A long time ago, while still living in Houston, until my mom got off work I would stay with a neighbor after school. Her name was Kay, and she had a daughter my age named Natalie. Natalie and I were good friends. From what I can remember we played pretty well together . Of course, we had some bumps in the road that was our friendship. One example would be when we made the suicide "you cut your hair first then I'll cut mine" pact. I said "okay!" and took the scissors with excitement. I grabbed a hand full of hair right at the forehead and cut it within an inch of my scalp. Yeah. I wasn't the brightest crayon in the box as a kid. As soon as the cut was made Natalie ran off exclaming "look what Angela did!". My mom's remedy was to cut the rest of my hair to match the new bangs I made for myself. It was awful. Needless to say, Natalie didn't keep her end of the bargain. She got to keep her pretty long locks of hair and I ended up looking like the son my dad never had.
Another bump in our friendship road was snack time. Every afternoon at the same time, Kay would lay out snacks on the counter for our enjoyment. Along with the various assortment of apple slices and animal crackers we would get juice. She would put out these solid colored plastic cups for us to choose from. There was the yellow cup, the blue cup, the green cup, and the highly coveted red cup. I loved red. It was my most favorite color ever...and pink. The problem was it was also Natalie's favorite color. As a result she always got to use the red cup. And I got stuck with the yucky dark blue plastic cup. Such horrible conditions I grew up in. It's a wonder I'm as successful as I am.
I don't how she would always beat me to the cups at snack time. One theory is I probably got distracted by the layout of food. To this day if there's an assortment of food laying out, and it's "all you can eat" I go directly to a happy place and all else in the world vanishes. So, as a note don't take me to a buffet if you need to have a serious conversation with me. I won't hear a word you're saying. Anyway, back to cup gate. I tried asking politely for a chance to use the red cup to no avail. I argued for the red cup, again to no avail. I begged for the red cup...she would have none of it. She was a stubborn little 6 year old punk. I tried to appeal to her mom, to which I got the crappy diplomatic answer, "She got here first, Angela. Whoever gets here first can have the cup they want. Next time maybe you can get it."
That's when I decided: if I had to lie, cheat, or steal...I would get to that red cup next snack time. And God help whoever got in my way. That night all I could think about was how to get to the kitchen before Natalie and get my hands on that cup. It would mean sacrificing getting the best animal crackers, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. I decided to scout out when Kay was laying out the snacks, and then I would tell Natalie I was going to the bathroom but instead I would hang out near the kitchen entrance. That way Natalie wouldn't be suspicious of me not being there at play time and I'd be right there for when her mom called out "time to eat!" It was the perfect plan. Almost too perfect.
The next day my stomach churned with anticipation. I couldn't concentrate at playdoe or Operation. Snack time could not come soon enough. I waited in agony. Finally, I saw Kay get up to head for the kitchen. This was it. This was what I had been planning for. Today was the day I would drink apple juice from the beautiful red cup I was born to drink apple juice from, and nothing was going to stop me.
I excused myself from Operation to go to the "restroom". Natalie didn't suspect a thing. I slowly walked towards the kitchen entrance. Right as I got there the snack call went out. The timing was perfect. I hurried into the kitchen and went straight for the red cup. I grasped it and I let out a great sigh of relief and joy. This was the moment I longed for for so long. Nothing could ruin it. Kay asked if I wanted apple juice. I gleefully shook my head yes and held out the red cup with excitement. I'm pretty sure the feeling I felt was like that of the underdog winning the gold at the Olympics. That's why I don't compete in sports...I already know what it's like to win the gold medal, therefore there's no need. It was the best feeling I had ever experienced in my lengthy six years of life. At that moment Natalie walked in and looked over the scene taking place in front of her. Her eyes locked onto the red cup and then they locked onto my eyes. She glared at me as I started sipping from the cup with a grin on my face.
"Mom, that's my cup! I always drink from that cup!" she yelled out. "Natalie, Angela got here first, so she gets to drink from whatever cup she wants." I looked at her and smiled my biggest "ha, in your face sucka" smile I had. She stomped over to the counter and filled her plate with the goodies provided. She then stomped over to where the cups were and glared even more harshly at the colors provided. The yellow cup was what she reluctantly chose. As she had her juice poured into the less desirable yellow cup she looked up at me with an evil grin. It was then that she said the words that would shake me to my core.
"Fine. You can have the red cup. Everyone knows that red is the color of the devil. You're drinking from a devil cup." I gasped in horror. I was devasted. This was before we became Southern Baptist. In fact, we were Unitarians at that time, where all you have to do to get into Heaven is be able to spell GOD. But, even then I knew the devil was bad news bears. I knew I wanted nothing to do with him and all the images he conjured up: flames, a pitch fork, pointy tail, a red jump suit with horns. I was shaken. This ruined everything. I couldn't even finish my juice. I had stayed up all night planning on this just to find out I was drinking from a devil cup! First the boy hair cut and now this. Devastation would be a understatement of what I was feeling. Snack time nor my friendship with Natalie would ever be the same.
So, fast forward a few years later when we moved to Arkansas. My mom and I were unloading Christmas decorations to get ready for the holiday season. As we were unpacking all the wreaths, ornaments, Avon decor, and such, I noticed the color red (and green) were the predominant colors. I asked my mom why there was so much red. She explained the symbolism of red and Jesus. At that moment I felt a huge weight lifted. Red, as a color of Jesus!?! Could it be true? Everyone knows that the exact opposite of the devil is Jesus. Everyone knows Jesus totally trumps Satan!! This brought true vindication to me drinking from the "devil cup". I hadn't drank from the devil cup...I had drank from the Jesus cup!!!
That's when a new plan came to mind. The next time I saw Natalie, the first words out of my mouth would be "Oh yeah? Well, red is a Christmas color!" That was it. That was my great comeback. Not even lying when I tell you I could not wait for the chance to say that to her. I had imagined saying it to her in front of a bunch of her friends and her looking defeated and no one hanging out with her anymore because of my well deserved victory over Red Cup Gate.
Well, I never got the chance. I never saw Natalie again.
There are three moral to be taken from this story. Yes. I realize it's a horrible story. But, that's why I tell it; to illustrate the following:
1. When telling a story that has a build up to a climax...it helps to have an actual climax.
2. If you're going to hold a grudge, make it a good one. "What? Your boyfriend cheated on you with your sister and then ran over one of your pets?" That is a good grudge to hold. A devil cup...not so much. I'm 32 years old and to this day when I hear the name 'Natalie' I make a fist with my hands in a James Cagney "why I oughta" kind of way. That can't be healthy.
3. I have horrible come backs. I mean there was like a five year period of time after the red cup incident that I came up with the "Christmas color" come back. That was the best I had. And the worst thing about it: I thought it was the wittiest thing ever. Wow. Horrible.
These days I resort to "yo momma" as come backs and chose to be done with it.
Um...yeah. That's the end.
I guess I should add a 4th: make sure to have a conclusion to a story.
Uhh...again...
The End.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Observations of a Broken Leg
The really horrible thing is this happened in the first year of my relationship with above stated 'manfriend'. I've never been athletic. This trait gets confused with being lazy. That's not what I am. I've always been willing to try new things, I've just never had an abundance of the opportunity. So, this was truly exciting for me.
Although the thought of skiing scared the hell out of me, somewhere deep down I really thought I'd be able to do it. There's absolutely no reason why I should naturally be good at snow skiing. I mean, you should have seen me at t'ball. I couldn't hit a ball resting on a tube, why the hell did I expect to be able to strap on long plastic thingys to my feet and hold onto two poles while I'm flying down a freaking a mountain and not have any problems whatsoever? But, reality tends to hit you in the face pretty hard. In my case, reality came in the form of a snow bank.
My leg still hurts to this day. That's why I'm up at 11:55 this Tuesday. The leg is killing me. As I type this, it seems really lame that a broken bone has had such an effect on my life. But, it has. I have this stigma now of not being able to follow through. He gave me instructions on how to ski, how to stop, and other such pointers. And although I tried, somehow it wasn't enough. I didn't listen well enough. I didn't follow through. Quite frankly, it pisses me off. I wanted to impress him so much (by the by, this was the second bone I've broken trying to impress a guy...be warned female tweens; it's not worth it). I wanted to impress myself. And, damned if I didn't fall. Every ache or discomfort I have with this leg is like a reminder of my clumsiness. It's a reminder that I took the fall for what was to be the perfect vacation....and two years later he would have that perfect vacation with someone else.
But, this is who I am. I fall. I fall alot. I run into things. I drop things. I tend to say stupid things. And I get to tell the funny stories about my clumsiness. For instance, I started working at Cold Water Creek two months after my "incident". I had quite the pimp limp at that time. Actually, to this day I still have a bit of a pimp limp...which I do love. I believe it gives me much street cred. My limp was very noticeable at the time I started working there. A year later I learned that all the ladies thought I was born with some kind of leg/muscle deformity and that's why they never asked about my limp. I think that's kind of funny.
There's a running joke that I'm half bionic on account of the steel rod. It's pretty fun making the "nanananananana" sound effects when moving it. I also was deemed the super hero name "The Compass". Because of the extra weight of the rod in my leg, if I tried to run fast I'd probably just go round and round in circles....hence "the Compass". So, I try. I try to make the constant ache of my leg remind me of the humor that is my life. I've been accused of overdoing the self-deprecating humor. But, again, this is who I am. I fall, I get hurt, I get really pissed and embarrassed, and then immediately I see how funny it all is.
While I was in the hospital, my 'manfriend' gave me a red notebook to keep as a travel journal. It has become a travel journal, a memo pad, a prayer journal, my dearest confidant. I'll be sure to burn it one day before I die. About two weeks after I got back I jotted down some thoughts about that trip and observations I made. I forgot I wrote these. They're three years old, but reading them made me feel a little better about my sleepless night and this dammed leg of mine:
Observations of a Broken Leg
12. Probably would have been wise to take a skiing lesson. No half Mexican raised in the South should believe they can ski on their own.
11. If I ever have any illness or accident that requires a hospital stay, I want it to be here. Home made blueberry pancakes are the best things ever.
10. I like Morphine.
9. Stairs and hill are the enemy, elevators are my heroes.
8. I can fall on show hard enough to break my femur at my hip and I won't get one single bruise; but heaven forbid someone lightly taps me on my arm and I'll have a bruise the size of Montana.
7. I have no upper body strength.
6. I'm too prideful. I'd rather go through a lot of trouble on my own than ask for help.
5. I have determination. I've pushed my self more in the two weeks after "the fall" than I have my whole life.
4. I'm nicer to complete strangers while in immense pain than I am to those closest to me on an ordinary day.
3. God's timing may seem incredibly inconvenient, and yet it still manages to be perfect.
2. If breaking my leg gets the one I love to pray...it was more than worth it.
1. More than him loving me back, I want him to love God. That's how I know...I'm in love.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Today
You can lie to me today.
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow.
But for today, tell all I've wanted to hear for so long.
Make the promises you wouldn't for fear of not keeping them.
I'll only hold you to them until the days end.
Today make me believe what I've been skeptical of.
Let's not discuss or dig deeper. Let's not analyze or rationalize.
Truth calls us to action. And I have no strength for action.
I'll wait for tomorrow for truth to be known.
We'll just lie together, and lie to each other and hope the truth does not disturb us.
I will wrap myself in each tale you tell me as if each will protect me.
And I will cherish every moment of sweet ignorance.
So, lie. Lie to me today.
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow.
Then I will decide what lies to tell myself.
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow.
But for today, tell all I've wanted to hear for so long.
Make the promises you wouldn't for fear of not keeping them.
I'll only hold you to them until the days end.
Today make me believe what I've been skeptical of.
Let's not discuss or dig deeper. Let's not analyze or rationalize.
Truth calls us to action. And I have no strength for action.
I'll wait for tomorrow for truth to be known.
We'll just lie together, and lie to each other and hope the truth does not disturb us.
I will wrap myself in each tale you tell me as if each will protect me.
And I will cherish every moment of sweet ignorance.
So, lie. Lie to me today.
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow.
Then I will decide what lies to tell myself.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Walking a Tight Rope While Wearing Clown Shoes
Okay, here we go....
I've decided to take twelve hours this semester. Everyone thinks I should go back to only nine, but I'm ready to get out of dodge. So many women work, go to school and are fantastic mothers. Why can't I? I'm ready to become _________ (I'll let God fill in the blank). Whatever it is I am to be, I'm ready.
In my Positive Psychology course I have to make 3 goals and am graded by the effort given to achieve the goals. The categories are as follows:
*Physical Goal
*Relational Goal
*Whatever Goal
Today we presented them in class. I thought about mine and here they are:
*Physical Goal: I want a bikini body. By end of April I want to not only be able to wear a bikini, I want to rock that mofo! So...I got myself a workout buddy for twice a week and the other days it's Pilates at the house and walking the "hill of doom" in my neighborhood. God help me...God help my workout buddy...
*Relational Goal: I have kick ass kids. I should be more of a kick ass mom. So, dinner at the table with no TV once a week; 10 hours of volunteering at their school this semester; and the days that I have school then work I will call them each and have a 5 min conversation about their day. I'm going to be a better mom.
*Whatever Goal: This one is a doozy....all A's this semester. I'm doing it. That's right folks. All assignments on time, studying ahead for test, basic working my ass off. I'm a Senior...A SENIOR! Graduate school around the corner. I'm doing this. And I'm worried, but so excited.
You will also be glad to know (you three that read this thing...thanks mom) that I'm taking Writing for New Technologies. Which means I'll learn how to bedazzle this blog up. I'm a little over the white with red trim, I'm sure you are too (you loyal three).
And yes, I realize a blog or two down I said I wasn't making any plans. But, that's a load of crap and I'm a girl so I get to change my mind a lot. I've been so hurt this past year. What I've done is wrap myself up in that hurt like it was a blanket. Nothing else mattered except for that, and that's such a selfish way to live. I want to do better. I want to be better.
I have spark. I should use it.
Oh...I repotted the plant. So far, so good.
I've decided to take twelve hours this semester. Everyone thinks I should go back to only nine, but I'm ready to get out of dodge. So many women work, go to school and are fantastic mothers. Why can't I? I'm ready to become _________ (I'll let God fill in the blank). Whatever it is I am to be, I'm ready.
In my Positive Psychology course I have to make 3 goals and am graded by the effort given to achieve the goals. The categories are as follows:
*Physical Goal
*Relational Goal
*Whatever Goal
Today we presented them in class. I thought about mine and here they are:
*Physical Goal: I want a bikini body. By end of April I want to not only be able to wear a bikini, I want to rock that mofo! So...I got myself a workout buddy for twice a week and the other days it's Pilates at the house and walking the "hill of doom" in my neighborhood. God help me...God help my workout buddy...
*Relational Goal: I have kick ass kids. I should be more of a kick ass mom. So, dinner at the table with no TV once a week; 10 hours of volunteering at their school this semester; and the days that I have school then work I will call them each and have a 5 min conversation about their day. I'm going to be a better mom.
*Whatever Goal: This one is a doozy....all A's this semester. I'm doing it. That's right folks. All assignments on time, studying ahead for test, basic working my ass off. I'm a Senior...A SENIOR! Graduate school around the corner. I'm doing this. And I'm worried, but so excited.
You will also be glad to know (you three that read this thing...thanks mom) that I'm taking Writing for New Technologies. Which means I'll learn how to bedazzle this blog up. I'm a little over the white with red trim, I'm sure you are too (you loyal three).
And yes, I realize a blog or two down I said I wasn't making any plans. But, that's a load of crap and I'm a girl so I get to change my mind a lot. I've been so hurt this past year. What I've done is wrap myself up in that hurt like it was a blanket. Nothing else mattered except for that, and that's such a selfish way to live. I want to do better. I want to be better.
I have spark. I should use it.
Oh...I repotted the plant. So far, so good.
Friday, January 15, 2010
the great giveaway.
Tuesday was my adoption day. 32 years and 2 days ago the woman who carried me for nine months gave me to a couple who would pretty much carry me for the next 32 years. Me being adopted is really nothing unique or extra special in my family. Of the fourteen grandchildren on my mom's side, seven of us are adopted. It is our norm.
I don't think much about my adoption. Not even on my adoption day. It's a day that we celebrate me becoming a part of this family...and my mom usually takes me out for a free lunch. We had done this since I was a little girl. But, yesterday it hit me that I don't really think of my biological parents much at all. There is no anger or resentment, there's just nothing.
When I was a kid I would fantasize about being in class when all of a sudden two men dressed in expensive Italian suits, sunglasses and ear pierces (much like the secret service) would walk into the classroom and request that I leave with them. They would lead me to a kick ass limo and inside there would be an older, sophisticated, handsome gentlemen...dressed also in a very nice suit. He would introduce himself as my father and say he had been looking for me for years. He was a reformed member of some criminal family in Columbia. That's right, as a kid I fantasized that my biological father was a hit man with a heart. This hit man would then tell me that he had millions of dollars he wanted me to have and he would take care of all my expenses and I end up being fabulously dressed throughout my school days and fast become the most popular girl ever in the world and Donnie Wahlberg would take me to prom. But, that's the extent of how much I wondered or thought of my biological parents. And I only had this fantasy when my mom or dad wouldn't let me have that pony I always wanted.
I'm not sure if this lack of interest should bother me. The fact is, I know who I am. I have no void to fill when it comes to having parents. We weren't the Cleavers by any means. There was divorce, remarriage, moving, rebellion, kids out of wedlock...blah, blah, blah the whole sha bang. Through it all I never thought of myself as anything other than a Clark/Goodson. Their history is my history. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I will admit that on the rare occasions I do think of my biological parents it's for superficial reasons. Who do I get my curly hair from? Or is it just that spiral perm that wouldn't die? Who do I get my machine gun laughter from? Who gave me this nose? Who gave me the straight teeth? (thanks for that by the way) What am I going to look like when I'm 40, 50, 60? This information is important because every day the chances that I'm either going to have to become a cougar or an old maid are increasing drastically. It'd be nice to be ready for either scenerio.
Please don't misunderstand my feelings for them. I am grateful and I am proud. From what I know I was a bit of a surprise for my biological mother. She wasn't in a good situation in her life and it is not lost on me that it would have been easier for her not to have me. But, she did. She followed through, and she stayed in the hospital for the three days until I had a home to go home to. I never thought that I was so much 'given away' as I was given a chance. She decided to give me a chance. I think that's pretty amazing. I hope she's never thought she was otherwise. There's great strength in giving up something that you love. And I do think she loved me.
My adoptive parents are amazing. And I am their child. I get my independence, loyalty and strength from my mom. My humor, my desire to please, and my bit of humility from my dad. They are my family.
But, this week I think of you...my biological parents.
To my mother,
Thank you. That's what I want you to know. I am so grateful. You did the right thing and I pray you have never regretted it. You shouldn't. My life is incredible and you gave me all I needed to have that life. Whatever you have gone through, whatever pain was felt, I hope you are happy now. I hope you have peace. Don't ever worry about me. I'm fine. Again, with no better words to use....thank you.
To my father,
I don't know if you know about me or not. I'm also not sure what part you had in my adoption. But I'm grateful to you also. I hope your good to women, good to any other children you may have, and I hope your good to yourself.
Anything I have that comes from you, thank you.
Thank you for everything.
I don't think much about my adoption. Not even on my adoption day. It's a day that we celebrate me becoming a part of this family...and my mom usually takes me out for a free lunch. We had done this since I was a little girl. But, yesterday it hit me that I don't really think of my biological parents much at all. There is no anger or resentment, there's just nothing.
When I was a kid I would fantasize about being in class when all of a sudden two men dressed in expensive Italian suits, sunglasses and ear pierces (much like the secret service) would walk into the classroom and request that I leave with them. They would lead me to a kick ass limo and inside there would be an older, sophisticated, handsome gentlemen...dressed also in a very nice suit. He would introduce himself as my father and say he had been looking for me for years. He was a reformed member of some criminal family in Columbia. That's right, as a kid I fantasized that my biological father was a hit man with a heart. This hit man would then tell me that he had millions of dollars he wanted me to have and he would take care of all my expenses and I end up being fabulously dressed throughout my school days and fast become the most popular girl ever in the world and Donnie Wahlberg would take me to prom. But, that's the extent of how much I wondered or thought of my biological parents. And I only had this fantasy when my mom or dad wouldn't let me have that pony I always wanted.
I'm not sure if this lack of interest should bother me. The fact is, I know who I am. I have no void to fill when it comes to having parents. We weren't the Cleavers by any means. There was divorce, remarriage, moving, rebellion, kids out of wedlock...blah, blah, blah the whole sha bang. Through it all I never thought of myself as anything other than a Clark/Goodson. Their history is my history. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I will admit that on the rare occasions I do think of my biological parents it's for superficial reasons. Who do I get my curly hair from? Or is it just that spiral perm that wouldn't die? Who do I get my machine gun laughter from? Who gave me this nose? Who gave me the straight teeth? (thanks for that by the way) What am I going to look like when I'm 40, 50, 60? This information is important because every day the chances that I'm either going to have to become a cougar or an old maid are increasing drastically. It'd be nice to be ready for either scenerio.
Please don't misunderstand my feelings for them. I am grateful and I am proud. From what I know I was a bit of a surprise for my biological mother. She wasn't in a good situation in her life and it is not lost on me that it would have been easier for her not to have me. But, she did. She followed through, and she stayed in the hospital for the three days until I had a home to go home to. I never thought that I was so much 'given away' as I was given a chance. She decided to give me a chance. I think that's pretty amazing. I hope she's never thought she was otherwise. There's great strength in giving up something that you love. And I do think she loved me.
My adoptive parents are amazing. And I am their child. I get my independence, loyalty and strength from my mom. My humor, my desire to please, and my bit of humility from my dad. They are my family.
But, this week I think of you...my biological parents.
To my mother,
Thank you. That's what I want you to know. I am so grateful. You did the right thing and I pray you have never regretted it. You shouldn't. My life is incredible and you gave me all I needed to have that life. Whatever you have gone through, whatever pain was felt, I hope you are happy now. I hope you have peace. Don't ever worry about me. I'm fine. Again, with no better words to use....thank you.
To my father,
I don't know if you know about me or not. I'm also not sure what part you had in my adoption. But I'm grateful to you also. I hope your good to women, good to any other children you may have, and I hope your good to yourself.
Anything I have that comes from you, thank you.
Thank you for everything.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
That Damn Plant
Well, it's the end of the year. Today is New Year's Eve; the last day of 2009. There is such a sense of urgency that comes with New Years Eve. If there was something you didn't get done, or say, or do, this is the last day and the last chance to do so. Not to mention how you have to spend that last hour of the day which is also the last hour of the year. If your not dressed fabulously, going to a fabulous place to do fabulous things with a fabulous other person of which you have to have a fabulous kiss with at the stroke of midnight...well, your whole next year is pretty much going to suck. The future of your existence is at stake if you don't properly celebrate this day. So, you better hurry. Hurry, I say!!
Actually, I'm just going to pay some utility bills (they're a little on the late side), probably eat some chips and cheese dip, and start some laundry. My last hours of the night will be spent on my couch wondering why Ryan Seacrest is famous and I'm not while eating fudge from Christmas. A part of me is kind of looking forward to that.
To be honest, I'm a little disappointed in myself about this past year. This time last year I had a plan. I was going to get my debt under control; I was going to only make A's and maybe an occasional B in my courses; I was going to let go of that one thing that has hurt so much; I was going to keep my room and car clean. Well, I'm still a little behind in everything that has a payment due date; my grades match the initials of my name; I still haven't let go; and let's just say if you need a ride give me a few minutes to throw the mountain of stuff in my passenger seat to the back seat (hey I was looking for that coffee mug). Oh, how easily promises to yourself can be broken.
My birthday is a week and one day after New Years. Last year my sister and him each gave me the same kind of plant. Although I love them, I do not keep plants. There are those incredible and magical people in my family that can give a plant a wink and a smile and that plant will instantly bloom into a mystifying flower that sparkles and dances on command . (Okay, that's an over exaggeration. But my grandparents, my mom, and my Aunt Char know how to keep plants pretty). I, on the other hand, am a plant murderer wanted in three states. I forget to water them or whatever else it is you do with them. That's why I'm not good with animals either. Love the thought of them, but so much trouble having to feed and water them. It's really a wonder my kids are still alive and thriving.
So, I have these two plants and I decide to include them in my New Years plan. I was going to keep them alive. I watered , placed in the window sill, talked to them. Those first few weeks I went through paperwork, I purged, I cleaned, and I made out a budget. I think I even exercised for two whole weeks in a row! This would be the year that I would become new and improved; out of debt and the keeper of alive plants! Woo Hoo!
My sister's plant died around week three.
As the year went on, I did what I always do. I gave up. I got discouraged. I stopped trying as hard. I let myself get hurt. I forgot to pray. Disorganization and his gang of debt, frustration, resentment and procrastination crept back into my life. It was, by all accounts, a hard and rather crappy year. The thing that really sucks about all of this, is that I am not under the illusion or in denial about the fact that there is no one to blame for this but myself. I see how and where I went wrong, I even know what needs to be done to fix these things. But, I just never stick to it.
It was yesterday, New Years Eve Eve, that it hit me. I was up in my room, getting ready for laundry day, when I just dissolved into tears. It was one of those horrible crying fits where your eyes are puffy for hours after. I looked like I was having an allergic reaction to shell fish all day. I just hated the fact that I was pretty much in the same place I was last year. So, there I was sitting on the floor in my room, violently crying about how much my life sucked and how much of a disappointment I am and yelling out to God "why!?!" (of which I could almost feel Him rolling his eyes at me), when I looked up and saw the plant the he gave me on the window sill. It's pretty sad looking, but alive. There's only four leaves left and two of those are half brown. But, it was still alive. A whole year and maybe five waterings later, it was still alive.
That's when something else hit me. This past year, with all that happened, was the closest I had come to meeting my goals. I'm still in school, I still have my home, the lights are still on, my kids are still alive and they are truly amazing. My life is good. No, my life is incredible. I have so much to do and so much to accomplish, and I haven't a clue about how to start. But, I guess maybe I've already started. I never thought I'd be good mom, but I am. And I'm still in school, and graduation is a year away. I, Angela Clark, will be college graduate in a year (I was barely a high school graduate). As far as love...last year I was determined to get it. This year, it would be nice. But it's not a need, it'd be more of an add on.
No plans this next year. No resolutions. No empty promises. Every moment will be taken as it comes. I pray I will savor them all. I'm sure I won't, but I'll give it a try. And maybe at some point that plant will bloom again...although I'm probably not going to plan on it.
Actually, I'm just going to pay some utility bills (they're a little on the late side), probably eat some chips and cheese dip, and start some laundry. My last hours of the night will be spent on my couch wondering why Ryan Seacrest is famous and I'm not while eating fudge from Christmas. A part of me is kind of looking forward to that.
To be honest, I'm a little disappointed in myself about this past year. This time last year I had a plan. I was going to get my debt under control; I was going to only make A's and maybe an occasional B in my courses; I was going to let go of that one thing that has hurt so much; I was going to keep my room and car clean. Well, I'm still a little behind in everything that has a payment due date; my grades match the initials of my name; I still haven't let go; and let's just say if you need a ride give me a few minutes to throw the mountain of stuff in my passenger seat to the back seat (hey I was looking for that coffee mug). Oh, how easily promises to yourself can be broken.
My birthday is a week and one day after New Years. Last year my sister and him each gave me the same kind of plant. Although I love them, I do not keep plants. There are those incredible and magical people in my family that can give a plant a wink and a smile and that plant will instantly bloom into a mystifying flower that sparkles and dances on command . (Okay, that's an over exaggeration. But my grandparents, my mom, and my Aunt Char know how to keep plants pretty). I, on the other hand, am a plant murderer wanted in three states. I forget to water them or whatever else it is you do with them. That's why I'm not good with animals either. Love the thought of them, but so much trouble having to feed and water them. It's really a wonder my kids are still alive and thriving.
So, I have these two plants and I decide to include them in my New Years plan. I was going to keep them alive. I watered , placed in the window sill, talked to them. Those first few weeks I went through paperwork, I purged, I cleaned, and I made out a budget. I think I even exercised for two whole weeks in a row! This would be the year that I would become new and improved; out of debt and the keeper of alive plants! Woo Hoo!
As the year went on, I did what I always do. I gave up. I got discouraged. I stopped trying as hard. I let myself get hurt. I forgot to pray. Disorganization and his gang of debt, frustration, resentment and procrastination crept back into my life. It was, by all accounts, a hard and rather crappy year. The thing that really sucks about all of this, is that I am not under the illusion or in denial about the fact that there is no one to blame for this but myself. I see how and where I went wrong, I even know what needs to be done to fix these things. But, I just never stick to it.
It was yesterday, New Years Eve Eve, that it hit me. I was up in my room, getting ready for laundry day, when I just dissolved into tears. It was one of those horrible crying fits where your eyes are puffy for hours after. I looked like I was having an allergic reaction to shell fish all day. I just hated the fact that I was pretty much in the same place I was last year. So, there I was sitting on the floor in my room, violently crying about how much my life sucked and how much of a disappointment I am and yelling out to God "why!?!" (of which I could almost feel Him rolling his eyes at me), when I looked up and saw the plant the he gave me on the window sill. It's pretty sad looking, but alive. There's only four leaves left and two of those are half brown. But, it was still alive. A whole year and maybe five waterings later, it was still alive.
That's when something else hit me. This past year, with all that happened, was the closest I had come to meeting my goals. I'm still in school, I still have my home, the lights are still on, my kids are still alive and they are truly amazing. My life is good. No, my life is incredible. I have so much to do and so much to accomplish, and I haven't a clue about how to start. But, I guess maybe I've already started. I never thought I'd be good mom, but I am. And I'm still in school, and graduation is a year away. I, Angela Clark, will be college graduate in a year (I was barely a high school graduate). As far as love...last year I was determined to get it. This year, it would be nice. But it's not a need, it'd be more of an add on.
No plans this next year. No resolutions. No empty promises. Every moment will be taken as it comes. I pray I will savor them all. I'm sure I won't, but I'll give it a try. And maybe at some point that plant will bloom again...although I'm probably not going to plan on it.
Labels:
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Friday, December 18, 2009
An Analytical Look on Why I Hate Analyzing
This semester I finally had decided on a minor. Writing. Which basically means that if the whole psychology bit doesn't work out I have staring at my computer screen for hours wondering what to write about to fall back on. I'm pretty excited. I don't know what kind of writer I am. I did pretty well in Technical Writing and also in Creative Writing. Either way, I think if Ivana Trump can write and sell a book with the title Free to Love, I have somewhat a chance of being half way successful...and I'm okay with that.
What I am not good at is analyzing. I hate it. Which sucks considering I picked a major and minor that both analyzes everything to death. If only UCA offered degrees in watching TV marathons while eating pizza...mmm, pizza. Anyway, I had to analyze a speech based on its rhetoric. Probably the worst paper ever. Lyndon Johnson's We Shall Overcome was the speech I chose to "dig deeper". I don't want to dig deeper (yeah...I'm going to make a great therapist). The stupid paper had to be 4-5 pages long. That's shorter than my middle school kid's papers and there I was struggling to get through page 2. The question that gets me when analyzing is the question "why?".
Last semester, in American History, I had to analyze a critical article about a book. I had to analyze an article that analyzed another written work. Really? At that point, what more is there to say. I made a good grade on it, but throughout my paper the professor wrote out "why?...explain" beside all my points and observations. My answer..."uh...because...". I don't know why. My question is why do we have to over analyze everything? Why can't we just chalk it up to the writer felt like it, whatever it is he/she wrote?
Basically, I'm lazy. I'm lazy and a whole lotta selfish. I want to write my thoughts based on my own opinions or experiences. Johnson's speech was great. He wanted Civil Rights, but he actually wanted those rights carried out, not just passed through Congress and then forgotten. He was passionate and direct. He held all in America, not just us Southern folks, responsible to carry these rights out. I like Johnson. No one ever thinks of him, but he had balls. That's right. I think Johnson had balls to make a speech like that in 1965 when there was such a divide on the race issue. Unfortunately I can't make that stretch to four pages and I don't think my professor would had appreciated the whole 'he had balls' thing.
I also took Theories of Personality this semester. I never wanted to shoot myself more than I did while reading the 40 page chapter on Carl Jung. And Freud was no picnic either, but at least he has that whole sex and aggression thing to hold my attention. The whole dream analysis, and if you weren't successful at breast feeding or potty training your screwed as an adult, not to mention all the archetypes you could be from your ancestral past; ugh. Which basically means not only are you screwed to an adulthood of unhealthy relationships and horrible dreams if you had trouble breast feeding and potty training, you have to worry about your ancestors screwing you up as well. No one recovers from that.
My stance: sometimes we spend so much time digging in our past looking for answers to our problems, we forget that the answers are here in the present and then never move on. Yes, the past effects us. Yes, we should read others arguments and opinions to help form or confirm our own. Yes, we need to be able to articulate our arguments. But, more importantly we should take a closer look at where we are now and decide where we are going from here. And, also be able to decide what is REALLY important and worth looking deeper at. Not everything is worth it. And the real question shouldn't be why the writer wrote what he/she wrote; it should be why do we have an opinion about it or not have an opinion. Sometimes what doesn't move us is as telling as what does move us.
My very last paper of the semester was a ranking of all the Theorists we studied. It was ranked from least to most of how their theories will influence which type of therapy we'll use in our careers. We studied eleven of them and had to write at least a page on each of their theories. I'm a last hour type of writer. So, I get a little punchy at 2:00am towards the end of the semester. Anyway, as I got to Freud my 'screw it' spirit took over and this is what I wrote:
"The whole oral, anal, phallic, latency stages are lost on me. That’s not my interest. Maybe someone being scared to go potty when they were a kid makes them really up tight to this day, but honestly let’s get the guy a laxative and move on."
I made an A. Punchy works for me.
Analyze what I wrote and let me know what I'm really saying. It needs to be 5-6 pages long and be sure to explain your arguments. Oh...and wish me luck for Spring semester.
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