I heard recently that Martin Luther advised those who struggle with legalism to practice committing little "sins." Here was a man who was abundantly familiar with the tortures of guilt. (The more I learn about that guy, the more I want to know. I don't have his strong personality, but I feel like I relate to him in just about every other way.) After years of trying to overcome my obsession with being good by being even better, I've come to the same conclusion he did. I turned 32 on Monday. The first 30 of those years were spent with a stick firmly up my ass. The last two have all about dislodging it, and I'm not done yet. (See that bad word I used? That's me practicing.)
The Bible says that the Kingdom of God (heaven on earth, a small sample of heaven to come) is righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. JOY. Not likely when you're in a fruitless quest for perfection, powered by your own steam. The Christian deal is that you stop trying to bear our own weight; Jesus takes it all. Depending on where you are in your life, that may sound like either an impossible sacrifice or the biggest relief ever. In my case, it's just hard to get my head around, because I have such an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything. But I've been coming to a greater realization of the wrongness of trying to do God's job for Him, and as that realization grows, I see what extreme (to my mind) measures are necessary to combat that tendency in myself.
Legalism itself is a sin. I don't know if God rates sins, or if so, how, but I do believe that some sins have worse consequences than others. Legalism distorts my view of God, which messes up my relationship with Him. That's wrong. It then leaves me empty and with nothing to give people. That's also wrong. And I think it's worse than whatever harm may be done to my body by eating extra cookies (something I would normally feel guilty about). If, by choosing to eat those cookies simply because I can, I can also combat my tendency to agonize over whether I should eat them, then the "sin" of eating the cookies seems like a good idea.
There's also a reason why I've been putting the word "sins" in quotation marks. I believe that sin is real, and that it is truly sinful. But I'm good at feeling guilty no matter what I have or haven't done. It's not so bad now, but there was time in my life when regardless of what I was doing, I felt like I should be doing something else. If I was playing in the pool with my 11-year-old neighbor, I should really have been practicingmy trombone. If I was practicing my trombone, it was selfish because my neighbor didn't have any younger friends within walking distance. I always felt wrong because I had no sense of discernment about what was truly right or wrong in a situation. But playing in the pool wasn't necessarily a sin. Neither was playing my trombone. It just felt that way. If I'm to do anything in my life, ever, I need to push past that and do things that feel like sins to me, because most things feel like sin to me.
Committing little "sins" in order to overcome the big one, legalism. That may sound like the worst idea ever. But it works a lot better than my previous plan -- read the Bible more and pray longer and go to church whenever the doors were open. All those things are good if they come from the right place. But for me it was all about working harder and continuing to fail miserably.
To hell with that.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Is There a Lutheran Version of Catholic Guilt?
In church circles, we often use the term legalism. I may have mentioned it before. There are two extremes in Christian attitude and behavior -- Legalism and Licentiousness. You can probably guess what they're all about. In a Christian context, the latter means presuming upon God's grace, doing whatever you feel like because you know you can be forgiven. Legalism is the opposite -- always trying to be good, as if your salvation depended upon it (which is ironic, because it's your own sin that you're being saved from).
I fall way the hell on the legalistic side. In my case, it seems to be primarily a matter of temperament, of nature over nurture (though there have certainly been those who added to the problem). I'm naturally a religious person -- not one who easily believes (far from it), but one who is inclined to follow rules. At least on the surface, I'm good at being good, and I don't deal well with the consequences of my missteps.
When I lost my childhood faith in God at the age of 13, my response was to up the religion -- read the Bible before I go to sleep, make my parents drive me to church (a half-hour away at the time), and in every way try to be as close to perfect as possible. I knew I had been baptized Lutheran as a baby, so I started going to Lutheran churches. I took my first Communion. I went through Confirmation. And the whole time, I felt guilty for not believing. Right up into college, I was convinced that I could do better at everything if I just tried hard enough. I could have the perfect figure if I stopped eating potato chips. I could be the best trombone player in the world if I stopped watching TV and practiced instead. I could believe if I prayed harder. Of course, I was never able to work my way up to any of those things. (Faith did come, but not because I achieved it.)
Have you ever listened to Garrison Keillor's A Prarie Home Companion? He tells stories of the fictional Lake Woebegon, a town in Minnesota full of Lutheran Norwegian farmers. Whenever he talks about how uptight they are, I recognize myself. Example: The church members go on a little cruise down the river. The boat lists and some people fall overboard. The pastor feels obligated to be with them, so he jumps into the water. That whole weird, useless sense of obligation is me all over. I don't know if it's genetics or what, but somehow, when atoms smashed together to form the gloriously unstable chemistry experiment that is my brain, they created a legalism machine.
Don't go anywhere. There's more to this story, but things were getting long so I'm splitting it up.
I fall way the hell on the legalistic side. In my case, it seems to be primarily a matter of temperament, of nature over nurture (though there have certainly been those who added to the problem). I'm naturally a religious person -- not one who easily believes (far from it), but one who is inclined to follow rules. At least on the surface, I'm good at being good, and I don't deal well with the consequences of my missteps.
When I lost my childhood faith in God at the age of 13, my response was to up the religion -- read the Bible before I go to sleep, make my parents drive me to church (a half-hour away at the time), and in every way try to be as close to perfect as possible. I knew I had been baptized Lutheran as a baby, so I started going to Lutheran churches. I took my first Communion. I went through Confirmation. And the whole time, I felt guilty for not believing. Right up into college, I was convinced that I could do better at everything if I just tried hard enough. I could have the perfect figure if I stopped eating potato chips. I could be the best trombone player in the world if I stopped watching TV and practiced instead. I could believe if I prayed harder. Of course, I was never able to work my way up to any of those things. (Faith did come, but not because I achieved it.)
Have you ever listened to Garrison Keillor's A Prarie Home Companion? He tells stories of the fictional Lake Woebegon, a town in Minnesota full of Lutheran Norwegian farmers. Whenever he talks about how uptight they are, I recognize myself. Example: The church members go on a little cruise down the river. The boat lists and some people fall overboard. The pastor feels obligated to be with them, so he jumps into the water. That whole weird, useless sense of obligation is me all over. I don't know if it's genetics or what, but somehow, when atoms smashed together to form the gloriously unstable chemistry experiment that is my brain, they created a legalism machine.
Don't go anywhere. There's more to this story, but things were getting long so I'm splitting it up.
And I'm doing this from my cubicle
Hey, check it out. I wrote a home improvement version to the chorus of a Salt 'N Pepa song:
Let's talk about decks, baby
Let's talk about masonry
Let's talk about all the windows and the siding
That may be
Let's talk about decks
Let's talk about checks, baby
And your liability
If one of my workers falls
I'll make a call
And S-U-E
Let's talk about checks
As if you needed it: Further evidence that I need to get out more.
Let's talk about decks, baby
Let's talk about masonry
Let's talk about all the windows and the siding
That may be
Let's talk about decks
Let's talk about checks, baby
And your liability
If one of my workers falls
I'll make a call
And S-U-E
Let's talk about checks
As if you needed it: Further evidence that I need to get out more.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Thin Blood and True Believers
I'm anemic
This I know
For the doctor
Told me so.
I know some of you will be relieved to find out I have a physical flaw, albeit a temporary one, because frankly I was flirting dangerously with perfection there for a while. It is only temporary, though -- a couple months of iron pills and I'm back in the game, baby. I was told this could be part of the reason why I'm always cold, too. Is this why they say that people who can't handle cold climates have "thin blood?" Is it literal?
I'm a little disappointed that my coldness issue may be so easily fixed. I was looking forward to burying myself under sweaters and blankets this year. Such items made up 75% of my Christmas list. I'll just have to keep the thermostat at 55 degrees from now on. Brace yourselves, roommies.
Screeeeech! Change of direction, turning off of Anemia Ave. and onto Blind Boys Blvd.
Now that we're into the Christmas season, I can listen to festive CDs I got as gifts last year. I finally got a good earful of Go Tell It on the Mountain, the Christmas album by The Blind Boys of Alabama, and apart from the impressiveness of their arrangements and the skill of their guest artists, one thought came back to me over and over: These guys know Jesus. They know. I haven't heard anything about their beliefs, and as of this writing I haven't done any research. But they have the sound of men who know.
This I know
For the doctor
Told me so.
I know some of you will be relieved to find out I have a physical flaw, albeit a temporary one, because frankly I was flirting dangerously with perfection there for a while. It is only temporary, though -- a couple months of iron pills and I'm back in the game, baby. I was told this could be part of the reason why I'm always cold, too. Is this why they say that people who can't handle cold climates have "thin blood?" Is it literal?
I'm a little disappointed that my coldness issue may be so easily fixed. I was looking forward to burying myself under sweaters and blankets this year. Such items made up 75% of my Christmas list. I'll just have to keep the thermostat at 55 degrees from now on. Brace yourselves, roommies.
Screeeeech! Change of direction, turning off of Anemia Ave. and onto Blind Boys Blvd.
Now that we're into the Christmas season, I can listen to festive CDs I got as gifts last year. I finally got a good earful of Go Tell It on the Mountain, the Christmas album by The Blind Boys of Alabama, and apart from the impressiveness of their arrangements and the skill of their guest artists, one thought came back to me over and over: These guys know Jesus. They know. I haven't heard anything about their beliefs, and as of this writing I haven't done any research. But they have the sound of men who know.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I did a bad thing.
You're familiar with the scenario: A kid is playing ball in the house. His mom tells him to stop or he'll break something. He keeps doing it anyway and breaks her favorite vase.
Now let's say the ball is a piece of taffy, the kid is me, and the vase is, uh, taffy again, and you have the situation in our kitchen two nights ago.
In case you're thinking to yourself, But a vase is art; taffy isn't art, allow me to gently correct you: YES IT IS. My roommate is an artist, so when she sets out an object because it's cool-looking, it's art. But I'm not an artist. I'm a musician, and an immature one. I make noise. And so does taffy, in the right hands (mine).
Much like my dad's prize birch, it was right out there, where I could reach it, so it's not my fault that I took it and played with it. I knew I could get a good slap out of it if I placed my hand flat against it and smacked it against the table. So I did. *BAM!* Ha ha, yes! *BAM!* That was fun. But that's enough; don't want to be greedy, seeing as how it's not my taffy and all. I'll just put it back now and -- uh-oh. Are those broken bits? Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I'll put it back and maybe my roommate won't know. It'll still look pretty or maybe she'll think it fell or maybe she'll think it was that way when she put it in the kitchen and she doesn't have to know what I did. But that's not cool. My conscience will bother me and George Washington and the cherry tree and surely there's a verse in the Bible about how thou shalt not pull a hit-and-run on thy neighbor's art/taffy. So I left a note:
Dear S--,
I thwacked it and I cracked it and now I'm embarassed and sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow?
Holly
She forgave me, because she's cool. I was relieved; I was prepared to go on the Internet and find replacement taffy and everything. But even after all the guilt and fear of confrontation, I'm not sure I've really learned my lesson. I suspect the only thing stopping me from hitting other food items is the assumption that, frankly, they just wouldn't sound that good.
Now let's say the ball is a piece of taffy, the kid is me, and the vase is, uh, taffy again, and you have the situation in our kitchen two nights ago.
In case you're thinking to yourself, But a vase is art; taffy isn't art, allow me to gently correct you: YES IT IS. My roommate is an artist, so when she sets out an object because it's cool-looking, it's art. But I'm not an artist. I'm a musician, and an immature one. I make noise. And so does taffy, in the right hands (mine).
Much like my dad's prize birch, it was right out there, where I could reach it, so it's not my fault that I took it and played with it. I knew I could get a good slap out of it if I placed my hand flat against it and smacked it against the table. So I did. *BAM!* Ha ha, yes! *BAM!* That was fun. But that's enough; don't want to be greedy, seeing as how it's not my taffy and all. I'll just put it back now and -- uh-oh. Are those broken bits? Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I'll put it back and maybe my roommate won't know. It'll still look pretty or maybe she'll think it fell or maybe she'll think it was that way when she put it in the kitchen and she doesn't have to know what I did. But that's not cool. My conscience will bother me and George Washington and the cherry tree and surely there's a verse in the Bible about how thou shalt not pull a hit-and-run on thy neighbor's art/taffy. So I left a note:
Dear S--,
I thwacked it and I cracked it and now I'm embarassed and sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow?
Holly
She forgave me, because she's cool. I was relieved; I was prepared to go on the Internet and find replacement taffy and everything. But even after all the guilt and fear of confrontation, I'm not sure I've really learned my lesson. I suspect the only thing stopping me from hitting other food items is the assumption that, frankly, they just wouldn't sound that good.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
This is my 100th post!
In celebration, a retrospective episode, a la TV sitcom.
Me: Wow, I can't believe we've been blogger and bloggee for almost five months now. Such good times we've had!
You, the Coveted Reader: Ha ha, yes, such good times. Why, I remember when you wrote about your brother's wedding...
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
Me: You have a good memory. Tell me more about what I've written.
You: Oh, sure. Here's a bit from one of your fictional works...
That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)
You: That one was particularly clever, I think.
Me: [Blushing.] Why, thank you. You didn't have to say that, you know.
You: But I mean it. You're the most bestest blogger ever.
Me: Shucks. [Pause.] You can tell me more about how clever I am.
You: Oh! Right. Yes. [Long silence.]
Me: Any day now.
You: Um, OK... OK, got it. This one didn't suck...
Here's what I know about wood: 1. It's brown. 2. They make trees out of it.
Me: Whew! I had no idea how clever I was. Sometimes you really need to hear it from someone else, you know? I can be quite critical of myself.
You: Obviously.
Me: [Taking bows and catching roses thrown by You. As far as I know, anyway, since I can neither see nor hear you.]
You: [Crickets chirping.]
Me: Wow, I can't believe we've been blogger and bloggee for almost five months now. Such good times we've had!
You, the Coveted Reader: Ha ha, yes, such good times. Why, I remember when you wrote about your brother's wedding...
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
Me: You have a good memory. Tell me more about what I've written.
You: Oh, sure. Here's a bit from one of your fictional works...
That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)
You: That one was particularly clever, I think.
Me: [Blushing.] Why, thank you. You didn't have to say that, you know.
You: But I mean it. You're the most bestest blogger ever.
Me: Shucks. [Pause.] You can tell me more about how clever I am.
You: Oh! Right. Yes. [Long silence.]
Me: Any day now.
You: Um, OK... OK, got it. This one didn't suck...
Here's what I know about wood: 1. It's brown. 2. They make trees out of it.
Me: Whew! I had no idea how clever I was. Sometimes you really need to hear it from someone else, you know? I can be quite critical of myself.
You: Obviously.
Me: [Taking bows and catching roses thrown by You. As far as I know, anyway, since I can neither see nor hear you.]
You: [Crickets chirping.]
Monday, December 11, 2006
There are Proverbs that warn of women like this
The pretty taffy is now on display in the kitchen. Am I still not supposed to touch it? What is she trying to do to me???
New Jammies!
I got a new set of PJs that makes me look like a Teletubby. This started me thinking about what my name would be if I were a Teletubby. [I had time to think about this because I had a long bus ride home to Boston, and I wasn't using the time to talk on my cell phone because we were supposed to be considerate of our fellow passengers and not make calls except for an emergency, except for the guy in front of me, who didn't hear that announcement because he was busy talking on his cell phone, which encouraged the guy behind me to make a call, followed by the girl across the aisle, so that I was surrounded.] Here are the names of the original four: Dipsy, LaLa, Tinky Winky, and Po. I started with my own name (Holly, for those of you who haven't been paying the slightest bit of attention), and made a couple of adjustments. I got it down to two options. I think you'll see why I eventually settled on one over the other.
Chosen: HaHa
Rejected: Ho
I don't know what my Favorite Thing should be. Each Teletubby had a Favorite Thing -- a ball, a handbag... I think there was a scooter... what was the fourth thing? My brother would probably know. During his undergrad years, he had quite an appreciation for that show. This fact alone may have removed any doubts my parents had as to whether he did any underage drinking.
Anyway, this winter HaHa the Green Teletubby will be warm and snug in her new jammies and her --oh! here's a Favorite Thing! -- flannel sheets.
Chosen: HaHa
Rejected: Ho
I don't know what my Favorite Thing should be. Each Teletubby had a Favorite Thing -- a ball, a handbag... I think there was a scooter... what was the fourth thing? My brother would probably know. During his undergrad years, he had quite an appreciation for that show. This fact alone may have removed any doubts my parents had as to whether he did any underage drinking.
Anyway, this winter HaHa the Green Teletubby will be warm and snug in her new jammies and her --oh! here's a Favorite Thing! -- flannel sheets.
Kissing Cousins, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Italian
I'm a mongrel -- German, Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch and Italian. Or, to break it down into American regions, half North Dakota and half New Jersey. This weekend was spent with the Italian side of the family in NJ. My very Anglo sister-in-law learned what my North Dakotan mother learned when she married into the clan almost 35 years ago: People gonna hug and kiss you like you's family, cuz you is family now. As with so many things in this life, acceptance is the key here. Before any event -- dinner, party, wedding, funeral -- embrace this idea as warmly as you'll soon be embracing these strangers/relatives: The corner of your mouth will always be a bit wet with saliva, and that saliva will not be yours.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
"Slap Your Own Taffy!": Our Adventures in NYC. Day Two.
The next day, we went to breakfast at Bubby's where I was thankful once again for my natural reserve. The difference between me and people who sound stupid isn't that I'm not stupid; it's that I don't make as many sounds. Pertinent example: In Bubby's, there was a sign listing their two locations, one in Tribeca and one in Brooklyn. At first, I didn't see the Tribeca one. I just saw "Bubby's in Brooklyn" and thought, are we in Brooklyn? Is it really just a few blocks from the apartment? Tourist thoughts. Astoundingly ignorant tourist thoughts. Thoughts which I kept to myself at the time. Of course, now I'm putting them out there for the world to read, but I'm doing it from the safety of my home, where I can't see your eyes roll. Bubby's has very, very yummy banana nut pancakes, by the way.
Outside again, we wandered around looking at the amazing window displays, and saw the tree and skating rink at Rockefeller Center. It was all smaller than I'd imagined, but that made it seem quaint, an adjective that I wouldn't normally use when describing New York City. It was interesting for me to see the angels with the trumpets. In fifth grade I got a book of Christmas songs I could play on my trombone, and on the cover was a picture of those angels in twilight. After 21 years of looking at that cover and thinking it was beautiful, I finally saw them up close.
Next stop, the library. By this time I had a headache and just sat dumbly on a bench while the others looked at the Japanese exhibit. Then to a cute old-fashioned soda shop in Tribeca for dinner. I popped a couple Tylenol and put my head on the table until the food came, because I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. By the end of the meal, I was feeling better and was able to take in my surroundings. This place had lots of candy we remembered from our youth, including the incredibly politically incorrect -- and still tempting -- candy cigarettes. The girls got their favorite retro candy. S had this long, flat piece of taffy. It was pink and pretty and I wanted to see what kind of noise it would make. So I borrowed it and began slapping it against the table, in hopes of getting a nice *THWACK!* out of it. The normally calm and gentle S was not amused. "Slap your own taffy!" This may be the harshest rebuke I've received from her in two years of roommateness.
The taffy is now in her room, and I'm not supposed to mess with it. I have a different technique I want to try, though. I had been holding it on one end and swinging it at the table, but it was too flat and wind-resistant, and the result was insufficient thwackage. I should have placed my hand flat against one side and pushed it down as fast as I could. I bet that would work.
But I'm not supposed to.
But I bet it would work.
Banana walnut pancakes are a fruit.
And a protein.
Outside again, we wandered around looking at the amazing window displays, and saw the tree and skating rink at Rockefeller Center. It was all smaller than I'd imagined, but that made it seem quaint, an adjective that I wouldn't normally use when describing New York City. It was interesting for me to see the angels with the trumpets. In fifth grade I got a book of Christmas songs I could play on my trombone, and on the cover was a picture of those angels in twilight. After 21 years of looking at that cover and thinking it was beautiful, I finally saw them up close.
Next stop, the library. By this time I had a headache and just sat dumbly on a bench while the others looked at the Japanese exhibit. Then to a cute old-fashioned soda shop in Tribeca for dinner. I popped a couple Tylenol and put my head on the table until the food came, because I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. By the end of the meal, I was feeling better and was able to take in my surroundings. This place had lots of candy we remembered from our youth, including the incredibly politically incorrect -- and still tempting -- candy cigarettes. The girls got their favorite retro candy. S had this long, flat piece of taffy. It was pink and pretty and I wanted to see what kind of noise it would make. So I borrowed it and began slapping it against the table, in hopes of getting a nice *THWACK!* out of it. The normally calm and gentle S was not amused. "Slap your own taffy!" This may be the harshest rebuke I've received from her in two years of roommateness.
The taffy is now in her room, and I'm not supposed to mess with it. I have a different technique I want to try, though. I had been holding it on one end and swinging it at the table, but it was too flat and wind-resistant, and the result was insufficient thwackage. I should have placed my hand flat against one side and pushed it down as fast as I could. I bet that would work.
But I'm not supposed to.
But I bet it would work.
"Slap Your Own Taffy!": Our Adventures in NYC. Day One.
My roommates and I were hanging out in the Big Apple this weekend (which is my latest excuse for not posting). (Also, a preemptive apology: I'll be travelling Thurs. through Mon., so this blog is in for another dry spell. Thank you all for hanging in there when I so often string you along on so very little.)
We took the Lucky Star bus from Boston to Chinatown and immediately began looking for Dim Sum. My bags were heavy, so I wanted to walk fast and get where we were going, but not everyone on the sidewalk was in such a hurry. There were vendor stands everywhere, and little old ladies, and no passing lane. Ten minutes off the bus and already I was the most impatient person in New York. I also thought it might be good to learn some useful phrases in case I had an altercation with one of the many taxicabs; I wanted to ask my roommate, who speaks Chinese, how one would say, "Hey, I'm walkin' here!" It's probably good to learn that in a few different languages, since New York is such an international city.
We stayed in the apartment of the aunt of my Texan roommate, which was right on the water in Tribeca. I don't know what becas are, or why there are three of them, but they sure have a great view. Teeny tiny apartment, great big skyline. Didn't spend too much time hanging around inside, though, because my crazy companions thought it would be nice to see the city instead of watching cable. So out we went. It was cold and sunny -- finally, after African rainy season we'd been having.
I had promised myself that I'd spend some money on fun things after selling my car. This, for some reason, is incredibly hard for me. I'm naturally stingy, and years of low-paying work has taken this trait and multiplied it several times over. So everyone was really proud of me when I bought a sweater and a hat. Oh, did I say I bought a hat? Yes, yes I did! Tex found a cream-colored one that went with my coat, so my head was snug for the whole weekend. And the best part is it covers my ears. No point in getting a hat otherwise, as far as I'm concerned. Mom, I promise it doesn't look like the Elmer Fudd hat.
Our dinner destination was Little Italy, by far the most decorated part of town. The Italians do like their Christmas lights. I say this proudly, as a 1/4 Italian, and I freely admit that I liked it. It was also educational. Across the street, under the big "Seasons Greetings" (note the lack of an apostrophe in "Seasons!" For shame!), were the words, "Sorrento Cheese." They sponsor Christmas in Little Italy. Who knew Christmas had a sponsor? Or that it wasn't Macy's? [Now that I'm thinking of an Italian-American Christmas, I've got the song, Dominic, the Christmas Donkey in my head. Anyone know it? Chinkety-chink, ee-aw, ee-aw, Italian Christmas Donkey... You should listen to it. I wonder if they have it on itunes. The Dean Martin Christmas album ain't bad, either. Goes well with spiked egg nog and martini-covered olives.] My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, so my roommates, inspired by the many celebrating people before us, got the waiters to sing happy birthday to me. I got a piece of cheesecake with a sparkler in it. The waiters were enthusiastically tone-deaf (or tone-deafically enthusiastic). Either way, it was fun. And it drove a stake into the heart of the stereotype of the opera-singing Italian.
We took the Lucky Star bus from Boston to Chinatown and immediately began looking for Dim Sum. My bags were heavy, so I wanted to walk fast and get where we were going, but not everyone on the sidewalk was in such a hurry. There were vendor stands everywhere, and little old ladies, and no passing lane. Ten minutes off the bus and already I was the most impatient person in New York. I also thought it might be good to learn some useful phrases in case I had an altercation with one of the many taxicabs; I wanted to ask my roommate, who speaks Chinese, how one would say, "Hey, I'm walkin' here!" It's probably good to learn that in a few different languages, since New York is such an international city.
We stayed in the apartment of the aunt of my Texan roommate, which was right on the water in Tribeca. I don't know what becas are, or why there are three of them, but they sure have a great view. Teeny tiny apartment, great big skyline. Didn't spend too much time hanging around inside, though, because my crazy companions thought it would be nice to see the city instead of watching cable. So out we went. It was cold and sunny -- finally, after African rainy season we'd been having.
I had promised myself that I'd spend some money on fun things after selling my car. This, for some reason, is incredibly hard for me. I'm naturally stingy, and years of low-paying work has taken this trait and multiplied it several times over. So everyone was really proud of me when I bought a sweater and a hat. Oh, did I say I bought a hat? Yes, yes I did! Tex found a cream-colored one that went with my coat, so my head was snug for the whole weekend. And the best part is it covers my ears. No point in getting a hat otherwise, as far as I'm concerned. Mom, I promise it doesn't look like the Elmer Fudd hat.
Our dinner destination was Little Italy, by far the most decorated part of town. The Italians do like their Christmas lights. I say this proudly, as a 1/4 Italian, and I freely admit that I liked it. It was also educational. Across the street, under the big "Seasons Greetings" (note the lack of an apostrophe in "Seasons!" For shame!), were the words, "Sorrento Cheese." They sponsor Christmas in Little Italy. Who knew Christmas had a sponsor? Or that it wasn't Macy's? [Now that I'm thinking of an Italian-American Christmas, I've got the song, Dominic, the Christmas Donkey in my head. Anyone know it? Chinkety-chink, ee-aw, ee-aw, Italian Christmas Donkey... You should listen to it. I wonder if they have it on itunes. The Dean Martin Christmas album ain't bad, either. Goes well with spiked egg nog and martini-covered olives.] My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, so my roommates, inspired by the many celebrating people before us, got the waiters to sing happy birthday to me. I got a piece of cheesecake with a sparkler in it. The waiters were enthusiastically tone-deaf (or tone-deafically enthusiastic). Either way, it was fun. And it drove a stake into the heart of the stereotype of the opera-singing Italian.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Better Living Through Mind-Control
First, I'd like to say that I'm doing better after my initial post-verdict distress. Thanks to all who encouraged me. This isn't the first time I've been terribly unhappy after making a decision which has real consequesnces. When I took the job I have now, I had another job offer from another company that had come my way at the same time. It was quite difficult trying to choose, and once I made my choice, I was worried that I'd made the wrong one. My roommate took me out to dinner to kick my butt into celebrating the fact that I now had a good job and my seven-month temping streak had come to an end.
Once I started doing this job, I was happy to be here. I still have a lot to be thankful for -- pleasant coworkers, low stress, good benefits. It's a good place to be... for now. It's not the kind of position a person is meant to stay in forever; people in this job are expected to move onward and upward. My issue right now is that I don't know what I want to do next. I have general ideas, but I'm having trouble with specifics. Here are a few things I'm pretty sure of:
*I want to work with words and ideas. I like writing, and I can do it -- both coming up with the things to say, and saying them well. I like language and what it reveals about how individuals and whole cultures see the world. I like how well it captures intangible things.
*I like the creative process. Creative decisions are decisions I can make without being depressed for days afterward. And I understand creative decisions. Not so much with logistical or administrative stuff; I get confused quite easily in those areas. But if you're putting together a story or a performance, I'm your girl. I'm not an aritistic diva, but I can form solid opinions about artistic things when called upon.
*I want to laugh. A lot. And I want to make other people laugh. I'm sure most people do, and I'd assumed a goofy work environment would be anyone's ideal, but from my interactions and conversations with other people I'm coming to the conclusion that I actually need humor more than most folks. It's my primary form of communication. (It was a great hardship for me when I was in England and no one got my jokes, or could even tell when I was trying to be funny in conversation. It got really bad when I would say something sarcastic ("ironic" if you're British), and they would think I meant the statement at face value. They just thought I was a jerk. Not fun.)
*I'm quite enamored with (of?) the idea of collaboration. It was frustrating in school when I felt like it meant nothing but compromise, but it's quite different once you're a grown-up and can work with people who are really good at what they do. I'm confident that I could be a part of creating some excellent works if I get the chance to bounce ideas off of others, and I can be a good sounding board myself. I want to be inspired. I want to be inspiring.
It all sounds swell, doesn't it? But what would I do, and how would I get there? People have suggested advertising, copywriting, screen & television writing, being a humor columnist, even stand-up comedy. And here's where all kinds of yucky real-world things come into play: I have a music degree, not one in writing or advertising, and my resume reflects that. I don't have relevant writing samples, and have little-to-no idea about how to go about creating them. And the truth is, I'm scared. I don't want to be laughed out of someone's office. Taking initiative has always been hard for me, especially in the realm of human interaction -- that's one of the main reasons I didn't make it as a musician -- I couldn't cold-call people and market myself. The thought of sending univited letters to companies offering my uncredentialed services is so intimidating that after over a year of letting the idea bounce around my head, I still haven't done it.
My age is another factor. I'm not just talking about the number (32 in 2 1/2 weeks), but how I feel. I'm not interested in being a student again, or in having more jobs that pay under $30K a year. I've been on so many bottom rungs that I've practically forgotten that I'm capable. I don't want any more lateral moves. I want to go up. But it's been a very long time since I knew what that was like, and my brain has trouble accepting the idea that other people might want to put my creative skills to use and not just assign me menial tasks.
I don't remember being this scared about possibilities when I was younger, in high school and college. Perhaps it's because in those years I was on a track, and all I had to do was perform well. I got good grades, had good auditions, and that made me successful in my little realm. Once I started doing things on my own, like trying to carve out a career as a freelance musician, I was like a train off the track; I barrelled on for a while, but eventually plowed into the ground. In some ways, I feel like I'm still there. I'm a train without a track, and I feel awkward, uncomfortable, out of my element. And stuck. Even if my only problems are in my head -- the inertia that comes from fear, laziness, or just unclear ideas -- I'm stuck in them, and don't have enough power in myself to get out.
Thinking about it and sending up the occasional prayer got me started on this blog, which has been fun and useful. But the process of getting un-stuck has still been awfully slow, so I've started fasting about it, too. I don't know how you pull a train engine out of the dirt, but that's what has to happen.
Today, my coworker Ben (eyebrow guy) said that he hopes I use my powers for good rather than evil. He said I'd be so good at advertising or PR that he could see me justifying genocide with a sweet smile on my face. This wasn't a slam on my character (I think), but a statement about my potential. It was encouraging, particularly because I respect his opinion on these things. I'll agree that my strengths in the area of diplomacy could definitely be used to doctor some spin, or to otherwise manipulate the populace. I would like the opportunity to use my creative powers for good -- you know, the good kind of manipulation, propaganda, and mind-control. In a goofy work environment. That would be swell.
Once I started doing this job, I was happy to be here. I still have a lot to be thankful for -- pleasant coworkers, low stress, good benefits. It's a good place to be... for now. It's not the kind of position a person is meant to stay in forever; people in this job are expected to move onward and upward. My issue right now is that I don't know what I want to do next. I have general ideas, but I'm having trouble with specifics. Here are a few things I'm pretty sure of:
*I want to work with words and ideas. I like writing, and I can do it -- both coming up with the things to say, and saying them well. I like language and what it reveals about how individuals and whole cultures see the world. I like how well it captures intangible things.
*I like the creative process. Creative decisions are decisions I can make without being depressed for days afterward. And I understand creative decisions. Not so much with logistical or administrative stuff; I get confused quite easily in those areas. But if you're putting together a story or a performance, I'm your girl. I'm not an aritistic diva, but I can form solid opinions about artistic things when called upon.
*I want to laugh. A lot. And I want to make other people laugh. I'm sure most people do, and I'd assumed a goofy work environment would be anyone's ideal, but from my interactions and conversations with other people I'm coming to the conclusion that I actually need humor more than most folks. It's my primary form of communication. (It was a great hardship for me when I was in England and no one got my jokes, or could even tell when I was trying to be funny in conversation. It got really bad when I would say something sarcastic ("ironic" if you're British), and they would think I meant the statement at face value. They just thought I was a jerk. Not fun.)
*I'm quite enamored with (of?) the idea of collaboration. It was frustrating in school when I felt like it meant nothing but compromise, but it's quite different once you're a grown-up and can work with people who are really good at what they do. I'm confident that I could be a part of creating some excellent works if I get the chance to bounce ideas off of others, and I can be a good sounding board myself. I want to be inspired. I want to be inspiring.
It all sounds swell, doesn't it? But what would I do, and how would I get there? People have suggested advertising, copywriting, screen & television writing, being a humor columnist, even stand-up comedy. And here's where all kinds of yucky real-world things come into play: I have a music degree, not one in writing or advertising, and my resume reflects that. I don't have relevant writing samples, and have little-to-no idea about how to go about creating them. And the truth is, I'm scared. I don't want to be laughed out of someone's office. Taking initiative has always been hard for me, especially in the realm of human interaction -- that's one of the main reasons I didn't make it as a musician -- I couldn't cold-call people and market myself. The thought of sending univited letters to companies offering my uncredentialed services is so intimidating that after over a year of letting the idea bounce around my head, I still haven't done it.
My age is another factor. I'm not just talking about the number (32 in 2 1/2 weeks), but how I feel. I'm not interested in being a student again, or in having more jobs that pay under $30K a year. I've been on so many bottom rungs that I've practically forgotten that I'm capable. I don't want any more lateral moves. I want to go up. But it's been a very long time since I knew what that was like, and my brain has trouble accepting the idea that other people might want to put my creative skills to use and not just assign me menial tasks.
I don't remember being this scared about possibilities when I was younger, in high school and college. Perhaps it's because in those years I was on a track, and all I had to do was perform well. I got good grades, had good auditions, and that made me successful in my little realm. Once I started doing things on my own, like trying to carve out a career as a freelance musician, I was like a train off the track; I barrelled on for a while, but eventually plowed into the ground. In some ways, I feel like I'm still there. I'm a train without a track, and I feel awkward, uncomfortable, out of my element. And stuck. Even if my only problems are in my head -- the inertia that comes from fear, laziness, or just unclear ideas -- I'm stuck in them, and don't have enough power in myself to get out.
Thinking about it and sending up the occasional prayer got me started on this blog, which has been fun and useful. But the process of getting un-stuck has still been awfully slow, so I've started fasting about it, too. I don't know how you pull a train engine out of the dirt, but that's what has to happen.
Today, my coworker Ben (eyebrow guy) said that he hopes I use my powers for good rather than evil. He said I'd be so good at advertising or PR that he could see me justifying genocide with a sweet smile on my face. This wasn't a slam on my character (I think), but a statement about my potential. It was encouraging, particularly because I respect his opinion on these things. I'll agree that my strengths in the area of diplomacy could definitely be used to doctor some spin, or to otherwise manipulate the populace. I would like the opportunity to use my creative powers for good -- you know, the good kind of manipulation, propaganda, and mind-control. In a goofy work environment. That would be swell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
