about it, I'm posting it.
Self-Image: Okay I'll start by phrases I'm gonna avoid, okay? So note that I will not say these for a shallow and ineffective way to make you feel better. "You're beautiful on the inside and out." "God loves you no matter what you look like." "Don't worry about image" or "Been there done that." Okay? So knock those out because as true as these could be, these phrases are so redundant and they are complete bullshit anymore.
Self-Image (Take 2): Prepare yourself because I never quote scripture, so here goes: (you'll be my guinea pig) Isaiah 58:7 (the last half of it) says, "When you see the naked, that you cover him, And not hide yourself from your own flesh..." Now that stuck out to me because for Lent, I am giving up one article of clothing/food/etc every day because others need them more than me, and there are way too many things I'm holding on to that are unnecessary in my life. Now that second part of the verse...don't hide yourself from your own flesh. My new theory these days is kind of based on that show "How to Look Good Naked." I never watched it, but I love the concept. If you think about it, God sees our naked, exposed bodies. He does not give two shits what brands we wear or what color our hair is: he doesn't see my spare tire or stretch marks, and he doesn't see my sagging, former muscle mass.
In a nutshell, our society sucks. You know by now not to base your body off of magazines or cute little college girls you see skirting around with super thin long legs or the perfect little stomachs. Don't do that. I think it's great to acknowledge that other women have nice bodies--it's okay! You just have to know that you have a nice one, too. The problem is that we're subconsciously taught to hide ourselves THROUGH our body image obsession. We see our bodies, we see the flaws, the "NOW" compared to "THEN." But we don't REALLY see our bodies. We see what we want our bodies to be. So we hide the reality that our crooked tooth or pointy ears or large forehead is actually a really cool character mark.
I am also very obsessed with Greek/Roman art. They were OBSESSED with naked bodies because bodies were beautiful and exotic to them. They saw beyond the sex--bodies are beautiful, complicated things; they're mysterious even when they're exposed. And sometimes, I think we really have to see bodies in a perspective that God would see them: they are beautiful because they are his. He gave me my man-size hands and boy-body frame. He gave me my tiny elf-like ears and my freckles. And at this point, I'm really appreciating those because it separates me from the next made-over beauty queen...and honestly, those beautiful girls have just as many body image issues as we do.
I'm sorry this is HUGELY long. I really hope I've helped some without being cheesy. I hate cheesy Christian stuff, girl. It's not my style. ANYWAY, I can't wait to see you again--we should play guitar and ukulele together: how fun would that be?!
OH AND please feel free to call or text me any time, okay? For real. Sometimes I forget that I have a phone, so I may temporarily lose it and not answer, but I will FO SHO call you back. I love you! Here's a technological Mama-hug. :) Have a great weekend, deary.
Self-Image: Okay I'll start by phrases I'm gonna avoid, okay? So note that I will not say these for a shallow and ineffective way to make you feel better. "You're beautiful on the inside and out." "God loves you no matter what you look like." "Don't worry about image" or "Been there done that." Okay? So knock those out because as true as these could be, these phrases are so redundant and they are complete bullshit anymore.
Self-Image (Take 2): Prepare yourself because I never quote scripture, so here goes: (you'll be my guinea pig) Isaiah 58:7 (the last half of it) says, "When you see the naked, that you cover him, And not hide yourself from your own flesh..." Now that stuck out to me because for Lent, I am giving up one article of clothing/food/etc every day because others need them more than me, and there are way too many things I'm holding on to that are unnecessary in my life. Now that second part of the verse...don't hide yourself from your own flesh. My new theory these days is kind of based on that show "How to Look Good Naked." I never watched it, but I love the concept. If you think about it, God sees our naked, exposed bodies. He does not give two shits what brands we wear or what color our hair is: he doesn't see my spare tire or stretch marks, and he doesn't see my sagging, former muscle mass.
In a nutshell, our society sucks. You know by now not to base your body off of magazines or cute little college girls you see skirting around with super thin long legs or the perfect little stomachs. Don't do that. I think it's great to acknowledge that other women have nice bodies--it's okay! You just have to know that you have a nice one, too. The problem is that we're subconsciously taught to hide ourselves THROUGH our body image obsession. We see our bodies, we see the flaws, the "NOW" compared to "THEN." But we don't REALLY see our bodies. We see what we want our bodies to be. So we hide the reality that our crooked tooth or pointy ears or large forehead is actually a really cool character mark.
I am also very obsessed with Greek/Roman art. They were OBSESSED with naked bodies because bodies were beautiful and exotic to them. They saw beyond the sex--bodies are beautiful, complicated things; they're mysterious even when they're exposed. And sometimes, I think we really have to see bodies in a perspective that God would see them: they are beautiful because they are his. He gave me my man-size hands and boy-body frame. He gave me my tiny elf-like ears and my freckles. And at this point, I'm really appreciating those because it separates me from the next made-over beauty queen...and honestly, those beautiful girls have just as many body image issues as we do.
I'm sorry this is HUGELY long. I really hope I've helped some without being cheesy. I hate cheesy Christian stuff, girl. It's not my style. ANYWAY, I can't wait to see you again--we should play guitar and ukulele together: how fun would that be?!
OH AND please feel free to call or text me any time, okay? For real. Sometimes I forget that I have a phone, so I may temporarily lose it and not answer, but I will FO SHO call you back. I love you! Here's a technological Mama-hug. :) Have a great weekend, deary.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Lenting Up
So a certain pastor at church kicked my butt last night and it was awesome! I mean yeah, I guess I needed to hear the "sinner" thing, but as little as I felt, I also felt very re-assured in my current reconstruction of beliefs. I hate Lent season because people give up selfish, silly things.
A couple of years ago, I gave up desserts and eating after 8pm. I was also on WeightWatchers and lost a lot of weight in about 2 months. It was effective for a diet, but let me just say...
God does not CARE if we are ten pounds lighter by Easter, people.
Okay, venting is over. Now I will speak constructively.
-I was really upset last night after church. I had this clumpy cross on my forehead that didn't really resemble a cross--It was more of a line. Two chunks of ashy charcoaliness that I touched up in the bathroom to spread the dust into a definitive cross. But I wasn't upset because the poor pastor dude messed up the cross; I was upset because people had all these great ideas of what they were sacrificing for 40 days and I had no idea.
Everything I thought of had a bit of a selfish turn to it. If chocolate was my alternative to praying, I would give it up. But it's not. Cokes don't prevent me from worshipping, ice cream doesn't keep me from reading el Bible.
-Then I started thinking about service. About those who need to bed fed, clothed, nurtured, and loved. Those who need relationships or reassurance.
--So here's my self-proposal. I want to give up one item that I own per day of Lent. So today I'm giving up a shirt. Tomorrow, a pair of jeans, the next day, a pair of shoes, the next, maybe a can of soup. By the end of the 40 days (or maybe weekly, depending on what I give up,) I will disperse of the stuff as necessary. So one week I could do a personal food drive, the next I could do a clothing drive, etc. But I don't want to limit myself to that.
--I want stop giving up things, you know? I need to stop giving up on people, on plans, on God, on friends, on writing.
--So when I get off work in 25 minutes, I am helping myself to a nice bowl of Orange Scream Ice Cream and I am gonna raid my closet.
A couple of years ago, I gave up desserts and eating after 8pm. I was also on WeightWatchers and lost a lot of weight in about 2 months. It was effective for a diet, but let me just say...
God does not CARE if we are ten pounds lighter by Easter, people.
Okay, venting is over. Now I will speak constructively.
-I was really upset last night after church. I had this clumpy cross on my forehead that didn't really resemble a cross--It was more of a line. Two chunks of ashy charcoaliness that I touched up in the bathroom to spread the dust into a definitive cross. But I wasn't upset because the poor pastor dude messed up the cross; I was upset because people had all these great ideas of what they were sacrificing for 40 days and I had no idea.
Everything I thought of had a bit of a selfish turn to it. If chocolate was my alternative to praying, I would give it up. But it's not. Cokes don't prevent me from worshipping, ice cream doesn't keep me from reading el Bible.
-Then I started thinking about service. About those who need to bed fed, clothed, nurtured, and loved. Those who need relationships or reassurance.
--So here's my self-proposal. I want to give up one item that I own per day of Lent. So today I'm giving up a shirt. Tomorrow, a pair of jeans, the next day, a pair of shoes, the next, maybe a can of soup. By the end of the 40 days (or maybe weekly, depending on what I give up,) I will disperse of the stuff as necessary. So one week I could do a personal food drive, the next I could do a clothing drive, etc. But I don't want to limit myself to that.
--I want stop giving up things, you know? I need to stop giving up on people, on plans, on God, on friends, on writing.
--So when I get off work in 25 minutes, I am helping myself to a nice bowl of Orange Scream Ice Cream and I am gonna raid my closet.
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