Whinging It

Starting blog entries with disclaimers is sexy, and everyone knows it.  Telling you that this is unreasonably long and annoyingly meta is the blogging equivalent to putting on a merry widow and getting out a riding crop.  Happy early Valentine’s Day.

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If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it 109384029 times: Blogging is weird.  But you know what’s weirder?  The blogosphere. And while you might think blogging and the blogosphere are one and the same, they are so very not.

Blogging is pretty much all about writing your own thoughts in your own corner of the Internet.  It’s about finding a line of self-censorship comfort, about reaching out in a somewhat anonymous fashion to the online world in a place that feels somewhat safe.  The blogosphere, on its best days, is a community of support for writing and discussing views in thoughtful forums with sporadic and frequent breaks to compliment pictures of one another’s children and pets, and/or raise money for someone’s tragedy. On its worst day, it is a hive of defensiveness, misunderstandings, and bullying.

I’ve succumbed to the nasty side of the blogosphere on several occasions.  I’ve left horrible anonymous comments on peoples’ blogs informing them that actions they have taken are stupid, insensitive, bad for themselves and the world, etc.  After growing up a tad, I left NON-anonymous comments on other people’s blogs telling them their views were dead wrong and offensive and implying that they are awful people.

I’m awesome, right?

I didn’t do this often; the mean girl isn’t a side of me I love to indulge. But it happened.

Two occasions stand out to me in particular: One was over-the-top absurdly silly on my part.  Some woman I don’t know (even in the sense of Internet knowing) wrote a reasonably innocuous post about how people without children could never, ever imagine or understand the love that parents feel for their kids.  This happens to be a bugaboo of mine, and funnily enough it has little or nothing to do with a child-free person’s typical rant about a world that caters to parents and how everyone should control their miniature reflections of themselves.

My  hang-up in this area has to do, as it so often does for me, with the phrasing.  Telling me I can’t imagine something is like telling me I can’t organize something.  Because I CAN and I WILL.  Do not offend my ability to be creative, as I will then (and did, in this case) creatively rip you a new one.  (I believe I compared her to those assholes who spend a month in Thailand and then return in order to spend a year and a half explaining to everyone they know about how travel is so enlightening, and how one can’t even fathom the poverty, but also the generosity! The two-dollar massages!  It’s enough to make a listener long for the days of slideshows. At least then there’s an opportunity for napping.)  That poor child-loving blogging mother had no idea what semantics and a need for Zoloft will induce in me.  And why should she?  She DIDN’T KNOW ME and had no idea what vitriol her in-exact wording would inspire in a stranger.

If I could remember which blog it was, I would go back and leave four extra-special nice comments as penance.

The second incident was nastier. I got all heated when a semi-famous blogger posted about how she would never, ever befriend someone to increase her blog traffic.  And she thought terribly of anyone who did so. Now, due to a blogging friendship with another woman who knew someone who knew someone, I had INSIDE KNOWLEDGE that this semi-famous blogger had done JUST THAT with a very famous blogger.  She had even used a tenuous connection to meet the famous blogger and befriend her so that she could get a link!  And she even admitted it when her tenuous friend called her out on her abominable behavior!  This all boils down to the UNDENIABLE, PROOF-POSITIVE FACT that she was a hypocrite, and needed to be stopped, obviously by me.  And so I left a series of comments calling her out on her bad behavior, but then was unable to back up my assertions without betraying my friend and her friend and ended up looking like a crazy person.  Which would have been fitting because clearly I was.

It was then that I realized that I was too emotionally immature for the Internet.

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I recently ran across the blog of a woman to whom I very much relate.  I like reading her stuff, and she thinks of things in a way that is new to me.  Refreshing.  But her comments?  Reading them is like wading through bile.  The things that others feel compelled and entitled to tell her are astounding.  I felt ashamed for my early blogging behavior when I treated the Internet like a screen I could stand behind.

On reading her comments, I couldn’t understand why she would even let them get posted.  And I wondered how she must have felt when she read them.  It was for just this reason that when I started blogging again, I turned off the comments.  I didn’t want input, ANY input. What if ANY small smidgen of it was negative?  What if?

Clearly I am too fragile to sustain insults from someone I don’t know.

It all sounds so weak because it is. And it comes back to words and how they hold power.  A well-written essay can clear minds and open hearts; a compelling speech can change the course of history.

But something I always fail to remember is that the act of speaking or writing does not make something true.  I find I have to repeat this to myself a lot: Saying it doesn’t make it true.  Writing it doesn’t make it true.  Someone telling me I am a horrible person could potentially be helpful feedback in a scenario I can’t summon right now, but mostly it’s a mis-perception.  As I’m not horrible.  I’m quite lovely, really, occasional ranting comments aside.

The blogosphere can bring out the best and the worst in people.  I resolve to let it bring out my best. My best is not hurtful. It is thoughtful, loving, kind and truthful.

My best is me.

At my work, I was recently involved in a Good Ol’ Boys meeting between contractors. Besides the feeling that my new work name is Sweetheart and I should be a good girl and fetch them some coffee, I found the whole experience fascinating.

Among other things, they discussed who hunted with whom, what they hunt, who attends which church with whose uncle, and the merits of said church’s preachers from its founding until the present day.

Keep in mind these men had never met before.

Later that day, in discussion with Wife about the meeting:

Whinger: I mean, who assumes in this day and age and in the Bay Area that people hunt?  How do you just come on out and ask what people hunt?  Chances are probably four in ten that somebody in the party is vegetarian or vegan or raw diet or that Pisces-eating thing where people only eat fish and eggs or whatever.

Wife: Did they ask what you hunt?

Whinger: Nah. Too busy wondering if they could get away with patting me on the head.  Or elsewhere.  But it would’ve been funny if they had.  What would you say if someone asked what you hunt?

Wife: Bitches. I hunt bitches.

Awesome.

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There was an article in the SF Gate today about these specialized five-toed shoes that are essentially a thick-soled sock. The aim of these shoes is for people to regain their natural gait which apparently should not include landing on one’s heel, but instead with more time spent on the ball of the foot. Or something.

Upon reading the article and looking at the shoes, I was suddenly and inexplicably filled with terrific longing for these atrocious shoes. These will fix your life! And make you more athletic! said the marketing-honed center of my brain. The only reason you have non-shapely legs is because you aren’t running correctly. It’s the cushioned shoes’ fault! This was coupled with the fact that I have been intrigued by running without shoes ever since I read “Once a Runner,” in which the super-fast protagonist runs barefoot for ridiculous numbers of miles every day in order to keep his Achilles tendon in the right kind of shape. Nevermind that I have no idea behind the science of THAT little tidbit.

Happily, there was just enough rational reasoning that managed to come up with the following list of reasons I should not strap my feet into frog shoes and spend my days in them:

1. OMG ugly.

2. I mostly wear cute little mid-century sweaters and skirts. Perhaps not-so-much with the toed shoes.

3. In the past six months, I have run approximately 0.1 miles. And even that one time was to catch the bus.

4. I have very weird toes that would never consent to fit in someone else’s idea of what length toes should be in relation to one another.

I manage to remain free of the frog shoes.

I love the moments when someone is sharing a story I she feels is universal, but really I’m she’s just highlighting some weird ritual that occurred in my her household or home town.

Case in Point 1
A recently engaged friend has too many youths who need to be in her wedding due to her fiance’s siblings’ prolific ways.  I suggested that, instead of having too many kids hanging out at the front during the ceremony, the youngest boy should be sent down the aisle ringing a bell before the rest of the wedding party.

My reasons for this were threefold: (1) If he’s sent down the aisle first, he can be scooped up and taken away to some unseen childcare situation, never to be heard from again until everyone is done being reception-open-bar drunk. (2) I love a pun, and they can still call him a ring-bearer(!). Slap your knee, please. (3) How damn cute is that shit? A little boy who’s barely older than toddler-dom wandering down the aisle and ringing a bell?  Tell me you don’t want to weep for the adorable.

Anyway, she’s totally on board because of two of the threefold reasons (she does not love a pun like she should), and asked me to describe the kind of bell I envisioned. In response, I said the following: “Remember when you played bells in elementary school? With the white gloves? And how the teacher would point to you when it was time to ring your giant bell and then quickly damp it against your shoulder?”

Actually, that is what I intended to say.  I only got as far as “Remember when you played bells in elementary school?  With the white gl…” before I realized my friend was looking at me like I was insane right before she burst into mocking laughter.

How freaking random was it that we learned to play the bells at our elementary school?  I mean, sure there were the recorder lessons and some stints on the xylophone, but the bells?

In all fairness, we kicked ass at accompanying Christmas carols and the obligatory Hannukah song. (Kwanzaa was not mandatory mainstream then.)

Case in Point 2 That May Only Make Sense to People Who Were Raised Catholic or Who Have at Least Been Made to Take Communion at Mass On Occasion
Wife and I had dinner with some friends and their three kids last weekend.  Said friends are very Catholic, but happily not to the extent of Hating the Gay. In short, they’re happy to have cocktails and do not object to birth control, but still call people “J-As” instead of jackasses.

Their five-year-old was telling us about an outing he had with Grandma where they went to the grocery store and got some Body of Christ candy.

What’s that?, I asked innocently.  Body of Christ candy?  Is that anything like Christian Salt? His mom, overhearing, said, “Y’know how you pretend that Necco Wafers are Communion bread when you’re a kid?”

I did not in fact know that you do that, encouraging her to regale us with stories of how she and her cousins would always play-act taking Communion, with each kid getting a turn at being the priest.

I mostly felt sorry for them that they were stuck playing that game with sucky Necco Wafers, and think we should petition the Vatican to have Communion wafers be shaped more like Starburst or Hershey’s Kisses.

I’m currently good and pissed at the IRS, but also a little fearful at getting too vehement.  I would sooner be on the radar of the FBI, CIA and NSA combined before the IRS. I mean, while the first three agencies twiddled their thumbs in frustration, the IRS brought down Al Capone, which makes them badass in vengeful nerd kind of way, which everyone knows is the creepiest.

I mean, I can see that the other initialed agencies might make me a little nervous if they took an interest in my life, but ultimately they would only tap my phone or follow me on my errands.  The first of these practices would end fairly quickly due to the agents’ constant dozing off when I discuss the historical fiction trash novel I’m reading that week or making fun of stupid educational disciplines.  The second would end because I don’t know that the government is in a position to spend that much gas money going to and from the hardware store a kazillion times each weekend.

The IRS, though…they can do shit with your money like freeze it or take it with little more emotion than a sinister snigger. They can make you feel like your math skills are at the third-grade level while charging you interest on the lint in your pockets. Those guys don’t fuck around. I consequently am the most conscientious tax filer you know.  Questionable deduction?  Let’s not include it. Due date is April 15? I like to pretend it’s February 15. Any long division? Let’s get out the calculator, just for fun. My records of past filings would make a paralegal weep with pride.

Anyway, the IRS and I have a disagreement about how much I spent on my mortgage’s interest a couple of years ago, and the long and short of it is that it’s because Wife and I cannot file jointly because of the gay.  So, even though I was SEETHING when I figured out I was on IRS radar as a result of federal discrimination, I didn’t want to get too snippy with the IRS as something tells me that they don’t take kindly to guff, regardless on their stance of the Defense of Marriage Act.

Instead of getting irate, I decided to speak their language. Thankfully, I am fluent in nerd and gathered my proof and highlighted and tabbed the crap out of it, sending it with a detailed-yet-neutral letter.  I showed Wife a copy of what I sent in (because oh yes I make copies), and she announced that they’re going to take one look at the tabs and declare that anyone that anal could not have possibly made a mistake.

Fingers crossed they don’t decide to randomly lash out over this entry and treat the chickens as independent earners or something.

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My washing machine remains broken after a concerted effort to try to fix it and five floodings of my laundry room. Even though it’s five years old, was purchased at the Sears outlet and the break was partially my fault, I find that I want to open a Twitter account and proclaim that no one should ever buy my machine’s brand just to be an ass.

I won’t. But the thought of it makes me smile.  I could influence tens of people in their used washing machine purposes.

When preparing to leave for the hardware store to see if I could find a replacement part for our broken washing machine,* Wife said to me, “Um…you may want to look in a mirror.  You seem to have some…vomit on the side of your face.”

I had not vomited. It was kitty litter pine shavings from pressing my face against the laundry room floor to see under the machine. The litter was unused, but still. Gross.

The guilty ex-Catholic in me feels that this is all payback because in the last week I not once, but twice (TWICE!), bragged about how awesome my washing machine is with its top-loader ways and its old-school agitator.

Apparently if one will not go to confession and say the requisite Hail Marys, penance must be done for the sin of pride by sporting feline waste disposal material on one’s cheek.

*Not surprisingly, the part was not at the hardware store and I had to order it online.