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My brother and I had a combative relationship growing up. Having only one (generally exhausted) parent around to dole out the attention probably contributed to the competitive undertone. We’d be home alone afterschool and he’d beat the snot out of me and my mom would come home from work and I’d be crying and telling her what he’d done and she would sigh wearily and opine that she did not want to be a referee, and his behaviour would go unchecked.
When we got older, we started to appreciate the shared sly sense of humour of the Introvert Family a little bit. When he moved out to go to university, most of the tension evaporated and was even replaced by a sense of camaraderie.
In our 20s and 30s, our lives, interests and values took divergent paths. He married right out of university, bought a house in the suburbs, had two kids, a couple dogs, was a leader at the Cub Scouts and an usher at the church, and developed into a conservative family man. I moved to the city, divorced early, did not have children, lived in a series of basement apartments, worked for pittance in the non-profit theatre community, partied with artsies, cursed like a sailor, and espoused the more liberal politics of the urban dwellers I communed with.
During this period, I was happy enough to see him on holidays and occasionally trade an email. It bothered me that he showed no interest in my life. I always asked after his kids and would be treated to long stories of the mundane goings-on in his bedroom community. Any time I tentatively approached the idea of revealing a part of myself to him, I was met with uncomfortable, indifferent shrugs. It used to really bug (read: hurt) me but the older I got, the less I expected of him, and I came to appreciate his playful, if emotionally detached, means of communicating his affection for me.
On Sunday night, I had the most amazing conversation I’ve ever had with him. Alas, the cost for him was his marriage. When I answered, his voice was tearful and had a forced calm to it. He said he was “not so good”, and that his wife, the SHRILLSTER, was leaving him. For another man, no less. She met him in the fucking choir at church. Unreal. (If it weren’t my big brother I would laugh at the gossipy drama of it all.)
He was raw and emotional, in a way I have never experienced. I asked him if he wanted to talk, expecting the distance I’ve habitually received from him in the past, and he surprised me by elaborating on the situation, and on his anguish. He still loves her. (Why? Why?) He admits his mistake in not being more open and communicative about his feelings in the marriage. He had hoped that he would be afforded a chance to try and work thinks out, but I guess by the time the Shrillster got the nerve to talk about it (she was actually going to wait until NEXT SPRING, because my niece is in her last year of high school and she thought the timing would have been better, as if timing is ever good for this sort of news, but her lover’s wife found out about the affair and Shrillster knew she had to talk to my brother in case he had the news delivered to him by this woman) – anyway, when she told him about it, she was already mentally and emotionally prepared to leave him.
He is devastated. He left home to go to university, met her a week later, and they’ve been together ever since. She is all he’s ever known. Two years ago, he was downsized from the only job he ever held since finishing school. He’s been getting contract work as a travelling business consultant, but that has dried up with the recession, although he does occasionally get some project work. He called me from a hotel room in Buffalo, for god’s sake. Anyway, he lost his job, the nest is almost empty (my nephew is in his first year at university, and my niece will follow him next fall), and now his marriage of 20 years is ending.
I think he must feel as though he is anchorless, adrift in an uncertain and foreign existence that is ALL emotion, ALL the time. My heart is so full of compassion and empathy for him, for the kids, even for the Shrillster. I think he is totally unequipped emotionally to deal with this. I want to step in and feel it all for him but of course I can’t.
I never knew I could feel love like this for him. I’ll do anything to help him through this.
I don't know about y'all, but I have had about enough of the H1N1 insanity. Holy frickin JEEEEEZUZZ. The whole thing has felt like manufactured drama since about Week 2 of the "outbreak".
On Monday, the CBC website posted this picture of folks in Elmsdale, Nova Scotia (population: around 1600) lining up to get the H1N1 flu shot. Looks like the only people who didn't show up are the ones already sick in bed with the flu.
According to my buddy wikipedia, the average number of deaths per year in the US due to flu (between 1979 and 2001) was 41,400. To date, the number of deaths in North America due to the so-called swine flu (between April and November 4, 2009) is 1476.
Soooo, I'm just gonna go ahead and relax over this one.
Seriously, I think people would die of anxiety if they didn’t have a threat-of-death to be anxious over.
Are people using the word "humble" incorrectly, or am I just not getting their meaning?
Humble –adjective
not proud or arrogant; modest: to be humble although successful.
having a feeling of insignificance, inferiority, subservience, etc.: In the presence of so many world-famous writers I felt very humble.
low in rank, importance, status, quality, etc.; lowly: of humble origin; a humble home.
courteously respectful: In my humble opinion you are wrong.
low in height, level, etc.; small in size: a humble member of the galaxy.
–verb (used with object)
to lower in condition, importance, or dignity; abase.
to destroy the independence, power, or will of.
to make meek: to humble one's heart.
I am suspicious of people describing a moment as "humbling" when it is referring to some great honour or award being bestowed upon them. I find it hard to believe that, upon being told by your peers or a committee of educated observers that you have outperformed all others in your chosen field, your response is to feel insignificant and meek.
If someone wins an Academy Award or a Nobel Peace Prize and they say "I'm humbled by this" - well, wouldn't you think it would be the opposite? "My ego is really stoked, cha" would seem more appropriate, although social convention makes honesty inappropriate at such times.
I have often wondered about the profile question, "Most humbling moment" and the kind of stuff people post. Witnessing birth, experiencing death, getting one's heart broken. Here's one: "watching strangers weep". I guess I just don't see what's humbling about that. To me, watching strangers weep is something that stirs empathy for the human condition. Does it make me feel diminished in importance, or subservient in some way? No. I don't know.
Maybe I just don't really understand what it means to be humble. I don't get why it's included as a profile question. It seems designed to evoke pretentious, self-important reflections on Life, the Universe and Everything, devoid of any irony.(I chose to interpret it as "most humiliating moment" because it afforded a comedic opportunity...)
When I was writing my last blog, Called out at the ValuMart, I used the word "humbling" to describe the incident. I felt a little funny about it, but I really did feel humbled, as I have interpreted the word. I walk around thinking I'm the only one paying attention and using good manners and that all pedestrian conflicts are an affront to my superior moral position. Talk about arrogant. To be humbled is to be relieved of one's arrogance, I think.
But I was hesitant to use the word. Something about the act of describing oneself as "humbled" has the unintentional opposite effect, at least when I hear others describing themselves thusly.
Last night I was picking up a few groceries at the ValuMart when I had an unexpected and humbling altercation. I had my iPod on and I was wrapped up in myself, and I guess I was somewhat oblivious to other shoppers around me. A guy who wanted to get past me got close enough so that to me I felt sort of shoved, while he said, "Excuse me".
My reaction was to feel impatient, as I notice I often am when I am out in the world being a put-upon pedestrian. I was irritated that this guy couldn't just wait for me to get out of his way. So I muttered, "Jeez" under my breath. Except, with my iPod on, I guess I didn't realize how loud my voice was.
The guy turned around and confronted me. "Did you just Jeez me?" I didn't say anything, but I looked at him coldly. "I said excuse me," he said.
Feeling really defensive, I said, "Calm down" - I don't know, trying to belittle him for his reaction, I suppose. Obviously this did nothing to diffuse his anger. He pointed out again that he'd said excuse me and that I was the one who hadn't even been looking where I was going. This didn't make much sense to me as I'd been standing still looking at the shelf when he'd pushed past me, but I got his meaning, which was that I was not paying attention to my environment. Instead of acknowledging this, though, I continued to make things worse by saying, "Why should I?"
His eyes narrowed and he said, "I don't like your attitude," and walked away. As he moved on, I came up with a stunning retort that I wished I'd thought of a few seconds earlier. Feeling unjustly maligned, I muttered, "Shove-paster", possibly loud enough for him to hear, but I can't say for sure.
The thing is, this guy was not an asshole. I could tell when he made eye contact with me and called me out. He seemed like he was just genuinely disappointed in the lack of consideration and decorum of his fellow (wo)man. I wandered through the store trying to shake off my embarrassment and anger. I realized soon enough that I wasn't angry, I was humiliated. I had behaved badly and then worsely.
Impulsively, I turned around and headed in the direction I'd seen him go, and tracked him down at a checkout. He was just getting ready to pay when he looked up and we made eye contact. He looked away quickly, and I could tell he thought I'd come back to stir more shit. I tried to get his attention and the two women chatting in line behind him stopped talking and told him to look over at me.
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," I said. He was paying, it was busy, or I might have said more. "Bad day," I added. Which wasn't true. I wish that I'd said, "I was rude."
The guy said, "I'm sorry too" and I knew he meant it. He seemed like a decent person. I went back to my shopping, and found myself tearing up in the frozen food aisle. I was surprised by how emotionally I was reacting. Later I was telling the story to the Dawg on the phone, and trying to figure out why I was so triggered by the exchange. He said, "Because you were a fuckstick, and you got called out." Well, yeah.
I hate to think that I'm putting out that kind of energy into the world. Lots of times I'm impatient while I'm navigating the sidewalks behind slow people, people walking two abreast at a dawdling pace, folks who are standing around talking without moving over to the side, etc. They're enjoying their conversations, or their pace, which just happens to be slower than mine. I wonder how many of them have heard me "Jeez" them and walked off thinking what a jerk I am.
Probably won't stop me from being impatient in the future though.
A few days ago I was moved to comment on a FBK thread started by our girl LittleBeachDream. It wasn't because of something Beachie said; it was some guy of a libertarian bent who was dismissing the WHO's ranking of the US as #37 in (see awesome viral UTube video of regular dude Paul Hipp singing "We're # 37 - hat tip to LBD and others), dissing the Canadian health care system while he was at it. He finished by muttering about "Michael Moore's lies".
Well I didn't know the guy, but I felt like I needed to comment because frankly he pissed me off. But also, there is something so incendiary about the word "lies". I realize Michael Moore is an expert propagandist, and am happy to be on the same side of his causes but generally take his shtick with a grain of salt. But to call him a liar? I don't think so.
So I've been thinking about that word a lot the past couple days, and why it triggers me.
To me, a liar is someone who knowingly misleads people from the truth. But truth isn't always Truth, i.e. an absolute. Michael Moore is passionate about what he understands as truth. He presents evidence to support that truth. (Of course, it seems likely to me that Moore must have, at one time or another, accused people from the other side of lying, but... they prob'ly were.)
It bothers me when people use this term in debate. Whether it's Joe Wilson or an online clash of temperaments or anything in between. I think most people who argue passionately for their perspective believe that they are speaking truthfully of what they know. Lying seems like a sociopathic sort of tendency, when one has no sense of propriety or empathy to prevent them from knowingly convincing someone of an untruth.
Aside from the white lies that people tell to protect the feelings of others, or to make small, inconsequential gains for themselves, like the occasional healthy sick day, I think that most people do not knowingly lie to others. Really. I know, how very Susie Sunshine of me.
HOWEVER. I also think that most people lie to themselves on a regular basis in order to preserve their egos, which can be delicate and fragile if they are underdeveloped. Some of us are more dishonest than others. There are people who display themselves to be contradictory and hypocritical, and when this behaviour is pointed out to them, they do what they need to do to protect that tender little guy, by reinventing their understanding of the situation. For some it is a full time pre-occupation, tending these baby egos and protecting them from the many threats they encounter daily, and I think it must be very tough to be those people.
On that last bit I speak from experience and hopefully some narrow lead of hindsight. For sure there have been times when I've said one thing and done another; acted hypocritically. Those times aren't even all in the past. What I try to do to the best of my ability is be honest, first with myself, and then with whomever I am in conflict with. I try to be open to other people's perspective on my behaviour, and to check in with myself when I get called out. I hate to be called a liar. And, I find it very difficult to dialogue with people who lie to themselves.
Around a month ago I read an article in the lifestyle section of the paper that has thrown me into a state of paranoid wax build-up. The local otorhinolaryngologist suggested that the smallest thing you should be putting in your ear is your elbow. (Which, hello, is physically impossible Dr. Unpronounceable. Fnar fnar, you're hilarious.)
This concerned me, as I have long been a conscientious ear hygienist. I did some googling, as is my wont, [punch], and found out that this cheesy expression is something of a cliché in the ear, nose and throat community. Apparently it is a bad scene, sticking a Q-Tip in your ear to get at the wax. You can do a lot of damage to your ears in trying to clean them out, not the least of which is actually shoving the wax further inside your ear and creating a blockage. You're only supposed to clean the outside part of your ear, and let the wax buildup naturally work its way out of your ear on its own.
Well it was illuminating to learn this, but I mean, for fucksake, it's just one more thing, ya know? I mean, isn't it enough that I'm trying to kick aspartame? Now I have to walk around with itchy, icky inner ears?
I don't know about y'all, but I always thought the primary use of Q-Tips was to clean out your ears. I would be interested to see how they were marketed back in the day. (It seems like the Q-Tip brand and logo has barely changed at all from the look and feel of products in the 50s and 60s. Hey, maybe the Mad Men should get the Q-Tips account. I digress.) Why do I have this impression that they're for cleaning your ears? Is this not something that was part of the zeitgeist at one time or another? If you go to the Unilever brand website, the only thing they talk about as far as Q-Tip usage is concerned is make-up application. Which, fine, I'm sure they work just great for that, but I just know most people buy them to stick in their ears.
I'll admit, I haven't been able to completely kick the habit of sticking Q-Tips in my ears, even though I now know better. I've cut back from every other day or so to once a week, but it hasn't been easy.
A few days ago, a genial fellow name-a plagueofparadox (whose essence seems to have preceded his existence in this realm) posted a blog entitled [post 90297]. It was a nice blog, full of empathy for the strange existence of the worm, and I liked it. But it stirred memories of a longstanding unease I have had in the presence of worms. It dates back to a silly little story from my childhood, which somehow has been slotted into the category of mythologized experience, whose impact and significance grows and lengthens as one's shadow does in the passing daylight of a lifetime of illuminating hindsight.
I was five years old, maybe six. It was a warm summer day. Must have been a weekend, because my mom was home, not that weekends make a difference to a kid in the summer. It had been raining. Maybe a flash storm, the kind we get in this part of the country, where the skies darken and torrents of rain pour down and in a matter of minutes there are huge puddles everywhere. And then before you know it, the rain stops, the clouds roll away, and the sun is out again. The Dawg, born and raised in southern California, is amazed by this phenomenon. I take it for granted sometimes, but there's nothing like the smell after a flash storm, and the feeling of freedom that accompanies it.
With the rain gone away, we were released from our indoor prison. My brother, three years older, ran outside to continue whatever hijinx he'd been up to before the rain. I raced out after him, sensing he would know where to go, what to do, because he always did. Wherever he went, excitement and adventure was to be had, and I longed to be a part of his world.
He shook me off like an action star in a car chase scene and I was only 50 feet from the door when I realized I would never catch him. Glumly, I looked down at the sidewalk, and my disappointment was replaced with terror. I was completely surrounded.
In my haste to catch my brother, I'd neglected to don any footwear, and so my feet were naked and vulnerable. The worms were inching their way towards me, closing in, and there was no escape. I was paralyzed. I started bawling and hysterically screaming for my mommy. The living room window of our apartment overlooked the courtyard area where I was under siege, and since the window was open, my mother heard my cries and came to the window to find out what was wrong.
I was beside myself, utterly terrified. I couldn't move, for fear of stepping into the path of one of these slimy, sinister creatures. It seemed the worms had laid complete claim on the sidewalk. There was nowhere I could step to avoid them. I begged my mother to come and get me. I don't remember ever feeling as panic-stricken as I did that in that moment, but for whatever reason - fatigue, pre-occupation with a long list of housework, annoyance at such a silly, unfounded fear - my mother was unmoved. She told me to come back inside, and left the window, and I was abandoned to deal with my terror alone. When I think back to that moment, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of loss, of separation, of loneliness. I could not count on my mother to protect me any longer. I was alone.
Eventually (probably two minutes later), my brother's friend Evan, who'd most likely heard the racket I was making, along with the rest of the neighbourhood, arrived and piggybacked me back to the door. I have never forgotten his compassion, his lack of judgment at my ridiculousness. He saw my distress and rescued me from it, regardless of whether the threat I perceived was real or not. I want to say thank you to the Evans of the world, and hope that I have payed that kindness forward.
Not trying to centre anybody out or anything - this has happened to me SO MANY times since the FC crowd discovered FBK.
I appreciate the friend requests. It's great to have a network. Can y'all just include a little note that says, "Hey, you're Noisy right? I'm Smirnoff, from FC! Wanna be friends?"
It doesn't have to be verbatim. You don't even have to ask if I wanna be friends, since the redundancy most likely cancels out the colloquial politesse.
I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHO THE AYCHE EEE DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS YOU ARE!!! (Especially if your profile pic is not the same as the one you use here.)
Gosh time flies. Seems it was just 39-odd years ago that I took my first steps.
I wasn't nervous. Until that morning. I was getting my injured calf muscle worked on by my excellent physiotherapist, Mai. I mentioned that I was getting my first mammogram that afternoon. She said, "I hear they're painful". I frowned into the hole in the table. Really? "I heard they were just sort of uncomfortable," I said back.
I went home and wondered about it a little uncertainly. Well, I had the day off anyway. I smoked half a joint to calm my nerves and then set out for the CIBC Breast Centre. Seriously, the breast clinic has a bank as a title sponsor. See, Americans? No need to worry! Corporate interest is still being served, even in Red Canada. Just, chillax, smoke a joint, and accept single payer as the most efficient, most humane system. Nobody's gonna make you cue for bread or call each other "komrade".
So I get to the check-in, mildly hazed, and I recognize that the nurse at the station is wearing a pendant that the non-profit cancer fighters that I work for market as "the Thingamaboob" (pictured). I saw it and blurted out, "The Boobamajig!" The nurse looked slightly confused and then laughed and said, "Thingamaboob!" I laughed back and confessed I should know the name, I work for the cancer people. "They were originally gonna call it the Booble - like Google? - but then they found out it was already being used by a porn site," I blurted out. Because that's what I do when I'm stoned. The nurse laughed - the kind of surprised laugh when someone says something funny but unexpected, since it is marginally inapppropriate. I took my seat.
When I was called in, I was shown to the dressing room, where I faced my first challenge: the three-sleeved gown. I studied the pale pink (what else?) garment and tried to puzzle out why there were three holes in this thing. In the end I chose to stick my head in the middle hole. I reached behind me for the strings to tie the back closed, and there were none. Hmm, weird.
I went to the inside-waiting room (no men in here; it felt like a secret piece of life that only half of us can see) and sat down, a little bit unsettled by the fact my bare back was resting against the upholstery. Across from me, an older woman sat, looking agitated. She was wearing one of those really obvious old lady wigs. I always feel a little bad for the women I see wearing those things. But then I wonder if that's some sort of "condescension of youth" thing.
The woman was trying to catch my eye. "Just finishing up?" she asked. "No, I'm waiting to go in. My very first time," I added, like some kid all proud of riding the bus by herself for the first time.
The woman was unimpressed. She had a sour look on her face, and shifted uncomfortably. "Ow. OW! Geez, this hurts like hell," she muttered, glancing over at me in a bid for sympathy. "It's enough to give you cancer!"
"Wouldn't that be ironic," I said.
Not long after that, her doctor mercifully showed up to follow up with her, and I was called to the mammoroom.
The technician was a really warm, normal woman. She looked at me kindly and said, "Someone really should post some instructions for those gowns." Turns out the third arm hole is for... an ARM. To create a wrap-around effect so your backside isn't hanging out. Ah. Live and learn.
We got to business. They take four pictures, two of each breast. One fronty view and one sidesy view. I personally did not find it painful. They lift your boob up onto a ledge and then the technician maneuvers you around until she's got your whole boob mashed in there, then airlocks the sucker in. It's... uncomfortable. But she took the picture in 5 seconds, so whatever! No big whip. When we were finished, she showed me the x-ray up on a big screen. "That's my boob!" I said proudly, perhaps for the first time. It looked good in x-ray.
And that was it. In and out in 15 minutes! I felt good about living the brand with regard to the breast screening. Weird postscript: When I got home, I saw that I had an e-mail from the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation (whose signature fundraising event is the CIBC Run For the Cure in October - same title sponsor). I thought at first it was an e-mail from the Breast Centre.
Dear Noisy,
On behalf of the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation, we hope you and your family enjoy the last long weekend of summer! Happy Labour Day!
I swear I thought at first they were writing to say "on behalf of the Breast Centre, we hope you enjoyed your first mammogram". WEIRD! Then I realized I'm getting e-mails from CBCF because I sponsored our ghostly friend NotaRobot as he and his lovely N are part of a team doing the Run For the Cure in Vancouver this fall. (I believe you can pledge him too if you wish, via his Facebook profile.)
Well anyway. Another rite of passage survived and documented.
To link to this blog from blog posts/comments, use [blog Noisy_Introvert], from anywhere else use http://personals.westword.com/blog/Noisy_Introvert,
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