Chivalry is not dead. It’s just re-purposed. 🙂
I ran across a joke website a few years ago and it cracked me up laughing. It was a blank page with 2 lines that read “You Have Reached the End of the Internet! It’s time to go outside and get on with your life. I guess there is a limit to things you can find or do on the internet. I’ve researched everything I could possibly imagine 8 ways from Sunday.
So I’m standing at the crossroads again. It’s time to crawl back out of my temporary shell and get on with my life. Oh, if it were that simple. I’m leaving Saturday for a week-long beach trip with 2 girlfriends. Looking forward to the vacation itself, but not looking forward to packing or the airport. And I’m really, really not looking forward to doing the spread eagle in that body scanner machine. It’s just yucky, there’s no other word for it.
I wish that I could just wiggle my nose and magically be on the beach with an ice-cold mojito in my hand. But I have to pack and hate that. I’m afraid that if I start packing too early my cat will get in a snit and pee in my suitcase. Have you ever had the feeling that you have to hide the fact that you’re leaving from your pets? Like you’re doing something wrong and you have to be all furtive about it. But you can’t hide – they know you’re up to something. They’re little furry 4 legged mind readers.
I snuck a load of laundry in today and tried to keep a straight, innocent face. Like “hey, I do laundry all the time – nothing going on here.” Mr. Kitty will bust me though when I start sorting my toiletries and stacking clothes on the bed trying to decide what to bring with me. There’s no fooling him. I wish I could just sit him down and explain “Kitty, it’s true I am leaving town, but the big furry beast, the Hubman, is staying here. You won’t be left alone, God forbid, or packed up in a crate and shipped off to the cat hotel.
Animals are so real. They act on their emotions, no bull about it. “You have offended me oh great one, therefore I shat upon your bath mat!”
But, I’m going anyway; I’m not going to let a cat run my life.
Men will confess to treason, murder, arson, false teeth, or a wig. How many of them will own up to a lack of humor? Frank Moore Colby (1865-1925) American educator and writer
A sense of humor is a gift from the Gods. I don’t know I would have survived as long as I have without one. It always puzzling to encounter a person who is obviously doing everything they can to squelch theirs. Even people blessed with creative nature. There seems to be this social convention that the best artist or poet is a tortured soul. Maybe they are just the ones who get the most attention.
Lately I’ve been reading tons of books related to Bipolar disorder. I need to sit down and list them just so I can keep track of them all. It’s not just morbid curiosity because this particular silver hammer fell on my head at a visit to head doctor a few months ago.
One overriding theme in almost all the books so far is the fear that medication to treat the manic phase of bipolar will some how rob someone of their creativity. I had that same fear and also the fear that I would sit around like a lump of clay and not laugh about anything, especially after coming across “inappropriate laughter” as a listed symptom of mania.
I did go through a mild phase of that right after starting meds until my body adjusted. But looking back, my creativity was not gone; it just got put on a high shelf out of harm’s way until I found my way back to the center and balanced. True there are days when I feel like I’m barely balanced on the head of a pin, but most days are good days.
I prefer to view inappropriate laughter as laughing out loud at a time when it will cause emotional harm to those around you. Seeing the humor even in death is not necessarily a marker for mental illness. I bolster my case by referring you to the Darwin awards (see example below). It’s a site that list stories of people who removed themselves from the gene pool by killing themselves accidentally in incredibly stupid ways. For example; making drunken love on a commuter train track, standing on a wheelchair on a balcony to water hanging plants, trying to use a lawn chair with helium balloons as a form of travel, etc.
I did actually have to squelch what would probably have been inappropriate laughter at a funeral once. The woman in the coffin was a friend who died tragically at a young age in a car crash.
I covered my face and just shook until the feeling turned to tears of grief. The need to laugh part was from wanting to howl, slap my knee and say “Girl, I’ve been telling you for years that you shouldn’t be texting, putting on makeup and giving yourself a manicure all at the same time while driving down the highway at 80 miles an hour, drunk at 3:00am.
Hmmm, wonder if she was a bit manic at the time? I’d like to think she’s sitting up on a cloud somewhere thinking “Yea, yea, so you were right. When you get here someday, I’m gonna slap you! Then we’ll do belly shots off of hot looking pretty boy angels.”
(12 April 2008, Florida) Traffic was moving slowly on southbound I-95. Shawn M. had recently left a Pompano Beach bar, and now he was stuck in traffic. As the saying goes, you don’t buy beer–you just rent it, and Shawn couldn’t wait another moment to relieve himself. “I need to take a leak,” he told his friends.
Traffic was deadlocked, so the waterlogged man climbed out, put his hand on the divider, and jumped over the low concrete wall… only to fall 65 feet to his death. “He probably thought there was a road, but there wasn’t,” said a Fort Lauderdale police spokesman. The car was idling on an overpass above the railroad lines.
His mother shared her thoughts. “Shawn didn’t do a whole lot for a living. He got along on his charm, just like his father.”
Though his death was tragic, Shawn’s downfall proves the old adage: Look before you leak!
“Guess he was dying to go.”
“He shoulda peed in a bottle.”
“Apparently it was just his time to go.”
Reading a blog I follow started my day off with a good chuckle. That’s the best way to start a day, in my opinion. The post was I’ll Drive The Getaway, You Bring The Glue. It was a quickie with a good laugh at the end. What could be better on a roasting hot Texas morning?
But it got me thinking about death, dying and humor. Approaching the whole thing with humor is better that the alternatives, fear, trembling, screaming, hysteria, etc. I know I will cross that thresh hold someday. Better to laugh about it than fear it everyday until that fateful day. It’s a waste of brain function and adrenalin better used for other things.
Gallagher’s post reminded me of a joke I heard. Don’t remember where or who to attribute it to..so hear goes. “When I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep….not screaming in terror like the passengers in my car!” I snort every time I think about this, and of course hope that if I go in my sleep that I’m in bed or on the sofa, not driving a carload of friends. I’m perfectly OK with going it alone. This is one journey that I don’t want to take anyone with me. Unless of course, they are the cause of my demise. Then they are welcome to join me.***evil grin***
But on a semi-serious note. It is a kindness to loved ones to express your final wishes. Especially when it comes down what to do with your remains. Don’t make grieving people decide. Never did get my grandmother to tell me what she wanted done, where she wanted to be buried or anything relevant to her impending death. As a result she’s in a container from the crematorium wrapped in a blue velvet bag on the top shelf of the amoire in my office. Mother gets a kick out of it. She says it looks just like the bag Crown Royal bourbon comes in. I agree with her and Grandmommie would be spinning in her grave, if she had one. But she doesn’t and it’s because she wouldn’t tell me what she wanted, dammit!
I am reasonably sure I want to be cremated with one condition. I must be dead first! Then I want to be in a pretty cloisonne urn with pink roses on it. The jar can reside on the mantel, shrine or other place of honor for a limited time or until someone gets tired of dusting it. Then send it to where ever it is that one sends funeral urns for the rest of eternity.
If you fail to plan your fun you plan to not have much fun. That’s my words of wisdom for today.
Life is like a pocket-book. It will fill up with stuff and clutter before you know it, if you don’t pay attention. I’m finding that lists of things that I “have” to do or “emergencies” will pretty much fill up the whole day if I don’t make sure to have some fun stuff penciled in. Some emergencies are real emergencies. Others are what I called manufactured emergencies. Things like putting off tasks until they reach crisis mode. It continues to amaze me how Mr. Husband and his mother can take some little minor task and turn it into a 3 day stress fest. A day to freak out about it before hand with endless phone discussions, an entire day for 2 people to do something that should take 1 person no more than 30 minutes, and then a day to recuperate from the self-inflicted trauma of it all. This task can be as minor as putting gas in the car.
This all came to me in a stroke of grumpy genius when I woke up cold at 5:30 this morning. Mr. Husband’s dirty fan that “he can’t sleep without” blowing in my face. Funny he wakes up many mornings complaining of a sinus headache and can’t seem to figure out why. Then he blames it on the cat. Maybe blowing dust up your nose all night has something to do with it, My Love. Oh, nooooo, that can’t be it. The cat must have been shoving his tail in my face all night long. That has to be the reason.
It’s funny how a little fan can become a bone of contention or a catch 22. If I turn off the fan he gets mad, especially if I trip over the ammo locker at the foot of the bed and fall on him while stumbling around in the dark. But, if I give up and get out of bed and go to another room, he comes trailing after me and grumbles “well why didn’t you just turn off the fan?” Yea right. I’m not falling for that one again. What I may do is check if the circus is in town and take the fan down there and ask them to shoot it out of a cannon. A splash down somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico works for me. Or I could drive it up to Kansas, land of the pumpkin cannon, and pay them to launch it into orbit. By the time it comes down we’ll have moved on to some other quibble.
So what I’ve realized once again at 5:30 am, my personal witching hour, is that I’m going to have to break down and plan. Bleh, plan is a 4 letter word for me. I need to let that go. But, that is because I spent forty years planning stuff for other people in big corporation land. Plans I didn’t give a fig about. My usual take was “oh goody, we get to have a 2 hour staff meeting to talk about all the things we have to do this year (that we don’t want to do) in a timely manner. Then we can nail each to the cross for missing deadlines and failing to stick to the plan. After that we can write reports, that no one reads, about how our plan is going to be better next year.” Then we all put on the hair shirts and talk about “continuous improvement” and the cycle began again. I know, excuses, excuses.
My life is important to me! So I’ve decided that I need to take it a little more seriously and plan the stuff I want to do. And not just the big fun stuff like travel. The daily fun stuff, the take care of me and my relationship with Mr. Hub and others is important too. When I’m sitting there in a stupor in the morning with a cup of coffee in my hand, nothing is going to fly past my radar. Even figuring out what to wear becomes a herculean effort. Not having to “dress for success” anymore has a few drawbacks. I’ve ended up in some pretty bizarre outfits lately because I put on whatever is the easiest to grab. Then if I want to leave the house I have to redress because I’m embarrassed to be seen in the current ensemble. When I have to change my outfit just to go the local convenience store something is wrong.
So I plan to have a plan…soon.