This is a truly bitchy post. So stop reading right now and move on to another blog.
I have very strong opinions about people who reproduce only because “it’s time”, peer pressure, archaic family model, to strengthen the bond with their partner (newsflash: studies show that a new born is the most common reason couples grow apart or break), to pass the financial crisis by being in maternity leave so they have a safe income and cannot be fired etc.
Unfortunately, most people reproduce for these reasons and we are way too many on this planet already.
In the meantime, I have the highest respect for the people that decide to adopt an animal and treat HIM or HER like a member of the family, an offspring.
Because they understand from the beginning they are in for grief.
First, they are babies. They ruin things, they pee and poop everywhere, they chew shoes, they cry when left alone, they cry when they are hungry or just demanding for attention.
Fast, too fast, they become adults. They understand wrong for right, they become the loyal companion, the best friend, support in time of sorrow, partner in time of joy. They comfort you, the cuddle next to you, they lick you, love you with their huge hearts and generally offer you more than you can ever offer them.
And they grow old. They become grumpy, sick, they need help, assistance, treatment, time. Suddenly, they are your dear grandparents.
And way too soon you have to let go. You’re helpless, no matter what. So helpless that you’re angry. No matter how much you prepare for this moment, it hurts excruciatingly. It’s your baby. If you’re lucky, you spent a decade or two with this loving angel. Sometimes unfairly less.
Now this is what I call brave. To see your children die and your heart ripped out of your chest.
When the fuck did women become men with more or less boobs, marching like soldiers, with fit, toned, non-sexual bodies?
I see girls on the street. They look good, beautiful features, long silky hair, great bods. Yet… no appeal, no sensuality.
I blame it on the Americans and the WWII, when women started building weapons and when their husbands returned from war, they refused to quit jobs and return to the kitchen.
I don’t blame the suffragettes, they were a joke.
I also blame men for becoming weak and helpless, basically because their mothers raised them poorly. They grew up believing they deserve everything. They keep looking for overprotective mothers in their lives, so they stay helpless babies.
So women grew balls. Their wasp waists thickened, their shoulders broadened to carry feeble men and spoiled children.
Oh, I don’t encourage vulgarity, but femininity. That fragile creature, with a kitten purring voice that swings her hips, plays with a lock of her hair, smiles sweetly, rocks an evening gown and walks gracefully in high heels.
Please, women, reclaim your right to be sex kittens!
There’s this new trend that advises moms to stop reading fairy tales to their daughters, especially the ones with the classic “prince rescues girl” plot.
Feminists claim that such tales create unrealistic expectations on relationships and don’t empower women.
I say fuck them! At least as a girl, one should believe that Prince Charming would come to the rescue. Well, meet him half way – leave a glass shoe behind, let down your hair from the tower, parade in a glass casket carried by seven dwarfs, so Prince Charming notices you.
But unless he’s able to ride a charmed stallion, defeat dragons and ogres, kill evil witches for you, well, clearly he’s just a frog, no need to kiss him.
I’m a hopeless romantic and I want a strong man. I want to feel protected and safe, I don’t want to save him. If he’s in need of saving, he’s a loser.
I know I don’t fit the part of the damsel in distress: I’m far from fragile, both psychically and emotionally. I drive a car, I can unclog a drain, change a shower head or a light bulb. For heavy-duty housework, I can hire men.
But I would cherish a PARTNER, an equal or even a man I can look up to. A very uncomplicated interaction. No doubts, questions, luggage from previous relationships, teenager angst, rebel without a cause, looking for a purpose in life, bla-bla-loser. Just a straightforward partnership.
Lately I hear more and more often about princesses that save frogs. She has a job, he doesn’t. She has a career, he is depressed and disoriented, so he stays at home. She earns handsomely, his business went under, and so she has to pay his debts.
No more of that. Nevermore. Why the fuck would I carry a man on my back? Why settle for this?! Why? I don’t get these women.
So when you ask me why I’m that involved in helping strays, I’m asking you back: why are you saving losers?
Yup, long time, no writing. Because of bad times and good times.
What determined me to write again was this thing I saw one of these days: a lady dragging a dog in a leash and a guy walking side by side with his dog, leash being mostly ornamental.
I encourage every person to keep his or her dog on a leash, for safety reasons. Even the most well behaved dog can jump startled by a car horn or a sudden noise, an unexpected association of a color or a shape with a potential danger.
Hence all the lost dogs posted on Facebook.
Yet this post is not about dogs basically. It was just a strong visual that generated the thought. The lady dragging the leash was obviously in a dysfunctional relationship with her dog, miscommunication, lack of patience and skill from the human, bewilderment and stress from the dog. The other couple, the guy and the dog walking side by side – perfect match, harmony, balance, patience and understanding.
Human relationships are much the same. Abuse can have many manifestations, some not so obvious as beating or other forms of trauma. Taking a person for granted, expecting them to behave in a certain way, without ever ever ever enunciating your rules of engagement, and being frustrated “they just don’t get it.”
This applies in all sorts of interactions: lovers, friends, workmates, parents – children, store clerk – client.
Speak up, be sincere, be clear, ask for what you want. Listen, understand, try to meet the requests.
BUT it’s not that easy. Sometimes you think you know what you want and you ask for what you want and yet… Maybe you don’t know what you want, maybe you’re scared to speak up, maybe the truth hurts. Maybe you don’t want to admit what you want.
So everything goes sour. Dysfunctional relationships core.
So every step of the way, know thyself, don’t torment your close ones because YOU have issues. Fight your own battles by yourself, don’t make innocent victims on the way.
Don’t abuse your partner, your best friend, your parent / child because you are unhappy with yourself.
Don’t blame anyone for your failures, learn to say “it’s MY fault”. It hurts like hell, but it heals faster.
Wow, a lot of don’ts in this piece, let’s try some dos:
Do appreciate what you have, cherish the people that cherish you, thank God for your qualities, your good health (when applied), your lucky breaks, your successes, pets, sunrises, music, whatever can make you happy.
Have an innocent crush, have a hot affair, have a fling, have a passion, have a shitload of passions, live, LIVE. No regrets for the past, no worries for the future.
The fatalist predictions called 2013 the Year of Change. All the New Age theories were forecasting sort of a “selection” of humanity.
You must understand, I’m not a fan of new age, conspiracy theories, predictions, any kind of mass manipulation systems, but bear with me.
It was supposed to be a cataclysm of sort – a natural disaster or a nuclear holocaust by the end of 2012.
Well, nothing happened. Yet Change is obvious, I agree. And it’s like this. As economic climate is tragic, people are supposed to ADAPT. You succeed or you fail.
And failure is NOT loosing your job, but coping with it. Finding a new path, finding a new purpose. Enjoying what you have, when you lost more or less the material comfort.
Staying sane. I’ve seen people going completely out of their minds, becoming mean and filled with vile, hurting both others and themselves. These are the people who didn’t make it.
And there are the ones who found valves to vent. They turned towards charitable causes, art, family, friends. They found new hobbies, passions and reasons for joy and peace.
Some seem weird, some are benign. But they are GOOD. They are the fuel that keeps one sane.
I read again American Gods by Neil Gaiman. It has new meanings now. It’s about forgotten Gods, recent Gods that are already obsolete and Gods that are scared they will become forgotten and replaced.
From all over the world, from every age of humanity. By the way, have you ever thought how come everywhere and anytime people believed in something they couldn’t see or touch? And they relied on miracles and prayers and sacrifices of some sort?
Now it’s the time to find new Gods or to turn ourselves toward the ones we new. Whatever you choose, believe. Believe with all your might. Believe in Good, in Kindness, Patience, Laughter, Joy, Sun, Moon, Night, Rain, Flower, Cat… whatever makes you tick.
You’re not supposed to have imaginary friends after a certain age, or you might get diagnosed with some kind of mental illness.
I have an imaginary assistant. She lives in my brain. I can describe her rather thoroughly: she has a small face with pleasant yet common features, she has a shiny straight hair with bangs. Her bangs are cut straight and are supposed to fall like a curtain, but because she removes it with her hand often, is a mess. She has a plain blouse, I think it’s a grey twinset and a plaid midi skirt. I don’t know why.
Her work place (my memory) looks like the waiting room of a private detective from a 40s Hollywood movie. The ones with Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Think Maltese Falcon and similar.
It’s all wood – old and dusty, almost colorless with time. It has filing cabinets from floor to ceiling FILLED with files. I put the files in there. For decades now. I had no system, so it’s very hard to find a specific file.
Files on movies, books, songs, personal memories about lost lovers or friends, places I’ve visited or things I did. Some are bright pink and tied with a pretty bow. Some are dark and gloomy, like a November sky. Ranging from my first pair of heels to long-term relationships. Cats. Dogs. People. Beaches. Quotes. Jokes. Rumors. Some are a few days old, yet they are thrown in the back of a drawer out of reach, some are 30 years old, yet they are close and handy.
My poor assistant is very efficient. She moves fast among the drawers stuffed with files and she finds what I’m looking for. She’s quiet like a mouse, she’s my personal female version of Radar from M.A.S.H.
When I have a lapse, it means that she searched for the file all night long. I wake up and suddenly remember, but she’s exhausted, sleeping with her head on her heavy wooden desk.
Sometimes she’s out to lunch. Or she’s in love with a boy and she forgets herself walking hand in hand with him in the park during working hours.
As time goes by, she’s less helpful. Maybe she’s getting old too, maybe she’s bored and blasé with her routine job. True, I replaced some of her workload with Google search, but still, she has a heavy-duty job.
I just sit in my office and shout for various files:
“Hey, what’s the name of the guy who plays Sid in Ice Age? The Colombian very talented guy?”
“Who’s this lady talking to me? What’s her name and where do I know her from?!”
I need her more and more often and she’s growing more and more tired. I should grant her a leave. Maybe give her an all expenses paid holiday in a posh resort. Or at least a gym subscription.