Normally, my boobs get tender and I have a slightly lower threshold to deal with things that are annoying. This time (and this is an actual idea that I worked out in my head and determined to be plausible, under the influence of spiked estrogen levels), I was thinking about carrying a paintbull gun, both in my car and in my purse. In my vision, the one in my purse looked like a glock that pegged very-deserving people with multi-colored hard balls of paint. It would be so absurd that they could hardly be mad at me for causing them the pain and bruising…..and I’m sure the look on my face would be way too “unstable” for any sort of retaliation.
The one in my car would be used solely for cyclists. “Thank you for saving the earth, but stop pretending you’re a car…..or a pedestrian. Or worse, both….you greedy shits. Pick a set of rules and abide by them. If you’re going to be a car, go the speed limit….stop at red lights……BE a car. If you’re going to be a pedestrian….no, I take that back….don’t ride on the fucking side walk!!!! There’s all ready too many of you and pedestrians are becoming the extinct transportation dinosaur.” So, yes…the paintball gun in my glove box would be for cyclists.
Today at work, my co-worker Jen was trying to defend that girls aren’t crazy. (The irony is that while she’s soap-boxing on the topic, I’m battling in my own head with different levels of female hormones who have begun to take on a sort of population of schizophrenic, multiple personalities. My distraction shifts back and forth between the unstable inner monologue(s) and Jen’s dissertation.) Finally, I just tell her- - “Jen, we’re all crazy. We’re sisters in craziness. We just all have to silence ourselves when we know that our thought process is being dictated by our ovaries and associated bodily processes and that, to the outside world, our thoughts and opinions may be temporarily off kilter and ill-received…..so we “get quiet” (well, that’s what I do when I “get quiet” anyway).” which I followed up with (I probably should have quit while I was “ahead“….Oh, there you are 20/20 hindsight. You certainly are a jester with critical timing.) “Like sometime Drew will leave his clothes in a pile on the floor…and some days when I see them I’m thinking, Grrrrr, that’s SO annoying! Why does that he do that?! and then other days, something in the back of my head chimes in, Burn down the fucking house!….and I’m like, Wait…..what?!?! Shhhhh. Jesus, don’t say that.” Everyone laughed hard, which dissipated into awkward laughter…..which gave way to cautious stares that begged of one another, “Is Emily going to kill us?” Whenever I say something of this nature, I like to deliver the punch line….and then walk away. Then I like to come back and hand out Kool-Aid or partially-opened candy…..just to fuck with them. I don’t really….I actually just thought of that and the more I roll it over in my mouth, the more it sounds like a hilarious idea….only my timing is never that good. Not even in what-should-be a flawless theoretical model in my head.
Another thing. Drew and I recently got cable again. At first, I rejoiced because I was tired of expending brain cells trying to figure out which DVDs to re-watch every night. But now that we have it, I’ve gotten reacquainted with being wholly un-entertained by what television offers. My taste in TV shows has evolved to the point where nothing is interesting, and nothing is worthy of my attention……except the most horrifically inane of shows. Reality shows, Fuel TV (where people skateboard and surf all day…..which is also bizarre, because I have a general distaste for skateboarders. I like them theoretically, but I encounter few that I’m pleased to meet.), Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, The Hills…..I mean, crucify me, but these shows are the only thing that even evoke a second glance, or the channel-changing equivalent of a double-take.
I mean, I understand someone who hates their job, comes home and turns on the shows that are the most epitomizing of schadenfreud….just to relish in other peoples’ misery and smile at the horrific genetic hand that life dealt them….and feel better about their own day, even for an hour (because, hey…someone has it worse than they do)….However, I’m not employing that method at all.
I’m doing something completely different that defeats everything that the first method strives for. I’m coming home from a shitty, miserable day at an unfulfilling job….and instead of watching Jerry Springer (wow, that’s become a cliché entity unto itself) I’m watching shows about people who have it so much better and easier than me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Either jealousy has become a welcome part of our female culture and lives that we’ve just embraced it as normal- -or I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. Or I hate myself. Or the estrogen is involved in high-stake bets with both my brain AND progesterone that estrogen can make me bulimic by the season finale of The Hills. (God, let’s hope.)
Either way, this television schadenfreud made me think about the American culture NOW, and how that is a direct product of our culture and society NOW…..and then I contemplated what people used to do about feeling better after a long, shitty 9-5 when America was in different times. (Walk with me, if you will….) The days of keeping yourself entertained in “wholesome, fun ways”….the days where Americans weren’t fearful of exercise…..or leaving the comforts of their car to get dinner…..the days where people read books. Ahhh (sigh). There it is. The days when our country wasn’t the intellectual butt of every joke amongst our global peers. I thought about “literary schadenfreud”…because when I came home today from work (still swearing under my breath……maybe even twitching) the thought of watching TV annoyed me without even attempting to turn the damn thing on (also, I scoured the TV Guide last night, and I feel mostly confident that there’s nothing that I would deem “worth watching” on right now….but that’s neither here nor there). The book I’ve been reading is staring at me from the countertop and as I glanced at it I thought, “my book is about twins, and one is schizophrenic and is ruining his twin’s brother’s life….Gosh(!), that will make me feel better!” So, I guess in lieu of the self-loathing…I’m going to read about the fictional folly of Dominick and Thomas and feel better about everything in my life, because even though I’m probably an honorary member of the Schizophrenic community…..I’m not a diagnosable defective……which makes me feel that much better. (Sigh). Then maybe after I finish this, I’ll pick up Angela’s Ashes…..
The one in my car would be used solely for cyclists. “Thank you for saving the earth, but stop pretending you’re a car…..or a pedestrian. Or worse, both….you greedy shits. Pick a set of rules and abide by them. If you’re going to be a car, go the speed limit….stop at red lights……BE a car. If you’re going to be a pedestrian….no, I take that back….don’t ride on the fucking side walk!!!! There’s all ready too many of you and pedestrians are becoming the extinct transportation dinosaur.” So, yes…the paintball gun in my glove box would be for cyclists.
Today at work, my co-worker Jen was trying to defend that girls aren’t crazy. (The irony is that while she’s soap-boxing on the topic, I’m battling in my own head with different levels of female hormones who have begun to take on a sort of population of schizophrenic, multiple personalities. My distraction shifts back and forth between the unstable inner monologue(s) and Jen’s dissertation.) Finally, I just tell her- - “Jen, we’re all crazy. We’re sisters in craziness. We just all have to silence ourselves when we know that our thought process is being dictated by our ovaries and associated bodily processes and that, to the outside world, our thoughts and opinions may be temporarily off kilter and ill-received…..so we “get quiet” (well, that’s what I do when I “get quiet” anyway).” which I followed up with (I probably should have quit while I was “ahead“….Oh, there you are 20/20 hindsight. You certainly are a jester with critical timing.) “Like sometime Drew will leave his clothes in a pile on the floor…and some days when I see them I’m thinking, Grrrrr, that’s SO annoying! Why does that he do that?! and then other days, something in the back of my head chimes in, Burn down the fucking house!….and I’m like, Wait…..what?!?! Shhhhh. Jesus, don’t say that.” Everyone laughed hard, which dissipated into awkward laughter…..which gave way to cautious stares that begged of one another, “Is Emily going to kill us?” Whenever I say something of this nature, I like to deliver the punch line….and then walk away. Then I like to come back and hand out Kool-Aid or partially-opened candy…..just to fuck with them. I don’t really….I actually just thought of that and the more I roll it over in my mouth, the more it sounds like a hilarious idea….only my timing is never that good. Not even in what-should-be a flawless theoretical model in my head.
Another thing. Drew and I recently got cable again. At first, I rejoiced because I was tired of expending brain cells trying to figure out which DVDs to re-watch every night. But now that we have it, I’ve gotten reacquainted with being wholly un-entertained by what television offers. My taste in TV shows has evolved to the point where nothing is interesting, and nothing is worthy of my attention……except the most horrifically inane of shows. Reality shows, Fuel TV (where people skateboard and surf all day…..which is also bizarre, because I have a general distaste for skateboarders. I like them theoretically, but I encounter few that I’m pleased to meet.), Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, The Hills…..I mean, crucify me, but these shows are the only thing that even evoke a second glance, or the channel-changing equivalent of a double-take.
I mean, I understand someone who hates their job, comes home and turns on the shows that are the most epitomizing of schadenfreud….just to relish in other peoples’ misery and smile at the horrific genetic hand that life dealt them….and feel better about their own day, even for an hour (because, hey…someone has it worse than they do)….However, I’m not employing that method at all.
I’m doing something completely different that defeats everything that the first method strives for. I’m coming home from a shitty, miserable day at an unfulfilling job….and instead of watching Jerry Springer (wow, that’s become a cliché entity unto itself) I’m watching shows about people who have it so much better and easier than me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Either jealousy has become a welcome part of our female culture and lives that we’ve just embraced it as normal- -or I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. Or I hate myself. Or the estrogen is involved in high-stake bets with both my brain AND progesterone that estrogen can make me bulimic by the season finale of The Hills. (God, let’s hope.)
Either way, this television schadenfreud made me think about the American culture NOW, and how that is a direct product of our culture and society NOW…..and then I contemplated what people used to do about feeling better after a long, shitty 9-5 when America was in different times. (Walk with me, if you will….) The days of keeping yourself entertained in “wholesome, fun ways”….the days where Americans weren’t fearful of exercise…..or leaving the comforts of their car to get dinner…..the days where people read books. Ahhh (sigh). There it is. The days when our country wasn’t the intellectual butt of every joke amongst our global peers. I thought about “literary schadenfreud”…because when I came home today from work (still swearing under my breath……maybe even twitching) the thought of watching TV annoyed me without even attempting to turn the damn thing on (also, I scoured the TV Guide last night, and I feel mostly confident that there’s nothing that I would deem “worth watching” on right now….but that’s neither here nor there). The book I’ve been reading is staring at me from the countertop and as I glanced at it I thought, “my book is about twins, and one is schizophrenic and is ruining his twin’s brother’s life….Gosh(!), that will make me feel better!” So, I guess in lieu of the self-loathing…I’m going to read about the fictional folly of Dominick and Thomas and feel better about everything in my life, because even though I’m probably an honorary member of the Schizophrenic community…..I’m not a diagnosable defective……which makes me feel that much better. (Sigh). Then maybe after I finish this, I’ll pick up Angela’s Ashes…..
No comments:
Post a Comment