Monday, September 11, 2017

Listen to Your Gut

And by "your gut," I mean MY gut.  I've advocated frequently in the past for listening to your body, your "gut" and what it's trying to tell you about (possibly dangerous) people.  And I was recently slapped in the face by the Universe with not one, but two reminders to take my own damn advice.

Reminder #1:  If It Feels Awkward, It's Because It Is

Friendships shouldn't feel awkward.  If you continually feel awkward around a person or get a "weird vibe" from them, a second glance should be taken at said friendship.  Sometimes it can be hard because you'll tell yourself it's just in your imagination or even "Well, maybe s/he is just an awkward person."  Listen to your gut.  Even if the latter is true, you will eventually find a rhythm with that friend, and things won't be awkward.

Unless they are.

In which case, look for the patterns.  Dammit, Leonard, you're an analyst by trade!  You should have seen this sooner.  But just like in my day job, sometimes it's hard to see the larger patterns at work when you're up close and personal with the data.  Ya gotta back up a bit.

Patterns in no particular order include:  walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting said person, the giving of unwanted gifts, randomly showing up to a person's appointments and things (unannounced), continually having to defend said friendship as not being inappropriate or "that way."

There's wearing your heart on your sleeve, and then there's obsession with people.  And each obsession follows the same steps and same patterns above, lather rinse repeat.  There's having a friend with whom you can talk and discuss things, and then there's using a person as your personal (verbal) punching bag.  It took me five fucking years to realize this particular pattern and lesson, despite the awkwardness and despite my gut.

Reminder #2:  If It Sounds Fishy, It Probably Is

Caution should be taken when entering into business arrangements of any kind -- even businesses with friends and acquaintances, even business ventures that don't require any money from you.  I've realized that I tend to take most things at face value until proven otherwise.  But when you keep asking for data, for answers, for things to be accomplished, for months at a time, and it's a continual delay and/or lip service, Leonard is out.  I wouldn't put up with that during my day job or any of my other business dealings, why would I take it from an acquaintance?

And that's just it -- an acquaintance.  I had to step back and realize "I've only known said individual for X number of months."  Friends, those I've known for years, are deserving of some faith, some "benefit of the doubt"; they've earned some good will and a little free work (my time).  But even after that time has passed, I would expect results from them.

People who I have known for less than a year, I need to start asking for proof up front.  And sometimes when starting a project from the ground up, that "proof" won't be there.  And that's okay; that just means that I'm not meant to be part of the "ground-up" team.  Call me when you have data, answers, contact information, receipts, a functional website.

And again, look for the patterns:  continual removing and/or replacing of people.  The same or similar answers in response to "Where is this thing?"  Walking on eggshells, uneven temperament, extreme reactions to nearly everything.  None of those are ideal characteristics when trying to run a business, a foundation, or start a program from the ground up.

And frankly no one project is worth my feeling sick to my stomach every time I check my e-mail, wondering what fiasco, drama, or temper tantrum is awaiting.

Conclusion:

Some of this is on me.  I don't consider myself a gullible person (but what gullible person does?).  I'm a cynic, a skeptic, and an irritatingly rational person well-versed in the art of rhetoric.  I need that healthy dose of skepticism at the start of a project (or friendship), not later, when I'm waiting to be proved wrong.  A little less good will and a lot more "please provide your references."  I need to speak up louder when I begin questioning things and when I disagree and to not feel bad about doing so.

And, as always, I need to listen to my gut.  It hasn't been wrong yet.

Comic by The Awkward Yeti

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Regarding Charlottesville

From my Facebook page (and too long to share on Twitter):

CAN'T.


There are not "good people" on "both sides." There are Nazis/white supremacists (bad) and everyone else (not bad).

This is not about "erasing history" or "heritage" or some such bullshit. We still remember the horror of the Holocaust, but we don't do it by putting up statues of Hitler.

This is not new; it's just "new" to some of us who haven't been experiencing it our entire lives.
Black Lives Matter is neither a hate group nor a terrorist organization. Gun-toting, radical Christian, straight white men, however, are.

This country was founded on the backs of non-white people, of slaves, and of indigenous people. We did that. Us. And it was awful. And people of all colors still feel the reverberations of those actions; as a white woman I benefit because I don't have to fear for my life when encountering the police because I'm just "a harmless white woman." My black and brown friends do NOT benefit from it in a myriad of ways (institutionalized racism, the U.S. prison system, redlining of neighborhoods, just to name a few).

The only way to ever truly move forward is to acknowledge that we did horrible, unspeakable things without "justification" or "qualification." WE DID THEM. IT WAS HORRIBLE. And spend the rest of our time DOING AND BEING BETTER.


Not up for discussion, bitches.

Also, educate your fucking selves by reading this .  If you somehow cannot take the time to read the entire thing, at least look at the timeline as the pattern is pretty fucking clear.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

American Godz on Starz

When it was announced that Neil Gaiman's American Gods was being made into a television show and a good portion of my Twitter went wild, I decided I should read the book (before watching the show, of course, like a good doobie).  When Tom + Lorenzo started posting their reviews and I would catch a glimpse of a costume in their thumbnails, I thought, Now I really need to read this.  And then, eventually, I really need to finish this book.


~Spoilers Follow;  You've Been Warned~

It was a beast of a book to read.  And I'm still not entirely sure why.  Yes, it's 600-some pages long, but I've read longer.  Yes, it deals with a lot of mythology, but hello, Tolkien nerd here.  If I had to try to verbalize (in bullet-point fashion, of course), why getting through this book sometimes seemed onerous, I'd say:
  • Non-linear timelines
  • Non-tangential tangents/storylines
  • A lot of dusty, back road travelling
  • Some tough visualizations (mostly with the coin tricks, but I eventually had to accept that my spatial recognition is sub-part at best and just move on)
Some of those may seem odd (especially the travelling bit), so let me explain.  American Gods the novel is very interior; it is almost entirely Shadow's story with a lot of important pieces taking place entirely in Shadow's memory and/or subconscious.  American Gods the novel is also a literal journey (not just the figurative hero's quest, which it also is); Gaiman does a good job conveying the sense of wandering and sometimes isolation/desolation when traveling the dirt roads of the Midwest and other places.  For someone who doesn't enjoy that sensation (one too many road trips in Midwest growing up), that can be a bit headache-inducing.

There were some points that left me hanging and some things that I just didn't "get."  Many of the "non-tangential tangents" are simply there to show how the old gods came to America.  And that's it.  They are part of a larger tapestry, but on their own, they're sometimes just loose threads.

But I finished it nonetheless and wasn't entirely dissatisfied with the process.  And then my Unit and I started to watch the first season of the television adaptation via Starz.  And damn.

Shit just got real, as they say.

I could write an entire paper on the opening credit sequence alone.  The visualization and symbols used are amazing and intense and I have yet to get tired of watching it.  It's even been nominated for an Emmy (did you know there's a category for opening credits?  I didn't.).

I had read on Twitter from Gaiman himself that:
  • Season 1 ends at House on the Rock
  • Some things happen out of order
I remembered getting to House on the Rock in the book, and I thought Wow, it takes an entire season to get there?

And then shit got even real-ER.  As in there is a veritable shit-ton of stuff happening in this series that simply does not exist in the book.  A friend said, "Oh, so they're expanding the shit out of it?" but I'm still not convinced "expand" is even the right word.  More like "created mythologies to go along with the other mythologies [that Gaiman invented to go with existing mythologies]."  Are you confused yet?  Good.  

First and foremost, Gillian Anderson is a goddess.  Watching her as Media in these different representations is a fucking master class on acting.  She's amazing.  She's never quite doing an "impression" of the famous person/character, but she is unmistakably them and also herself as Media.  And here's where we differ from the books.  Media talks to Shadow as Lucy ("Hey, you wanna see Lucy's tits?") from I Love Lucy, that's there (and awesome).  But then, THEN, THEN Media shows up as:
  • David Bowie (in his blue "Life on Mars" suit)
  • Marilyn Monroe (white dress from Seven Year Itch, complete with wind effects;skirt-blowing)
  • Judy Garland (in her final costume from Easter Parade, complete with a dancing Fred Astaire, of sorts)

It's brilliant and makes me think, Why didn't Gaiman do that?  In fact, I find myself asking that a lot whilst watching.  But more on that later.  Watching Anderson in American Gods is worth the price admission, period.  Any other faults, supposed or real, are washed away.

Another major difference is the treatment of Laura (a.k.a. "dead wife"), as in, she actually gets one.  There's little background to Laura in the book, and I was fine with that.  In fact, I am strongly disliking this extra treatment of her in the series.  I'm not sure if it's the actress or the character, but I am so over her.  Shadow could do so much better than her.  Her initial boredom with life, her treatment of him -- she has few redeeming qualities.  I think I'd rather know nothing about her than know that she really is a horrible human being (dead or alive).  The book offers a small bit of redemption for her, and that was all we needed.  I also appreciated the fact that in the novel she only sporadically showed up to Shadow; we have way too much Laura in this visual version.  It also doesn't help that they cast an actress whose nude body looks like a 12-year-old child, therefore making all of her nude work and sexual interactions really, really uncomfortable.  Eww.

On the positive side, in this incarnation, more Laura means more Mad Sweeney!  Yay!  I am really enjoying Pablo Schreiber's performance; you could have fooled me that he's not actually Irish.  And his IMDb.com headshot makes him look like a psychopath; I think I prefer his Mad Sweeney look.  But I often wondered about Mad Sweeney and the coin (with regards to the book); maybe I just wanted things spelled out for me more.  At any rate, him saying, "She's a lepre-cunt" made me LOL.

More thoughts, Leonard's patented (not really) bullet-point style:

  • Ricky Whittle is a STUNNING man and does very solid work as Shadow Moon
  • Ian McShane does some darn good work as Mr. Wednesday, too.  Not quite the casting coup as Gillian Anderson, in my opinion, but a close runner-up.
  • Hey look, it's Cloris Leachman!
  • "Vulcan."  I see what you did there.  (That entire episode is not in the book, nor are any swords, but I enjoy Corbin Bernsen, so I'll let it slide.  Plus the gun commentary is timely, appropriate, and terrifying.  P.S.  Did you know a Psych movie is coming??)
Unfortunately, I call bullshit on the casting of Kristin Chenoweth as Easter/Aostara.  Yes, she's adorable and should probably always dress in pastels and be surrounded by bunnies.  But in the novel, Shadow specifically uses the word voluptuous to describe Easter.  Despite her many other qualities, wee Chenoweth is decidedly not voluptuous.  It's important because Easter represents life, fertility, the bountiful plenitude of spring and harvests.  She should practically be bursting with womanhood.  They should have cast Christina Hendricks (a.k.a. Joan from Mad Men) as Easter.  Or, y'know, me.  But whatever.

I can see a bit why Hendricks may have scared them off; she plays a lot of strong characters.  They would have missed the adorable "cuteness" of Chenoweth's candy-colored extravaganza.  They would have missed the (cheap?) joke of her getting upset at her own swearing.  I know Hendricks can play sweet and girlie because I've seen Firefly, but I can see that thought process against using her.  Nonetheless, her body type (not to mention her acting chops!) is what Easter requires.

Other changes (really without commentary):

  • Laura interacting with Audrey post-death
  • Ibis and Jacquel sewing Laura back up
  • Mr. Nancy sewing Easter suits for Shadow and Wednesday
  • More of Salim (who is still looking for his Ifrit-lover).
  • Bilquis' back story.
  • Bilquis interacting with Technology Boy
  • Wednesday and Shadow getting caught, arrested, and then an entire police station of workers murdered.
  • Easter joining "the fight."
  • Taking back the Spring.

Continually comparing the show to the book is not necessarily an exercise in futility but not always helpful either.  Sometimes it is just comparison for comparison's sake with no real purpose (English teacher habits die hard).  Having read the book helps point me in the right direction, but (and my English teacher self cringes typing this) I don't think it's all that necessary in order to watch and enjoy the television adaptation.

I've read this far; where the fuck are the pics, Leonard?


I couldn't possibly do them justice, friends.  Do yourself a favor and go read TLo's breakdown and costume analyses of each episode (which is what I'm going to do in a hot second).  They go episode by episode and are therefore much more in-depth than Leonard is here.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Armada (Book Review)

ArmadaArmada by Ernest Cline
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

First things first: is it as good as Ready Player One? That's kind of a loaded question. I can answer it by saying this is different from Ready Player One. While still definitely science fiction, Armada is firmly rooted in the present (well, 2015, when it was published), whereas Ready Player One exists in a mythical near-future. If you like your sci-fi farther away than the here and now, then no, you probably won't enjoy Armada as much as you enjoyed Ready Player One.

Putting Armada in the "real world" (so to speak) does allow for some great additional pop culture references that wouldn't have otherwise made it in. Pop culture and geeky stuff is one of the things Ernest Cline excels at, so he's doing us all a favor by adding some more. Where Ready Player One had a heavy 80s nostalgia going on, Armada gives us that, some mid-70s nostalgia like Star Wars, and then some more contemporary stuff like Firefly and Battlestar Galactica, plus some additional genres -- meaning, we're not just dealing with video game-type nostalgia here, we're dealing with science fiction across movies and games, alien invasions like Close Encounters, Contact, and (of course) Independence Day.

Armada is pretty action-oriented; indeed, most of the major plot events take place over the course of just a few hours, rather days or months. Additionally, if it's hard for you to visualize some things like spaceship cockpits, aerial maneuvers, and fighting techniques (like it is for me), you may start to glaze over (like I did) when Cline's text gets weighed down by his own technical prowess. Even so, I didn't stop reading (finished it in 3 days).

Other possible "cons" -- yes, it is a coming of age story of sorts. So if you don't like reading about teenage white boys attempting to figure out life, you won't like this; thankfully, that aspect is neither forced nor the focus of the story, otherwise my patience would have been spent. And it's definitely a story with some "daddy issues," which Cline's protagonist calls out right away. In fact, he acknowledges a couple of tropes right out of the gate, and some of them even get subverted a bit, which I always appreciate. But "daddy issues" also have their place of honor in most sci-fi canons, so it's not out of place in Armada either.

Last but not least, these are teenage boys, and they speak like teenage boys, most of which I found both realistic and pretty amusing. And possibly indicative that I might also speak like a teenage boy.

View all my reviews

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

One Year

My Unit and I enjoyed a nice, relatively quiet 4th of July yesterday.  We worked on the house, going through the pile of items my parents brought with them 3 weeks ago ("you might need it!").  That took a couple of hours, complete with smoke/drink breaks.  We tried (semi-successfully) to use our new charcoal grill (note to self:  I am far too impatient for this charcoal nonsense; I miss my gas grill).

There were loud booms of fireworks, but it was so incredibly different from the city.  Instead of a barrage of sounds for three days straight, at all times of day and night, things mostly started after 8 p.m.  And yes, they were loud -- bigger, more professional grade pyrotechnics -- but also farther away.  No one was shooting them right outside our house or in the dumpster in the alley.  Our dogs didn't like the noises, of course, but it was much more manageable.  Not the 75+ pounds of shaking, panting dogs like before.  That was a nice change.

And now it's July 5th.  I'm back at work.  And it's been one year.  Sometime during this day, one year ago, you went ahead and decided to pull the trigger.  Literally.  I don't know if it was during the morning (those are hardest for me) or during the night (those were hardest for you) or sometime in between, when you crawled into your bathtub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and put a pistol in your mouth.  Pulling the curtain closed was so you; it minimized the mess for those who had to clean up afterward.  Considerate to the very end.  They told me you even left your laptop and cell phone on the office desk, passwords and things all organized and easily accessible.  This was no rash act; you had planned.

I wouldn't find any of this out until late at night on the 6th.  I had gone to bed ridiculously early because I was worn out from a doctor's appointment and blood draw earlier in the day.  My phone kept going off, so finally, by around 10:30 p.m. I said, "What?!??" to my phone and looked at it.  Looked at the flood of messages.  "Do you know yet?"
"Are you okay?"
"Oh my God."

It took some scrolling to get to the heart of the matter, and I went cold with shock.  Then I had to go to the living room, wake my sleeping Unit on the couch, and in a state of half-asleep, tell her that you had killed yourself.  That you were gone.  And she cried out -- literally cried out -- "Noooo!" in a high-pitched tone that she rarely uses because it's completely unfiltered emotion, almost keening.

And I just sat on the bed and stared later while she cried.  "Why aren't you crying??" she asked me.  I couldn't.  Just shock.  I couldn't even mourn until the next afternoon (July 7th).  I made an emergency visit with my therapist and just sobbed on her couch.  "I don't know what to do with this!" I said.
And I didn't.
Sometimes I still don't.

I don't know how to handle the weight of this information, the raw emotional burden of this act of violence, of desperation, of finality.  Do I talk about it?  Do I hold it close?  "What am I supposed to do?" I kept saying over and over again.
I still don't know.

My therapist asked, in terms of "doing something," were there other people who might be affected that I might want to reach out to?  "Are any of your friends a suicide risk?"
"Well, according to the messages I've been getting, it's me," I said with a tearful laugh.  Gallows humor.

Thank you to the handful of people who texted me personally during the aftermath.  "Are you okay?" and "How are you doing?" are code for "checking in on you."  And I greatly appreciate it.  One of the major triggers for suicides is...other suicides.  So I know what you were doing, and I appreciate it more than I can adequately say.  You know who are you.

I am not the spokesperson for depression, mental health, and/or suicide attempts.  Not really.  It's a burden I bear relatively quietly; transparency is all good in theory, but I don't do it a lot of it in real life.  But it's here.  It's me.  Hello, my name is Leonard, and I'm mentally ill.

The evening of the 7th a handful of us closest would gather near, drink wine, and read over the statement to be released about your death.  And I cried reading it aloud, but I was so very grateful that it acknowledged everything that had happened.  It needed to be said aloud.

And then we heard the entire story, the process over three days of what had happened.  No gratuitous, gory details; just the facts, ma'am, hard, cold, horrible facts.  I needed to hear them.  I requested to know the details; I needed to know to make sense of it all, and GFB obliged.

There would be more crying; not quite as much drinking as I would have imagined.  And then, exactly one week later, a tree would destroy my house, nearly kill my Unit, and our lives would be uprooted and changed, again, forever.  Was that you?  I often wonder.  You knew how we felt about living in the city.

And another week after that, six of us would get covered in sweat and dirt and dust while completely cleaning out your apartment.

Sometimes it's like you're not really gone.  You still show up on m "On This Day" on Facebook:  your posts with jokes about grammar and cats and knitting.  I still remember your last text to me ("Fabulous job tonight, as always!  Thanks for all you do," after last year's theatre crawl).  And I swear, I could have rounded the corner into the office next to the dressing room just the other week and found you there, typing away.  But you weren't.

I said hello to you anyway, just in case.

One year.  525,600 minutes (thanks for counting, Rent!).  I don't have anything profound to say.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Playing Possum

Last night, I came directly home after the show because I was hot and tired and in pain.  I was just going to take the dogs out and then go to bed, no excitement.....EXCEPT

...within seconds of being outside, Dogzilla has something in her mouth; 2 seconds after that, the circus dog wants in on the action.  I yell at her, which just makes her play with it more.  There's no squeaking or anything, so maybe it's not an animal?  (Or maybe it's already dead.)

I approach her slowly because if you run at her, she'll just run across our gianormous yard (with thing still in her mouth), thinking it's a game.  As soon as I'm within arm's length, I grab her collar, saying "Drop it."  But I can't see what "it" is (it's super dark outside at 10:30 p.m. in the county, y'all).  It's clear she's not going to leave it alone, so I prepare to drag/walk her inside by the collar.  Except she doesn't have her regular collar on (WTF?!?), something I failed to notice to before going outside.  So I lead her by the glow-in-dark LED collar we make them both wear at night (see above:  dark outside), but gingerly because

  1. said LED collar can slip right over her head and
  2. it's also a break-away collar
In fact, it DOES "break away," and so I grab her by the scruff with my cat-like reflexes so she can't run back to "i"t and then drag/walk 65+ pounds of dog back into the house, by her fur, with the circus dog running around my heels (his glow-in-the-dark collar still in tact).

I passive-aggressively wake up my sleeping Unit by saying loudly, "Rosie, where is your collar??"  A groggy, "Oh, it's in here" comes as a response.
"She found something in the yard," I announce.  "I don't know what it is," but I grab my phone and go outside to find out if it's still there or what.

My phone isn't giving enough light (and I deleted the flashlight app a long time ago), so I use the flash on the camera by snapping two quick pics revealing "it" to be....

a smallish possum.

Shit.

Back inside.  "It's a possum," I announce.  "Rosie killed a possum.  Or maybe it was already dead; I don't know."
Groggy mumbling in return.

And now I'm torn.  I don't want to go back outside, in the dark, and put the dead body in the trash can.  What if it's not really dead?  What if it's just, y'know, "playing possum"?  What if I try to grab it and it bites me??  And so I whine.  "Do I have to do it now?  I don't want to grab it in the dark!"

"But I don't know where it is!" is her rsponse, which translates into:  "I don't know what section of the yard to keep Dogzilla away from when I take her out at 4 a.m. because she will immediately try to 'play' with the dead animal again."
"And you're awake!" she adds (no translation necessary).

I sigh.  And find the one pink latex kitchen glove we have left (used the others in previous dead-body-tossings) and grab my phone and head back outside for a third time.  On my way out, I remember we do actually have a light for the back patio (duh!),  so I turn it on in an attempt to make things less icky/scary.

And then I grab a stick from the patio on my way to the possum.

Glove on one hand, stick and camera (using the flash on the "video" part now) in the other, I make my way back to the possum.  It's still there.  So I poke at it with a stick.

Nothing.

Poke.  Poke.

Still nothing.

Damn, it looks really gross.  Is it breathing?  I can't tell.  What if it bites me?!?!
Oh God.

And randomly, Damn, its tail is tail is a lot longer than I thought it would be.

Still using the phone for a light and keeping the stick for "self-defense," I very slowly pick up the possum's limp, furry body with my gloved hand.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

Nothing happens, but the possum is bigger than my hand.  So it's not a baby.  Maybe a teenaged possum?  (In its defense, Leonard does have delicate, lady-like hands.)

I'm standing, possum in one (gloved) hand, phone and stick in the other (non-gloved) hand and I find myself at a (figurative) cross-road.  Do I put the possum in one of our trash bins, like we have previous dead animals?  Or do I dump it somewhere else?  What if it's not really dead and gets stuck in the trash bin?  What if it's not really dead but tossing it over the fence causes a concussion or internal hemorrhaging?  What if it IS dead, so who the fuck cares??  Trash bins are to the right; to the left is the edge of yard with a fence and a drainage ditch on the other side.  Fence/drainage ditch is closer -- decision made!

I do a weird quick walk/not run to the fence, furry body jiggling in hand and try to "gently" drop the possum over the fence.  And I wince.  "Sorry, possum!"
Then quickly go back the other direction to the trash bins to ditch my pink latex glove only to discover a giant spider web between trash can and house that I nearly walk into.  Jesus!

Glove gone, go back inside.  Except I still have to take Dogzilla back outside to pee because she didn't do that the first time around.  Fuck.  She, of course, inspects the area where the artist formerly known as a possum was hanging out, not believing me as I say repeatedly, "It's gone, Rosie."  We come back inside for the fourth and final time.

I wash my hands, put on pj's, and then -- convinced that I'm going to have nightmares about possums -- look up on my phone (whilst lying in bed) how to tell if possums are really dead or just "playing" dead.

90% sure said possum was just "playing" dead (thanks, Interwebs!).

Update from this morning:  possum is no longer in the ditch.  Either s/he "woke up" and left or some other, larger animal ate it.

Last but not least, this all reminds me of a bit of perfect casting:  William Shatner as the father possum in Over the Hedge.  He does a Shakespearean-esque death monologue except
he. does it. in. the Shat. ner. style.


Fucking brilliant.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Halls of Terror

My Unit and I were having an ongoing conversation regarding closing doors.  She had mentioned the other night that the closet door was continually ajar when she'd use the bathroom in the morning; meaning, that I had not quite closed the door the entire way (which is entirely possible).  I made a mental note of it, but apparently was still not completely closing the door because yesterday evening she mentioned it again.  I didn't even remember using the bathroom closet, let alone not quite closing the door.

My Unit brought up the fact that I don't quite close the bathroom door (completely) either (also true).  It's often ajar because otherwise our animals will bang on the outside of it, desperately trying to save me from the shower, the bathtub, or the need to poop.  Please keep in mind that all of these conversations were light-hearted on my Unit's end and really no big deal, but suddenly it all came rushing back:  the hallway in the house on Tompkins Drive.

Apparently I've always had an issue closing doors "properly," as I informed my Unit.  I demonstrated on our bathroom door, pulling it closed until it clicked.  "This way is apparently 'too loud,'" I explained.  Because my psychotic step-mother once punished me by making me close all the doors up and down that hallway by turning the handle, then gently pulling the doors closed (still making sure they [quietly] clicked) because I just pulled them closed.  And that was wrong.  And "too loud."

Once I had closed all of the doors "properly" I had to go open them all again in order to repeat the process until I "got it right."  That hallway had doors to:
  • the bathroom
  • the linen closet
  • the master bedroom
  • my bedroom
  • my brother's bedroom
  • my sister's bedroom
That's six doors.   Approximately 20 feet, one-way. Six doors closed and opened and closed and opened and closed ("the right way"), lather rinse repeat, I don't know how many times.  Three?  Ten?  40 feet "round-trip." And I was probably all of 8 or 9 at the time.

And then there was the time I ran down that same hallway to my bedroom at the end, desperately hoping to outrun said psychotic stepmonster who was coming to spank me.  I got to my room, slammed the door, and looked around, panicked, wishing I was big enough and strong enough to push furniture in front of the door.  She found me anyway and spanked me so hard I peed on myself, while crying.  Age 10?  11?

Or the time -- maybe it was the same time? -- she chased me up the same hallway, calling me "a little bitch."



So yeah, I often don't close doors all the way.

(Not our actual hallway)