Archive for June, 2009
What’s in the Box?
Posted by: | Comments
Uncertainty comes in many forms...and it's a gift
I remember as a child the stomach-wrenching glee of birthday gifts. Boxes in all shapes and sizes, wrapped in bright paper in some half-assed attempt to disguise the contents. Parties were clown-laden torture, as you had to endure everyone showing up, then games, then cake and ice cream – and because clowns are just fucking creepy. But finally – THE PRESENTS!
I’d stolen glimpses all afternoon at the table stacked with jubilantly decorated boxes, maybe even sneaking a random shake or sly squint to peer through the thinnest of wrapping papers here and there. Investigation to the Nth degree and conducted (in my young mind, at least) with sniper-like precision and stealth. Once given the go-ahead, the shred-fest would begin (I was a “ripper” as opposed to a “unwrapper’), box after box. And if I’d guessed right to a certain box’s contents…
I was disappointed.
Not always, mind you, but I’d seemed to have found a way to squelch some of my own fun by digging so deep there was nothing left to discover. Even at six-years-old, I wasn’t so good with uncertainty.
Maybe at 36 I’m not much better, but at least I’m developing a sense of how to manage the boxes.
I’m discovering that boxes in life have as many permutations as we give our minds the leeway to conjure – and the uncertainty regarding their contents drives us straight batty. It begins with an excitement – a stimulating thought, person or scenario…a NEW box!
Sometimes we get exactly what we ask for with our boxes. Every time we hit the market and buy a box of Count Chocula, it’s pretty much a sure thing we’re going to get a bowl of chocolatey cereal goodness. We do the same thing with other things in life: jobs, people. Instead of the supermarket, we hit Life Market and fill our carts up with things like:
Six-Figure Job
Ideal Client
Perfect Girl/Boyfriend
Dream Home
And we happily cart them to the checkout, basking in the smug satisfaction of a well-acquired prize. We load up our cars and head home, delighted that we finally got exactly what we’ve always wanted.
But sometimes even the well-labeled box reveals disappointing content. The Ideal Client turns out to be an invoicing nightmare…the Perfect Companion to be more Perfect on Paper than practice…the Ideal Job a soul-sucking ritual at best.
What is it about the new and unknown that drives our minds to needlessly shop for answers? It’s as if we’re searching so hard and fast for a blanket of resolution in Bed, Bath and Beyond that we take a wrong turn and end up in Yonder (and there’s never anything there except those shitty Made for TV products).
Through our never-ending quest for the answers (and answers right-damn-fucking-NOW), we work-up the contents of each new box in life into something either so horrific or exhilarating that we’re left with nothing to appreciate when we really see what’s inside.
Preconceived notions taint the joy of the discovery process.
The concept of uncertainty has popped-up several times as of late – therapy, dishing with friends, a redux after a movie with a date. After all of these conversations, however, what is it I’ve wanted that I didn’t get? Shockingly enough – more uncertainty. What makes me the giddiest are the surprises and small things in life that come along unexpectedly. The boxes that I took the time to unwrap instead of rip open.
Just think – when something turns out exactly as you’ve planned, there’s no lesson, celebration, high-fives or good cries. There’s just an open box.
But what if we more often embraced the concept of appreciating the boxes before us as gifts and being a wide-eyed children about their content-to-come? The unknown and uncertainties of life – without them, we’d be muddling along in some sort of Gattaca/Minority Report drum line, without any potential of a bad-ass, quirky bass line to turn our worlds upside down every now and then.
I think there’s a time and place for absolutes, but uncertainty’s omnipresence is the only absolute I’m willing to concede at this juncture. With a little shift of the mind (and perhaps opening of eyes and heart), we can see more of the boxes in front of us each day as gifts instead of cubes to shake the living shit out of and kill the surprise that accompanies the contents. Hell, I don’t know much – I’m just a twice-divorced gal who works her ass off and likes a good martini and live jazz. Take it or leave it – these thoughts of mine on uncertainty. But I’m thinking that my time might be better spent on unwrapping my life’s boxes bit by bit – changing those paper-ripping ways of mine and relishing each fold as it comes undone with the flick of a finger.
Just thinking about it brings a sly smirk to my face. There’s a lot uncertain in my life these days and if I had all the answers, my day to day wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. When we can relish each reveal and enjoy the time it takes for whatever we find perplexing/intriguing to become clear – I’m coming to discover that’s a hugely powerful place to be.
Bring on the motherfucking boxes, I say.
***special thanks to Sara for throwing the word uncertainty at me this week and if my therapists is reading this – yeah, I’m working on it.
On the Prowl: A ‘Cougar’ Scratches Back at the Denver Post
Posted by: | CommentsYou and I here all alone/Sunday morning here at home
The sky is blue as the coffee’s strong/It’s true
But then I open my eyes/To this dream realized
In front of me
Oh and I haven’t got a clue/What in the world is happening to me
I think I’m happy.Special note: this blog is being posted on a day where I have sworn to forego caffeine, Twitter hash tags, the f-bomb and all online conversations about food in order to benefit Autism Speaks. Welcome to an alternative breed of Redheaded Fury. It’s like the “softer side of Sears” – without the appliances.
********
Dear Douglas -
That’s my brother’s name. I like it. Just wanted to dash you a little letter about the article you published in the Denver Post on May 28. Yeah – the one about “cougars.” I believe it had the clever title “Cougars on the prowl in Colorado nightclubs.” Did you think of that yourself or did your older girlfriend help you with the overused play on words? Nevermind – it’s really not important. The last letter I wrote was to Chris Brown after he slapped Rihanna around. Congrats – you’ve made it to the big leagues on Redheaded Fury.
Just wanted to give you my elderly wisdom on a few things before I popped a Geritol and settled in on my couch wrapped cozily in my Snuggie for re-runs of Golden Girls. Won’t take but a sec – I can’t stay awake that long. After all, I’m 36. A cougar, by your definition. An “older woman.”
Now, being a twice-divorced and presently single woman, I think you’ve pegged my “breed” pretty well: running around town, looking for strange and preying on young, unsuspecting boys. Granted, it’s tough for me to find a place to park my electric scooter when I come rollin’ up to the clubs, but the doormen here in Denver always jump to help an old gal and then I’m parked in pretty short order. Now that I’m parked, I can put my teeth back in and have both hands free to flip you the bird.
Your article has done nothing to promote any sort of “investigative journalism” or alert the good citizens of Denver to a wrong in need of righting. What you have done, however, is heartily promote the stereotype of the “woman on the prowl” and put out some pretty jaded human nastiness in the process. Personally, I think your article belongs in the obituary section, as it’s merely a eulogy for the death of human discovery and the collective citizenry’s ability to evaluate another human being based on (deep breath) qualities other than age.
I found the woman in your article who described men her age (44) with a blanket label of “fat and gross” to be simply charming. An iconic example of what the average 44-year-old woman thinks and feels. Wherever did you find her? Ah yes – it was the Entitled aisle at the Safeway in Cherry Creek, I’m sure. Honestly, I don’t know where she’s looking as I see men of that age DAILY who are stunning specimens of what a good dose of testosterone can achieve. Then again, I’m old and my eyesight might be going.
What occurs to me is that your article has successfully achieved the creation of a complete caricature. A caricature of everyone in your article and those to whom you apply the tasteful age-restrictive labels of “cougar” and “manther.” (Personally, I’d always heard the term “Silver Fox” used, but no matter.) From the description of your subjects’ clothing to the venue and the pretty yet vapid boys, it’s all nothing but a superficial take. One thing I’ve learned in my old age is that if people are in search of the superficial, it’s what they’ll find. And honestly, they don’t quite care what designer label it’s wrapped in because it’s bound to end up on someone’s bedroom floor by the end of the evening. But maybe I can shed some light on “cougars” beyond the dim one at the bar at which you conducted your investigation on the mating rituals of the urban feline.
Riding my bike this morning along the Cherry Creek bike path, I found myself purposefully steering into every possible rain puddle I could access. Water splashing up on my legs, my face … I giggled and even openly laughed once. When I took a good look at myself upon arriving back at my car, the sight was laughable. And certainly not “pretty.” I was completely un”hit on”able. But you know what?
I had fun. Fun at 6AM this morning playing in rain puddles. And then I summarily went back to my house, hopped in the shower, got my girl on and headed into the office. Today, it’s a fabulous denim pencil skirt accompanied by a Calvin Klein wrap top and a pair of kick-you-in-the-nuts Charles David strappy sandals.
I’m your cougar.
The people in your article aren’t looking for love. They’re looking to hook-up. And what you fail to mention in the stunning examples throughout your article is that it takes two to tango and it ain’t about a “cougar on the prowl.” If an older man/woman is looking for fun and fun alone, they’re generally going to turn to a younger mate. Why? It’s the “fun factor.” And the fact that they’re not looking for anything serious. Have I done it? Oh, most certainly. And it was fun.
But at 36, I’m looking for more than the “fun factor.” Yes, fun is a huge consideration in the men with whom I choose to spend my time, but it goes beyond that – it’s humility as well. The humble process of opening yourself up to learning about someone (and allowing them to learn about you in return) – their history, their loves before you, their life. Their quirks.
The endearing quirks and idiosyncrasies that take a person from being someone who tells a good joke at a bar to being the person you want to laugh with on a Sunday morning in bed.
Your article brazenly bypasses any and all mention of the things that make us each human, painting a pathetic, two-dimensional view of dating after age 35 for those of us who refuse to settle. I think your piece is the weak antithesis to that Lori Gottlieb rib-tickler in The Atlantic last year (Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough) that chides women for not settling for any one of a slew of Mr. Good Enoughs and holding out for Mr.Right.
But I won’t settle. The lyrics above – one of my favorite songs ever – are what I’m looking for. The daily surprise of discovering something new about the man I’m learning to “fit” with, not really knowing where it’s all going to go but embracing the childlike laughter that escapes my lips each time we splash through one of my aforementioned rain puddles. And laughing even more each time I see him laugh back.
That’s why I’m single. Not because of what “society’s handed me” (as your character Ms. Spuelher believes). I’m lucky enough to have had two men in my life whom I’ve loved enough to take a swing at “forever.” While they didn’t ultimately end up with the fairy tale ending, I’m delighted. The gift of being 36 and single is that I learn more each day what I love, what I want…what I don’t…where to compromise. Why, looking back down my life’s hallway, even two years have changed my perspective on a lot of things. Time is a gift and not the curse or something to battle as your characters purport. I think the man to find me today is a lucky one, and he’ll be grateful for the time I’ve taken to be with myself, to explore my demons, revisit them and emerge a better person.
I’m the cougar you speak of, along with every woman out there who enjoys time with her friends – regardless of their age, gender, looks or financial status. We go to bars on occasion, we carouse and engage in mischief…and we’re delightfully embracing the value of friendship and self-discovery while we look for our own “Happy.” So take your kitty-cat labels and characters shaped with your superficially glazed pen and step aside. This cougar is looking forward to the day she has a man in her life whose lap she can curl-up on, soaking in a sunbeam as it glides through a window on a lazy Sunday morning. As he strokes my hair, it’s likely I’ll even purr. And I look forward to doing the same for him.
There is one thing you DID get right in your article, however:
…Cougarism is more complicated than the reductive picture forged in TV shows, comedy monologues and the snide commentary of office e-mails.
It’s about being 36, loving my life, and having enough balls to tell you your article was the most ridiculous piece of pulp I’ve read since Gottlieb’s abomination on the inherent value of “settling.” We cougars – we’re snappy little cats, ain’t we?
Now excuse me – I have to pay my bar tab and get my scooter out of valet.
Yours Truly,
The Redhead (me-ow)
Fuck the Small Print Disclaimer (a diatribe on the life less lived)
Posted by: | Comments
the coolest catch around...YOU
“Don’t reserve your best behavior for special occasions. You can’t have two sets of manners, two social codes – one for those you admire and want to impress, another for those whom you consider unimportant. You must be the same to all people.”
~Lillian Eichler Watson
Today, one of my followers on Twitter asked me to “keep the street talk off Twitter.” I told him to fuck off – in a nice way, naturally (seriously: see the tweet here). In a world where so many people are one person in certain situations and a completely different person in others, this week I chose to openly ponder life’s “small print disclaimers.” Those warnings that sneak their way into our lives on the side of coffee cups and tags on the cords of our blow dryers. At the bottom of contracts (or on every page). Carefully crafted words of legalese that are detached yet cautionary, warning us that life could ass rape us at any moment with even the mildest of missteps.
But what about the small print disclaimer that no one ever talks about?
“WARNING: Person enclosed isn’t who they appear to be.”
We’ve all endured the discovery process of learning a colleague/friend/lover isn’t the frothy latte goodness that floated at the top of life’s cup. And contrarily, I’ve had the delight of learning that some people thought to be unsavory on a first look were actually pretty damn nifty. But what if we humans made the whole process a bit less complicated for one another?
I’ve found it to be completely exhausting to be someone I’m not. Hence, I’ve done away with the practice. Following my last divorce (yes, for those who don’t know, The Redhead has been married twice), I came to the glaring realization that I had no bloody idea what in the world I liked. What I wanted. Where I wanted to go. Did I like Girl Scout Cookies? Do I want to go camping? Is pudding important to me?
I’d lost ME.
Confident that it’s not such a rare thing to have lost my ME along the road of life, I set about the highly enjoyable process of finding my ME. While a journey I still delightfully enjoy each day, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of getting off the Isle of N’t and embracing the essence of The Redhead.
Throughout life, we’re faced with those who ask us to not be ourselves and to live along side them on the Isle of N’t. It’s the most populous place on Earth, methinks, as everyone there is riddled with the Shouldn’ts and Wouldn’ts and Didn’t and Hadn’ts.
You Shouldn’t … I wish I Hadn’t … If I Didn’t … If I did this, they Wouldn’t …
Many-a-time, we move ourselves to the Isle of N’t and surrender to the games our minds play. Our minds – the most masterful opponents we have in this chess match of life. We talk ourselves into and out of things, rationalize and make excuses – and for what? Because we simply cannot accept that we do/think/like/hate what we actually do. With a twisted soundtrack of “One of these things is not like the other…” playing in the background, we begin the process of detaching from our MEs.
The womb-like comfort of the Isle of N’t is the ideal environment for ME loss. We’re consistently surrounded by political correctness and propriety, afraid to offend and more afraid of having already done so. Dismissing what we like in favor of what we’re told we should like, abandoning what we would like to do for what we’re told we should be doing, we surrender those pesky thoughts we had about who we are and what we believe because people just don’t think that way. And before we know it, this is who we’ve become:
WARNING: The Redhead enclosed in this body has more thoughts than she’ll let appear. Praise will be disingenuous and scolding is completely artificial. She’ll eat whatever you’re eating and go wherever you’re going because she thinks you like Her only for what she’s let you see, not the REAL Her she’s buried deep inside. Too afraid to lose anything in her life, she’ll idle along with false friends because bad ones are better than having none at all. She’ll use the one skill she has remaining – rationalization – to refine any situation into one that’s bearable, purely out of fear of tipping over life’s canoe and taking a dip in the River of Life. And she’s probably wearing a padded bra, too.
And this is why I told my follower to get lost on Twitter today.
I moved off the Isle of N’t quite some time ago and have never looked back. My regular readers know that I operate without a filter or censor button and frankly, I adore it. Maybe if you read my droning regularly you do as well and live your life in a similar fashion. Recapturing my ME has been a joyous, tearful, years-long carnival ride and I’ll be the first one to shell out duckets at the ticket booth just so they don’t kick me off the tilt-a-whirl.
The small print disclaimers – I think they’re for the fearful. Those who require direction at every step and who would want chocolate if they got vanilla (and vice versa). They’re the folks who won’t send their food back if it comes out wrong and those who shudder at the thought of saying what they really think.
Face it: we all know that coffee in an insulated cup is HOT. Quit trying to blame someone else for the fact that you’re drinking in your car, hit a pothole and spilled the shit all over your suit, burning yourself in the process.
It’s a fuller life, the one without the small print disclaimer, but I try to never forget there’s a difference between:
being unapologetic about your ME and thinking you never have to apologize.
being blunt and being mean.
loving and needing to be loved.
wanting to take the wheel and drive and going along for the ride.
saying what you mean and talking to hear the sound of your own voice.
At 36, I’m grateful for the fact that I’ve learned the difference between my ass and a hole in the ground … as well as having embraced the differences in the soils I walk on throughout my life. My ass goes in my jeans and the soil – I can pick it up, smell it, sense rain that’s recently fallen, plant things in it, clean it from the bottom of my dogs’ feet and be thankful for the fact that it’s what allows my feet to continue along on the journey of ME.
I said “fuck the small print disclaimer” years ago and will continue to shed those people and things throughout life that try to hush my soul when it speaks and tell me my way isn’t the right one. It’s their loss, really… those people who don’t embrace your ME. Whether an employer, friend, colleague, foe or virtual fan – you can do better for your life and you owe it to yourself to live fully, loudly, and sometimes “inappropriately” in the eyes of others. Get naughty – put peanut butter on your eggs and drop an f-bomb or two at the dinner table. If it’s honest – if it’s your ME speaking – then you’ll feel that womb-like comfort of a content life wash over you, radiating from the inside out.
Or you can just hide on the Isle of N’t. I hear everybody there is reaaaaaaaaaally nice.
