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Fakking Hilarious

Found whilst scrounging around the Internets for GIFs.

OMG!  Pin!

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Suburban Soul Fillin’

Envy

“Envy is the art of counting the other fellow’s blessings instead of your own.”
― Harold G. Coffin

Recently I have been exploring the differences between envy and jealousy.  I was always pretty clear on the latter, but have found more than one meaning of the former.

One says that envy consists of “a feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.”  Okay.  Got it.  However, the second maintains that envy is “best defined as a resentful emotion that “occurs when a person lacks another’s (perceived) superior quality, achievement or possession and wishes that the other lacked it.”

Now, see, all this time, I’ve avoided using the word jealousy,  because it alludes to a fear of personal loss.  I used envy instead, because in most cases, I simply coveted some thing or quality possessed by someone else.  That said, I don’t recall ever crossing the line and wishing the other person didn’t have it…just that I wanted it, too.

This is all blather until I put it in some kind of context.  I should do that, now.

In this past year and a half, my self-esteem has taken a severe beating, for the most part self-inflicted.  Due to a back injury, I was unable to work out and had to abandon a career path with a strong physical component.  That was the one part I wasn’t responsible for.  Then I got depressed.  I mean, really depressed.  The kind of depression that allows you to only be productive enough to piggle your toenails all day, drink too much and slop together a meagre meal for the fam.  I stopped writing.  My hair got stringy.  Yoga pants became an essential part of the uniform.  And thus began a vicious cycle.

In the meanwhile, though, life was toodling merrily along without my input or presence.  Solipsistic Erin was first amazed, then quickly crestfallen.  How can  So-And-So still write so well?  How can So-And-So be so clean all the time?  How can  So-And-So avoid drinking for a whole month?  How can So-And-So be going on vacay?  How can  So-And-So go jogging, eat Paleo, talk professionally, meet cool people, get a job, be out in the world so confidently?

I really got envious of So-And-So, lemme tellya.

Thing is, I never wanted  So-And-So to lose what she or he had to start with, I just found myself fantasizing about how lovely it would be to have those things/qualities, too.  Lord knows I had intentions toward getting ’em, but I’ve been hearing bad things about intentions and now avoid them when at all possible…like corn oil or Nestlé products.

One of the only rays of sunshine in being a directionless, unemployable SAHM is that you’re available to yak to other like-situationed pals during they day, because hey, no job.  One friend of mine in particular has been trying to find his groove for years.   Our circumstances are quite different, however our mutual feelings about the whole mess bear a striking resemblance.  Generally we commiserate and hate on the world for a bit, however this morning we really got into the guts of it.  After indulging each others’ need to rant, he sent me this:

I for one have learned something about myself since 2002:

Number one:  you must be honest with yourself.  Life altering self-initiated changes don’t make a lot of sense when you know deep down that you’re denying yourself the opportunity be happy;  it almost always ends in tears and regret.

Number two: position yourself to include all the things that you really enjoy.  Denying yourself these opportunities will leave you unhappy and second-guessing your decisions.  Surround yourself with what fills your soul.

Though I had come to these conclusions myself at one time or another, I think I must have thrown them in a drawer somewhere, or on top of a bookshelf, because when I went looking for them, I found them all dusty and giving off a kind of mildewy smell.  Dusted them, sprayed them with Lysol, and now they’re looking – if not totally shiny and new – definitely passable.

So I’m back here, for better or worse, and have picked up an old W.P. Kinsella I haven’t read in a while.  Not a bad start.  In any case, today it fills my soul.

Matisse woman-reading

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What’s Your Life?

More Kool-Aid?
~I’d LOVE some!

So you’re at that interminable suburban dinner party, staring at the faux ficus and wondering why in the hell you agreed to come.

A beaming Yogazon approaches, spritzer in hand, oblivious to your feck-off-and-go-talk-to-someone-else body language.  She introduces herself (Kim/Kelly/Sharon/Julie) and launches right off with the most reviled question of all time;

“So what do YOU do?”

Me? I’m a photographer!

I’ve hated this question since I had a ‘real’ job, which has been almost a decade now, but even more so since being an SAHM.  What’s the appropriate response?  “I specialize in handmade creative play clay, non-organic PBJ sandwich construction, agenda note-checking, language acquisition and organization of various lessons, including water safety, body movement and artistic expression in various mediums”?  Sure.  But as I glance nervously at my shoes, it comes out sounding more like, “I stay at home with my kids.”  Guilty, awkward grimace.

Fer der kerds lurnches! Derp.

Why is our society so determined to identify and classify each other by our work occupations?  I mean, if you’re a studly Robert Kincaid type, getting sent all over the world taking breathtaking pictures for National Geographic and poking lonely Italian farm wives, then great.  If you quit your job driving a school bus to pursue your dream of building tree houses out of non-toxic, reclaimed materials for inner-city playgrounds, awesome!  You’re the monk that sold his Ferrari?  Let’s yak!  If it’s your passion, feel free to regale the crowd.  But for the majority of us, the response to the question only tells the other person what we do from 9-5.  And what happens during that eight hours, m’dear, is usually hardly enough to  define us.  Taxonomy=Fail.

A number of years ago, when I had two very young chitlins at home and was looking for any way to 1) get the hell away from them for any period of time and 2) start reshaping my body into something a little less Danny DeVitoesque, I decided to take up Aikido.  Aikido is a non-aggressive martial art which teaches how to wind down one’s opponent, using their energy against them…which is, as you can imagine, a pretty dope skill for a harried mother to possess.

One day I got paired up with a brown belt.  She gave off a kind of Mary Hartman vibe, but she was a real bruiser.  When it was time to take a break, we grabbed our water and sat down on the mat together.

Mousy housewife you say?
I’ll kick yer ass!

“What’s your life?” she asked.

I was flummoxed.  No one had ever asked me that before and truth be told, I didn’t understand what she meant at first.  Then it dawned on me; she wanted to know what my real life was, who I loved, what I loved to do, what I’d love to do sometime in the future, and she didn’t give a flying fuckadoo whether I was the CEO or cleaned the CEO’s office by day.  My eyes poured forth amber lovelight.

As the years have passed, I’ve heard the question posed a gadgillion more times, give or take a googol.  I still twitch a little when I hear it, but I understand that it’s just another one of those lowest-common-denominator phrases people say to each other, like the obligatory “how are you?” or “how was your weekend?” or “how long you think ’til the Biebs asks Selena to borrow her Louboutins?”

Me, I want us to share the important stuff, what we love.  What’s your life?

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