Taking a Temperature

I almost never do this.  Turns out, I should be.

Blog more, Break less
For the past two weeks I have been warming Tales... like a chicken sitting on her eggs.  I've been trying to understand this process of making what I write not only relatable, but also readable.  On an internet search I found two articles I hope will teach me savvy blogging techniques and of them, the most important:  Blog more.  Blog with a running theme.

I asked my husband what he thought of the posts since Tales' inception.  He told me unwittingly he thought the blog was about nothing, "it doesn't have a running theme."

At first I was floored, the blog is about my life.  But then I started looking over my posts like a doctor looking over a scan.  Maybe there is some truth behind my husband's comment.  That quickly turned into worried and frantic thinking about how I can express myself, while expressing myself.
Here's what I figured out.

Tales... not appearing to have a running theme is the running theme.  We all remember how wildly successful Seinfeld was, and that was a show about nothing.  We all laughed, sometimes while hugging our sides at the antics Jerry and friends got into, all serving as an explanation to Jerry's opening, telling jokes to an audience about his observation of the world as he saw it.  That being said, I agree with another tip I read about rewriting posts to fit how I want to be seen.  If I can be honest in a way that a tipsy conversation can be life changing, I want to be seen as a witty and intelligent woman who pays attention to the world around her.  The first 19 posts open to a very small world of mostly family, but there's more to it.  And, that's my job to fix.  So, why not start now?

Thursdays are better known for throwbacks.  Today, Thursdays are for taking a temperature.  The temp for example of SELF magazine and their mean girl behavior in making fun of a woman with brain cancer.

Wonder Tutu...

The actual brain cancer survivor, Monika Allen, pictured right was running in a New York Marathon at the time this was taken.  She was also a few days out from chemotherapy.  So, what did SELF do?  They suped up the runner after emailing her for permission to use her picture, then they published it in a section called "The BS Meter," making fun of Allen and making assumptions that her costume makes her run faster.
Haha...No.
Allen makes the costumes for runners and sells them as a part of her company, Glam Runners.
Temperature: These costumes are super cute.  If they aren't too expensive, I'm going to be impressing upon my husband the need to have this and wear it while working out at the gym.  And, I should get one for my gym wife, my kid sister, who has committed to me as I have to her to make our bodies fitter and our minds happier.
As for SELF, think before you publish!  DUH, all people somehow end up in hot water when they do, act, say or publish things that needed more thinking through.  SELF should feature wonderful stories like Monika Allen's.  In a world where skepticism is the new black, the color of courage would help to brighten things up.

#DaddyIssues...
Conscious Uncoupling is the new term for breaking up, according to Ms. Gwyneth Paltrow's blog, GOOP.  She and Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin are no longer together but will continue to co-parent their two children (they better.  There is nothing worse than children growing up to find unhealthy relationships of their own.  Take notes parents because you will be blamed for it).
Today on the E! news rerun of the celeb news from the night before, clips and pictures of the Gwyneth and Chris' relationship were shown.  One clip that resonated with me was a bite from an interview Gwyneth did with Amanda DeCadenet where she talked about the importance of her father in terms of starting relationships.
"When my father was around, I didn't need to find the perfect man because I already had him," she said.
It's so true.
Before my father's death in 2008, my husband and I, then boyfriend and girlfriend were great.  I didn't think there was a single thing that needed to be changed about my husband.  I did and still do push the issue of fragrance as I think a well fragranced man is attractive, but beyond that, perfection(as good relationships go). After my father died, everything about my husband was under scrutiny.  Everything we did as a couple was under scrutiny.  For as long as we dated I had no problems with crowded places, that's just life outside of home.  Three months out from my father dying, we went to see the new Indiana Jones movie, and I was panicking.  I couldn't take the crowds.
Going to the movies with my dad was a weekly tradition.  My father was the kind of man who enjoyed getting up very early to make the first matinee show after making the first few hours of breakfast at the neighborhood diner.  Everything had to be early.  And, everything seemingly had to be crowd free.

That I was facing this panic in public and with my husband, I couldn't and, didn't have a way of sharing this without becoming unnecessarily agitated.
Grief counseling later helped me discover how I was hanging on to even the things about my father that pissed me off.  But, he was the first man I'd ever known, the first man I'd ever went out with publically, the first man I'd ever kissed and, he was the first man I had ever loved.

Temperature: It's sad to hear that Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin are separating, and up until now, the conscious uncoupling term and explanation seemed like BS.  Luckily, I can relate to a Daddy's girl.  For all the things I wish my Daddy didn't do, say or, act I miss him.  Everyday.  

Talk.

Last week was one of the hardest weeks of my life.  It was hard like dealing with everything that could throw a person into a depression is hard.  Seriously.  Before we begin I warn you now: this post includes disturbing images.

Dell Again...
We ordered and waited for my brand new Dell Inspiron 11 3000 series to arrive with breathless anticipation.

It was more me doing that waiting, but Wednesday afternoon we cracked open the box and have been cracking the nut since.  First, this sleek laptop could double as a clutch.  Just give me an hour with colored utility tape and glitter.  But for as cute as it is, my computer has become the epitome of "terrible twos."

My half PC laptop, half wanna-be tablet is a big learning curve.  The windows start page is reminiscent of the iPad start page except all of the apps you might be interested in integrating into a personalized start up can be found in a mess of apps underneath the near non-existent white arrow in circle.  After that "oh" moment, there is learning how to open, switch between and close applications.

Were it not for my husband's light touchscreen touch skills, my PC clutch would've ended up at the PC hospital.  Apparently the banging sounds my laptop was making as I was practicing drag and drop closes made him nervous in the we can't get the hundreds back if it breaks, way.
The most aggravating was the brand new Windows 8.1 update.  If The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have made the Royal Family relatable, the Windows 8.1 update throws a PC user right into the building of the tower of Babel, live and without a translator.  I sat looking at the blank page Blogger became in disbelief. I don't know why it happened in a way to be able to explain it, but I do know I am able to write again thanks to Google Chrome.  #downloadnumber...

If I'm a Bitch, Consider Yourself Bit
As our wait for my Dell Inspiron headache began, I became visual meat.

My husband and I started our Saturday morning (not this Saturday but the one before), bickering.  While that isn't different for our relationship, what occurred later in the day was.  We were walking back home with Chinese Food and enjoying our truce with light conversation.  Walking up the same side of the road we were walking down was a black guy, who was enjoying more than the day glancing at the backside of a young woman walking some feet in front of us.  My husband was mid-sentence as we continued onward.  And then...
"What the fuck are you looking at?"  I met the black guy's glare on my backside.  I had a feeling I would be "checked out" as the woman ahead of me, but as he looked at me this guy was moving his lips as if he were savoring a meal.  I was pissed.
My snap caught my husband off guard.  He asked me what was going on.  I told him.  He looked back to the black guy who was equally caught off guard.
Hubby's snap was to push me homeward.  In the meantime, the black guy regained his sense.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"  His face contorted into a snarl.
"I'm talking to you, you fuck."  I was going to ask him again what he thought he had the right to look at but my husband grabbed my arm and urged me home.
"Bitch."  That was all the black guy could muster.  I thanked him with my middle finger.

By the time we arrived at our apartment I was furious.  How could that black guy violate me that way?  And while we are on the subject of that black guy, listen up.
Being an attractive woman comes with perks and pests.  In order to get through both, every woman must have confidence.  How a woman conjures her confidence can be explained in this way:  Any magician worth their mettle doesn't give up the secret of their tricks.  As a woman, my confidence is as unpredictable as a magic trick as I am constantly practicing my slight of hand.  However, as a woman, it is my job to protect my body and mind, and spirit appropriately, depending on the situation.  That Saturday afternoon when my backside became a juicy burger was the exact situation where cursing and yelling did their parts to protect me.  I am not an object.
That black guy wasn't the first black guy, or guy to get caught looking where he wasn't supposed to.  My husband for whatever his reason decided a response on his part would be worthless.  Was it worthless because that black guy was black?  Since my husband is white, some might assume yes but because my husband didn't even see the violation occur once he saw I was defending myself, his urge to get me home assuredly was for the benefit of not having to be placed into a confrontational situation because of me.

So, at home my husband and I argued.  His point: what if something worse had happened?  As so far as I was concerned the worst did.  I fought alone to defend my body against a man while my man stood by doing and saying nothing to reinforce my stance.  I expected my husband would see the light, but he decided to see red.  The decorative tissue box was his first victim.

Watching the tissue float like snow to the cold ground transported me back to the kitchen.  I was five.  My mother was at the stove cooking as I sat at our table coloring.  Our peace was interrupted by my father, who for whatever the reason was upset.  A fight was sparked between them.
I forced my concentration on my coloring book until I looked up.  It was a good thing I did too.  A dish my father intended for my mother was now flying in my direction.
There was a whoosh and then a smash.  I was out of there.

Back in winter, I decided then and there to not relive my parent's past.  I took off my wedding rings and placed them before my husband on the coffee table.  He was silent.
"I'm not going to live this way with you," I said to him evenly.
My husband claimed my wedding rings as his next victim, slapping them from the coffee table.  They landed like coins spilling from a purse.
He got up.  After he walked up to me, he pressed his forehead and chest against mine.  I had the distinct feeling he was squaring up to me.
I stuck up my hand.  It made just enough room to separate us.  "No," I said, "this isn't going to happen."
He slapped my hand away, but I held my ground.  He kicked me out of our apartment.
"No," I answered, "I'm not leaving."

Earlier that day after our bickering match died down into civil speaking and  my husband told me that in situations where I have chosen to leave mid-fight, he thought was childish.  As I held my ground yet again, it was my husband who decided to take the childish route.
In hindsight letting him leave would've been the right thing to do.  One thing I've found to be helpful about stepping away is the air we needed but couldn't get in each other's faces.  But, I was listening so well that I tried to stop him and got hit for it.

Yes, that's right.  My husband hit me.

It all started when I stood in the doorway of our bedroom pleading with him not to leave.  In one last attempt to keep him from going, he grabbed me and threw me.  I think I was meant to land on the floor, but I managed to stop myself landing on the bed instead.  After I caught my footing, I fought back.  He grabbed my neck and I pushed him to the bed.  In an instant, we were in a fight, a for real fight.  As I went to grab for him, he pushed me to the bed and elbowed my neck and chest before attempting to pin me down.  I grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pushed him up off of me.  For a moment, we looked at each other.  I didn't want to fight him, I just didn't want for him to leave.  Things seemed to be calming down when I decided to slide my leg from under him to separate myself.  That move set him off giving him the strength to pin me down completely.  Both of my arms sat squashed underneath his knees.
Until now, I'd made all the wrong decisions.  I decided to defend myself when that black guy made a meal of my butt with his eyes.  I was furious with my husband for just standing by.  I decided to not relive my parent's past when I took off my wedding rings.  I tried to get my husband to stay when he made the childish decision to leave.  Now underneath the weight of him, I could decide to continue the fight, or, just decide to stop making decisions.  He won.

He got off of me and ran for the bathroom.  I stayed in our bedroom and made myself like a quiet mouse.

I was shocked.  Why could he be so brave to lash out at me instead of helping when I needed him to?  Why was it so wrong of me to defend myself against a pervert?  That black guy was a pervert.  Days later I saw him on the news when local police made round up arrests of sex offenders that failed to register themselves with the state I live in.

Of course, my husband was embarrassed and hurt by his actions.  His words however regarding the subject weren't so sincere.  He said he couldn't believe I'd made him so angry when no one had ever made him that angry before he met me.  He said he didn't want to think that I was the person who brought the worst out in him.  He said he felt isolated.  He has no friends.  And, I have a problem with him doing things with people who aren't me.
It seemed his lash-out brought out everything but what I really needed to hear.  I was more hurt than I had ever been.  The bruises on my arms and chest felt nothing like what my heart was feeling.  I couldn't get out of bed for days.  Yet, my husband and I kept talking to each other.  Everyday we talked.  And of the things we discussed the most important was this: I needed you to act on my behalf and you didn't.

As random as each of these events are to each other I couldn't help but think about how the learning curve. It seems the rules for tech and tact are constantly changing.  Certain things do need a bit of violence to move the message.  Of the four in this week's tale, that black guy got exactly what he deserved.

My laptop is new, it's fast and, it will take attention to get to know how it works best for me.  My relationship is nearly nine years old, five years in marriage next month.  It will take attention to get to know how it works best for us.  Touch screen, or, touch skin, attention will keep each on the light and loving end.

The Break Up

Today while booting up my laptop Windows XP launched a message from our friends at Microsoft. After April 8, 2014 XP operating systems will no longer receive support updates.  Microsoft offered a free diagnostic to see if my computer would benefit from an upgrade to Windows 8.1, but the diagnostic came with a caveat: if my machine wasn’t upgradeable I would need to buy a new one or, wait until a virus ate my current operating system alive.  If it was, I’d need to purchase a CD with the Windows upgrade to the 8.1 operating system and, I would lose everything I put into my laptop. 

 

Yeah.

 

I received my Dell E1405, or Audrey, as I once called her before she got old and obstinate.  Now I like to call her Piece of Crap PC.  Anyway, Audrey was a university graduation present in 2006.  After a near nine year courtship, I knew the inevitable moment of replacing my machine would come.  I just hoped it would come when I had more money to spend.

 

I have a confession—I am an unemployed blogger hoping to turn my writing into a fruitful career.  I got canned from my job as a hearing recorder which paid very well because my employers were unhappy with my perfume.  To top that off are the budget constraints my husband implemented as the sole bread winner to prevent expenditure and, our apartment for cheap rent including heat and hot water that also comes with sex noises that break the sound barrier and cause the loon who lives below us to bang against his ceiling, or our floor because he thinks it’s us.  The latter oozes the need for expenditure and a move to a quieter building.  But first things first, my new computer.

 

Luckily, we put away a big chunk of the unemployment benefit I’ve received that can be used to purchase a new laptop.

“Great,” you say.  “Go get that new laptop and keep writing.”

What about saving?  Why is it as soon as we get a bit of money to put away, there swiftly comes something that needs to be bought?

 

I now face the stinging reality of buying a new laptop.  Ideally, I would leave the world of Windows and get myself an Apple.  Unfortunately, five hundred spending dollars stands haughtily in the way of that pipe dream.  In the “broke” world, five hundred dollars will need to buy me an operating system with strength and speed to support writing, listening to music, streaming video and, internet usage. 

 

Readers if you are out there…Help!       

 

The Impossible Dream

In honor of the very recent 86^th Academy Awards, I will share a very true story of an impossible dream I have still to this day, although not as frequently.  For as long as I could remember, I’ve dreamt of becoming a two-time Academy Award winner.

 

The Writer…

I’d just turned twelve when I hand wrote my first “script” in an old school notebook.  The year was 1994.  Two movies were released in the spring/summer of that year.  The first was The Crow, directed by Alex Proyas and starring the now cult icon, Brandon Lee.  For a girl my age at the time, the movie left me sideways.  I’d never seen such a story played out on the big screen.  Everything about the film was awe inspiring to my senses, especially the epic love story between a man and a woman, both murdered and each avenged because of the love of the man and of course, the help of a crow. 

The aura surrounding the film was exciting.  It was my first time entering the Emo scene musically before Emo was a lucrative and household term.  The original score brought tears to my eyes.

As a pre-teen, the ability to express just how the movie was inspiring to me was hard.  I did give my parents and my sister the impression I was obsessed with a dead actor, cringey I know, but after years of carrying the experience with me I openly admit my obsession was for the movie itself.  Never before had any movie left me mesmerized like that.  There have been films that have sent my blood pressure soaring, but nothing has left me in the trance you enter when you know you’ve found The One.  This is the first movie that made me think about story telling in a deeper way.  It was my baptism into my birth-write.

 

The Leading Man

Not too long after The Crow my dad took us and family friends to see the movie about a bus that could fly over gaps in the highway at 50mph.  But to be honest, the plot was insignificant.  The only thing that mattered about Speed was Keanu Reeves.

(Note: Sandra Bullock and Dennis Hopper, Jeff Daniels and, Joe Morton were all spectacular in their own right.  To this day I continue to be a massive fan of Sandra Bullock.  My hands down favorite films with her in aren’t even Oscar faves.  Anyone remember Hope Floats?  How about Love Potion no. 9)?

Keanu had this buzz cut and devil may care demeanor that set my pubescent loins a flame. Everything he did in the film was fan-bloody-tastic.  I was truly smitten.

That summer we saw the movie twice in total, but that time I’d already bought tickets for my family and I to go on a most excellent adventure into Jez’s Fan/Crush on Keanu Land.  There was Johnny Mnemonic.  A Walk in the Clouds.  Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. (The Bogus Journey sequel wasn’t as triumphant as the first, sorry).  Tune in Tomorrow.  Parenthood.  There was the first two and a half minutes of My own Private Idaho, but the blowjob scene that followed landed the film on the Do Not Watch list as I was still a girl.  There was The Devil’s Advocate.  Chain Reaction.  There was Keanu’s first, no second time out as a bad guy in The Watcher.  The first was Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing.  There was Hardball.  The Matrix trilogy extravaganza of awesome-sauce.  The Gift.  Constantine.  Something’s Gotta Give.  A Scanner Darkly (WTF).  Point Break. Street Kings.  The Day the Earth Stood Still.  The Lake House.  I saw The Lake House on DVD everyday for about a month.  It was my dinner movie and bedtime story.

My family suffered through a few of the films I’ve proudly listed.  I was teased for having a crush on an actor accused of not being able to act.

Let’s review the evidence.

Is he an Oscar winner for Best leading or Supporting Actor? No.  But he has given some damn good performances.  Hands down, the best of the best for me are his performances in The Devil’s Advocate, Parenthood, The Gift and the super sexy Something’s Gotta Give.  These are the performances I was able to see a certain something in this man’s eye.  He was 100 percent character. He looked like Keanu and talked like Keanu, but was not Keanu for the lengths of those films.

 

Dreaming…

Since that fateful June day in 1994, I have been a fan with a huge crush that evolved into a dating/marriage scenario amongst high school friends willing to listen to the sick puppy hilarity of my plight: I might never meet the star I adore and have him be mine, but I could have a good time making a story out of it.  I even expressed this to my husband Michael when we were dating.  There in all honesty was never going to be a competition between the two as it would obviously be to Michael put a ring on it first.  Yet, in the deep recesses of my heart, there still is and probably will always a small place for he whose name means, “A Cool breeze over the Mountains.”  The truth is I find Keanu Reeves to be an inspiration.  Do I hope one day the Gods will smile and allow me to tell him so? Yes.  Would it be ideal this happens on my journey to being a Two-Time Academy Award winner? Hell yes. 

 

Now, we can go back to the script.

    

In this story, I wrote myself as a girl whose father has been murdered, but because the crookedness in the Police Department prevents a successful and conclusive investigation, I hire a detective down on his luck to help me.  I gave the part of the detective to Keanu, and then I never finished the story.  On a visit to our room to observe our playing habits, my father found the notebook I left open on my bed.  I completely forgot to close it and stash it before I sat to play Barbie with my sister.  My dad started to read the story out loud and it embarrassed me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the notebook again.  Why Daddy, why?!  Thinking on it now, maybe the reading it aloud was his attempt to be engaging.  Personally, it would’ve been better he read it, call me aside, and then tell me what he thought.  I’ve just always been that kinda gal.

Because of that incident, I started to build plots and scores in my head.  I still gave the leading roles to Keanu and myself.  Of all the stories, there has been just one that continues to haunt me to this day.  I’d love to share it online.  Really.  The only thing is some one of you may like the story a lot. Then you will show your friends this great blog you’re reading.  One of those friends will just happen to be a budding writer themselves.  They will read the story I’ve left for you to read.  They will like it.  I think you get the gist.

 

As the saying goes, “dreams come true…”  Will I now offer up some sort of lesson learned? No. What lesson can I learn from a trip whose ticket sits unused in my hand?

 

Get it?