I'm Proud of You

or "Not My Love Language"

You know the 5 Love Languages, don't you?  In short, there are five basics ways we either express love or like to receive love.  They are, in no particular order:

• Physical Touch
• Gift Giving
• Acts of Service
• Quality Time
• Words of Affirmation

You can take a handy-dandy quiz to see how you view them or "what your love language is."  (There's also a book, but I've not read it; I just take the quiz every now and then to see if anything's changed.)  There is no right or wrong love language; it just makes it easier to communicate with your partner if you know the love expressions that are important to them (and vice-versa).  My top love languages are Physical Touch and Gift-Giving, FYI; the other three (Acts of Service, Quality Time, Words of Affirmation) all rank pretty low with me.

Now that that's out of the way, a story:

Last November, I was in rehearsal for a play, as I often.  We were getting close to opening night, and I had texted the boytoy, probably something like "headed home from rehearsal" or maybe even "working from today" or something similarly innocuous.  He texted back -- brace yourselves -- and I quote:  "I'm proud of you."

And reader, I was flabbergasted.  I was nearly speechless -- ME!  That's saying something.  Somewhere in there he also had written, "I know you've been working hard."

I was still mostly stuck on the "I'm proud of you" part, although the combination of the two statements had also given me heart palpitations.  It took me a moment or two verbalize what I was feeling and why I was so shocked.

1. It felt odd for him to be proud of me for doing something that I just do.  Theatre is my thing.  It's what I do.  And while I almost always work hard on whatever production I'm involved with, it isn't often hard for me to do (if that makes sense).
2. Has anyone ever told me they were proud of me for going to rehearsal/doing theatre like I do?  If they have, it was so long ago that I've forgotten it.

So for someone to acknowledge my hard work on what most people regard as "just as a hobby" shook my world a little bit, in a good way, especially when it's a vocation that takes up time I could be spending with him.  It was also a weird feeling because, like I said, Words of Affirmation isn't one of my love languages; in fact, it's probably rated the lowest for me because words are just that.  If you can't back them up with actions, I'm not interested.  But these words didn't feel all that empty, which was a pleasant surprise.

Since that day I've actually started saying "I'm proud of you!" more.  It's still a weird feeling, but in a different way.  But I like when people when they try to learn a new skill or continue to hone their craft or do major work on their mental health or make hard but mature decisions.  Those things should absolutely be encouraged and celebrated. 

I particularly like when people do things outside of their comfort zone; actually, I fucking love that, especially when it comes to working on our art.  I want to clap and cheer sometimes because I know what it feels like to do things that scare me.  And far too often actors/artists just start to rely on their usual "shtick" (whatever it may be) because it's comfortable and has been working tolerably well for so long, rather than pushing their own boundaries.  So I've changed my usual "Good for you!" or "Good on you!" (which I always meant sincerely) to "I'm proud of you!" (which I also mean) because all of the aforementioned things are rarely easy.

I haven't been saying to everyone because then it will possibly lose some meaning.  But all of this leads me to the thought that I may actually be becoming nicer....and that's a terrifying thought.
To quote Margo (The Magicians), "Don't you go accusing me of catching feelings!  It's insulting."

The Magicians - Almost a Review

The Magicians by Lev Grossman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I did not finish this book. I was curious as to how the written texts were different from the show (which I do watch as a guilty pleasure), but simply not curious enough to keep reading. I'm already bored with Quentin's near-constant teenage horniness for nearly every breathing female that crosses her path. I'm also surprised (don't know why) and depressed by the overwhelming whiteness; characters of color in the TV show are boring ol' Anglo-Saxons in the original text.
Frankly, it became too much work to keep reading, especially when I already know (or at least think I know) what major events are going to happen.

I will say one thing in its favor: author Lev Grossman nails on the head what depression often feels like with this one quote:

"Quentin knew he wasn’t happy. Why not? He had painstakingly assembled all the ingredients of happiness. He had performed all the necessary rituals, spoken the words, lit the candles, made the sacrifices. But happiness, like a disobedient spirit, refused to come."

For now, I'll still to indulging in the TV show as it isn't taxing, and I love Margo's swearing.

View all my reviews

Introspective Valentine's Day Post

I need to write this quickly before my feelings evaporate (I have them so rarely, you see).

Say what you will about Valentine's Day -- it's a made-up holiday, just commercialism, etc. -- I will agree with you.  I also agree that it can be fun if not taken too seriously.  I am also not used to celebrating it.

10.5 years with my former partner, and there were several reasons for the lack of celebrating:

1. Her birthday is also at the end of February
2. Her anniversary with her ex was apparently on Valentine's Day (poor planning, people!)
3. Our anniversary was in mid-December, and we usually didn't get to celebrate it until January or February (if then) due to her work.
4. We were often broke (according to her)

But we mostly said stuff like, "We're adults!  We don't need this stupid holiday!" or "Why spend money we don't have?" after giving each cards the first year or two of being together.  And that was it.  And, like our actual anniversary, it just fell by the wayside, not celebrated, not taking any extra time to appreciate each other, etc.

And that, friends, should always be a sign that things are not going that well.  It's not that Valentine's Day is a super important holiday; it's that if your partner isn't willing to take the time to think about you (on any given holiday or anniversary or at any time), that's problematic.  And it's possible to think about and appreciate your partner without spending a dime.

And that little bit of introspection (as the boytoy is, by all accounts, preparing to go overboard for our first V-Day together), sent me down a bit of a rabbit hole where I am amazed at the crap I put up with for 10.5 years.  Because it wasn't just Valentine's Day.  Or our anniversary.  Or Christmas.

Here's a story for you:

In 2015 I got a job outside of academia, a "real" office job, with a salary and benefits and vacation days.  And it paid about double (annually) what I had ever made as adjunct faculty.  So that was exciting.  So I decided, for my birthday that year, I wanted a tea party.  I had started a Silmarillion read along group, and hobbits love tea (and snacks), so I figured I would just invite those people and some others, not a big thing.

And this was a tea party at a specific place: a tea room here in the city which required a deposit for the party (because they provide tea and all the foods and the room, etc.).  So at first I inquired to see if there was any interest among my reading group and my nerdy friends because not everyone wants to (or can) pay around $20 a person for someone else's birthday.  I get that.  And I think I needed at least a dozen people (minimum reservation).

At any rate, it was going to cost me a couple hundred dollars for the deposit.  And my ex was pretty livid at the idea.  She saw it as a waste of money.  Even though we had extra money now because of my job and it was my birthday dammit; I wanted an actual party, something fun.  She eventually, begrudgingly, "allowed" me to spend the money and plan the tea party, all by myself.

And you know who didn't go to said tea party?  Her.  Because "she had to work."  It was on a Saturday afternoon, and while her job could schedule her to work on almost any day of the week, it's not like it was a last minute work day  Nor was it a last minute tea party; it was planned about a month in advance.

She could have asked off.

She could have said "I have to be done by noon" (or 2 p.m. or whatever fucking time the party was).

She could have made an effort.

But she didn't.  So I had my tea party (complete with fancy hats) and had a lovely time, despite everyone asking where my partner was and me saying, "Oh, she had to work."  No, she didn't have to; she chose to.  

And I put up with bullshit like that for the better part of ten and a half years.  Where I don't think I was ever a priority.  And I went along with it because I was trying to be an adult, because spending money and commercial things don't matter, because "it's just stuff," and "there will be other birthdays" or "other holidays" or what the fuck ever.

In my effort to be mature and to "not be a nag" I let myself also not be made to feel special or important or that someone was randomly thinking of me.  Don't let that happen to you, friends.  And definitely don't let it happen to you for a decade or more.

Toy Story 4 and Tarzan Syndrome

Gonna start at the ending and work my way backward.  So SPOILER ALERT!  If you've not yet seen the 4th installment of the Toy Story franchise, stop reading now.

Okay, you were warned.

Preface:  I knew almost nothing about this 4th Toy Story going in, except that Bo Peep was featured prominently, and that's about it.

When we got to the end, the very end (because, as usual, there are about four false endings as we have to wrap up the smaller storylines, too), when Woody decides to (gasp!) leave his child (Bonnie) to join up with Bo and her sheep, I said, "Whoa!  I didn't expect that!"

And the boytoy said, "Seriously, you didn't see that coming?"

And I had to stop and think for a moment because I'm usually very good at anticipating narrative arcs and supposed "plot twists"; it generally takes a lot for a movie's plot to actually surprise me.  I guess that comes from years of studying and teaching narratives and stories, but I digress.

I think I finally stumbled upon why Woody's decision came as a surprise to me:  because I was focused on Bo Peep.  I was so focused on her story with my inner monologue saying furiously, "Please don't let her rejoin them!  Please don't let her rejoin them!" that I really wasn't paying as much attention to the very obvious layout of Woody's track, including his need for a "purpose" and/or a kid to take care of (established in the very beginning of the film).

I was watching and waiting, hoping against hope that the writers wouldn't have Bo Peep rejoin the toy-kid-family, thereby negating her own personal journey in that way that happens to so many female characters.  I thought Woody would rejoin his family, leave Bo again in a bittersweet moment that showed that she couldn't just go back to her old life (and that was okay). So his move surprised me; plus, it's pretty out of character for Woody who is rather defined by his loyalty to tradition (hello, the plot to the whole first movie).

But Bo Peep's transformation from sweet love interest shepherdess to badass, staff-wielding adventurer also got me thinking, especially when I commented during the film, "Bo's gone feral!"  I shouldn't have said that; "feral" was definitely not the right word.  Instead I should have said, "Bo became a badass!" or even "Bo learned some survival skills!"  Bo is example of what I've decided to call Tarzan Syndrome.

Some things to note right off the bat:

• This shouldn't be confused with Tarzan syndrome for kittens (and why you should adopt more than one at a time), or really with any other actual psychological condition.  We're just talking literary analysis here, folks.
• I'm using Disney's 1999 animated film Tarzan as my base model.

Even if you've not seen the 1999 Disney movie (with music by Phil Collins!), you are hopefully familiar with Tarzan as a story/literary trope:  male human baby is abandoned in the jungle.  He is found by/adopted by/raised by gorillas in the wild and learns to communicate with them/behave like them.  By the time other humans stumble upon Tarzan, he speaks almost no English or other human language, but can interact with wild animals.  Basically, Tarzan is left alone in the wild, and by the time the outside world catches up with him, he has brand new bag of tricks and survival skills.  He's also an adult and somewhat respected leader in his (animal) community.

Bo Peep's transformation in Toy Story 4 is an example of this:  she was abandoned, left, or "lost."  And by the time we (the world at large) "find" her again, she has a whole new badass skill set, many of which seem alien or foreign (or "feral") to us, and she is also in a respected leadership role in her new community (of other lost and/or "wild" toys).

The main difference, though, between Bo and the actual Tarzan story is that we don't get to see Bo's transformation.  Tarzan's story is just that:  his story.  And the Toy Story franchises are generally Woody's (and sometimes Buzz's) stories.  Even in this movie where Bo is featured prominently, her transformation and journey are relegated to a brief flashback and some exposition.  We don't get to see it; we don't see her "origin story" (if you wanna put it superhero movie terms).

Bo Peep is just one in a list of "strong female characters" in (mostly) film that have Tarzan syndrome (patent pending).  Here's an incomplete/in-progress list that's been playing through my head:

• Janet Van Dyne (Michelle Pfeiffer) in Ant-Man and the Wasp (2018)
• Atlanna (Nicole Kidman) in Aquaman (2018)
• Princess Leia's transformation to General Organa is almost a contender for her inclusion on this list, but not quite as no one thought she was dead; time just passed, and we were presented with her new self in Episode VII.  She does (very briefly) have her time in "the wild."  It's called Endor, and the Ewoks are like tiny gorillas.
• Rey in Star Wars:  The Force Awakens is almost a Tarzan, except that we do get to witness her part of her story and transformation (which is why it's probably my favorite Star Wars movie, with Episode VIII in 2nd place).

Jodie Foster as Nell, Amy Acker as Fred in Angel, I would contend, are not Tarzans because they do not (initially) come back as bad-asses.  They come back (or are discovered) broken, for lack of a better word.  Fred eventually overcomes most of her trauma and becomes a functioning member of Team Angel (and then Illyria happens, but that's a different piece of analysis entirely).  I haven't watched Nell in I don't know how many years, so I can't comment on her outcome.

An argument could almost be made for Catwoman in 1992's Batman Returns (there's Michelle Pfeiffer again!), except there are too many slight perversions on the list of requirements to put her in the category (she isn't "lost"; she's pushed out a window; she doesn't learn a new skill set so much as get some supernatural cat reflexes and characteristics; we do see her transformation). 

One of the defining Tarzan Syndrome traits (since I've just decided that it's a thing) is that we don't get to see these women's transformations, and that's bad.  Sadly, most of these characters are relegated to the sidelines; their discovery and re-entrance into the world is a secondary (or even tertiary) storyline to the lead (usually cishet white male) character's story and development.  The women attain an almost mythical quality because they were gone (often presumed dead), and simply reappear, years later, as badasses.  When we do get to see their stories (female buildingsroman, anyone?), some of the mythos is lost because we can see it happening.  We get depth and details, and in exchange we lose a bit of mythical hero.  And I'm okay with that.  

We should be telling those stories, with their sweat and grit and hard fucking work (I mean, can you imagine the sheer trauma Janet Van Dyne endured living ALONE in the quantum realm for decades?!?!), and not just because those stories often involve awesome "getting ready" montages (I fucking love a good montage, and even not-so-good ones).  And we still get badasses when we tell the stories and see what went into creating the heroine we see:  please see Captain Marvel (2019), Wonder Woman (2017), Rey in Star Wars, and nearly every woman who has had to recreate herself after being abandoned.

Hard

This week has been hard; there's no two ways about it.  I've been feeling stressed, so my psoriasis is flared up (and I keep scratching it), and even my stomach has been hurting.  I've cried several times at work (mostly Monday and Tuesday) due to frustrations with my job and the person to whom I report (I don't do well when given contradicting instructions).

I feel like I'm running out of money; I have a deep-seated, never-before-admitted fear that purchasing the "penthouse" (my condo) was a mistake, that it was more than I can handle financially.  My sister was denied her disability by the judge, and the lawyer we hired (who only gets paid if my sister gets paid, BTW) has basically said that was her best chance.  So I really, really need her to get a job.  STAT.  But she doesn't really do anything "stat."  And that's going to be a problem as I continue to stress out.

I'm back to having hard mornings -- where it's hard to feel good about anything, where I feel like I generally hate everything.  Sure the season/lack of light doesn't help, but we're through the worst of it already, so I'm not sure that's entirely to blame.  But I miss those days when I was like, "Is this what it's like to feel happy?"

News and photos out of Australia are incredibly upsetting.  I've joined some crafting groups to make things to send for the animals, but between shipping costs, confusion over drop-off sites, regulations on what materials to use, and I think the Aussies have put a two-week hold on accepting donations, it just doesn't seem worth it right now.  They'd be better off with a monetary donation (which I don't really have).

I felt a surge of relief yesterday when I realized that it was actually Thursday.  I was somehow stuck in a Wednesday loop, that this hard week was lasting forever.  I was grateful it was Thursday.  But then Thursday itself lasted forever.  By 1 p.m. I couldn't believe it was only 1 p.m. as I had clearly had three full workdays in that time.  Time is a social construct.

As I get stressed, I find it hard to keep up with everyday things.  I haven't been logging my meals or steps in my fitness tracker; my weight is going back up.  I've barely remembered to log things in my ovulation tracker, which is all over the place as my body isn't sure what the fuck it's doing since I had my IUD removed.  Which could also explain some mood things, too.

In other words, it's Friday, it's not a payday, it's pouring down rain, and I really, really want to not do adult things for the next 24-72 hours.  Who's ready to hire a professional napper?  Because I am ready and available.

The Universe Is Cruel

The other day my sister was making one of our HelloFresh meals for dinner:  Mexican beef burrito bowls with poblano peppers.  I don't find poblanos to be all that spicy, but my sister does, and she dutifully washed her hands after cutting and handling the pepper.

Sometime later, she had to blow to her nose.  Now, I'm not exactly sure on the details, but she said the Kleenex "broke" while she was blowing, so I guess her bare finger ended up touching her nose?  Again, I'm not sure, but shortly after I found her laugh-crying in the kitchen about "hot peppers" holding a fingerful of yogurt up her nose.

And I laughed, too.  More "at" her than "with" her, especially as she still had one finger up her nose, trying to hold yogurt in place (no easy feat, I assure you).  I helpfully offered to remove most of the poblanos from her presence during the meal (by eating them).

A few days after this incident, I made our other HelloFresh meal:  one pot chili with pork and black beans.  Sidenote:  I've only ever made chili with beef, so this was an interesting change.  Oh, and the recipe involved one (singular) jalapeno: half of it minced into the chili, the other half in slices for "garnish."  And as my sister taught me (even before the poblano-yogurt incident), I was sure to thoroughly wash my hands after handling, cutting, slicing, and mincing the jalapeno.  And even after washing, I avoided touching my eyes, face, etc.

Later, a good twenty minutes later, as the chili had been simmering, but we hadn't yet eaten, I, too, had to blow my nose (my eyes had been watering when dicing the onion).  My Kleenex didn't break.  I'm not sure what happened, actually, but some of the jalapeno oil must have gotten somewhere, because a bit of my nose and my entire upper lip felt like they were on fire.

I washed my hands again.  I tried lightly washing my face (with cold water, to ease the burning), I applying some light, soothing lotion, I put on chapstick, but still the burning remained.  It wasn't awful; mostly just annoying, but my sister got a laugh out of it nonetheless.  I ate the chili (delicious), and moved on.

And then after that, maybe an hour later, I was sitting on my bed, playing on my phone, whilst the boytoy prepared to leave for a few hours.  I had an itch in...an unfortunate place...and, without thinking, reached down and lightly scratched said itch with my right index finger.

And within seconds I realized my mistake.

And I said, hoarsely, to the boytoy:  "I should not have done what I just did."
"What?"
And I explained, my eyes growing wide as my crotch was burning with the fire of a thousand jalapeno suns.

I stripped off everything I was wearing from the waist down and did a strange hopping-waddle-dance to the bathroom to get a washcloth and soak it with cool water.  I pressed the cool washcloth to my poor burning vajayjay, and it only partially eased the fire raging.
All the while the boytoy was torn between laughing at my antics and feeling bad for me:  "Ohhh, honey!"

Sniffling, I asked him to run to the kitchen, get a small ramekin from the drawer, and put -- you guessed it -- some yogurt in it.  While I continued to hop and apply the washcloth to my burning private parts.

I managed to text my sister (who was only in the living room, but I wasn't going anywhere, not having any pants on):

"The universe is cruel.  I just scratched myself in an unfortunate place and apparently still had jalapeno on my finger.
I want to die."

She responded in the only appropriate fashion:  with a GIF.


The boytoy brought me the requisite yogurt as I put a towel on my bed and prepared to lie down, apply the cultured balm, and suffer (somewhat dramatically).  The boytoy had to leave;  I had to call to my sister to lock the door after him as I wasn't going anywhere.

I texted her from across the penthouse one last time:

"I will be in my room until further notice."

While lying there with my yogurt-slathered crotch, I thought for a moment and then swiped a fresh smear some on my upper lip, too, as it was still burning.

I got your fucking spa treatment right here.

Resolutions Schmezolutions

New Year's, resolutions, yadda yadda yadda -- here's another chance to not suck!

Like I do most year, I'm resolving to write more.  But I prefer to call it a goal, rather than a "resolution."  (Words matter, y'all.)  Normally I'd be handwriting this particular tripe in my journal but (of all days), I left it at home (and I'm in the office).  So typey-typey it is!

I decided sometime late last year (heh) that continuing to review books and movies would be a good way to keep on writing.  So what did I do?  I started at least two (as yet unfinished) reviews, and I've read a third book that deserves a review that I cannot find the words to as it was simply too sublime (The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern, if you're wondering).  I've even gone back and read those unfinished drafts to see if they could jog my memory enough to finish 'em. Nope.

I really need to write reviews as soon as I've finished something, while everything is still fresh(ish) in my head.  As far as The Starless Sea is concerned, I also considered going back and just reading the parts I highlighted (thanks, Kindle!), mostly out of context, to see what that produces.  So far, nothing.  Not that it didn't trigger thoughts, just that I've been too lazy to write anything.  Bad Leonard, bad!

Also on my mind lately:  abuse, memoir writing, writing about abuse, repressed memories (particularly when they become unrepressed, which is apparently not a word), magical realism.

So that's what I've got goin' on.  2020, you'll be eventful, I'm sure.