The reasoning power of humanity pisses me off. Because something is so, does not mean that it is right. Because something is happening everywhere does not mean that it should. Because lots of people have done something and survived without harm does not prove an activity is safe. My mom once pointed that out to me saying she had run out into the road without looking many times as a child and never once got hurt--yet few of us would encourage that behavior. And finally, and this one particularly irritates the crazy nerves in my brain, because something is "natural" does not make it good. Arsenic is natural, people.
I've had people tell me they refuse to take drugs, even over the counter drugs, in favor of "all-natural" homeopathic medicines. In other words, such a person would not take morphine (which is an opiate that comes from the poppy flower) but would take chamomile, st john's wort, or Valerian root (which comes from other flowers.) I can only assume that poppies are less "natural" than chamomile. People will defend their drugs of choice, explaining pot is natural whereas meth is a manufactured poison, and I agree I'd certainly wish people chose pot over meth, however, the terms poison and natural are not antonyms. Hemlock, belladonna, arsenic--yep all natural.
Now where this really gets me is in defending and defining human behavior. We need to learn that because a behavior is natural, it does not defend its social, moral or ethical righteousness. If you wish to defend or define a behavior as good or bad, beneficial or not, then please do so without using the word "natural." I'm seriously begging here.
The Example Conversation:
"My significant other has cheated on me and I'm devastated."
"Oh, well that's only natural that the significant other would want to sleep with other attractive people. Sex is a powerful, natural, human drive."
"I guess you are right. I feel so stupid for feeling devastated now."
I don't think many of us would argue that sex is a powerful, natural, human drive. And certainly given that, it is natural to have sexual attraction to people throughout your life whether or not you are currently in a relationship. However, few of us would vehemently argue that therefore adultery is an "all natural goodness" included for your benefit in your life diet. The urge behind adultery is indeed natural; however, that does not make it right. This is a point we've agreed on as a culture because we don't like it happening to us. We think its bad because its hurts like hell; it can be devastating. This is also true of the natural urges to punch some one's face through the back of the skull, the urge to steal the pretty sweater we cannot afford, and certainly we agree that the urge to kill or rape (although some argue that those are not a natural urge) are also bad.
Where I'm personally stuck, and although I seem to be in the minority, I'm not alone, is that I have a similar problem with a natural human behavioral drive, but unlike something like adultery or theft, most of the modern western world thinks it's ok. But not one single person has ever given me a reason other than "its natural--everybody agrees--so just get over it."
I never talk about it with other people anymore. Everyone looks at me with surprise, then they say, as if I'm stupidly unaware, "It's natural." I'm not disagreeing with that point, I'm just saying I don't think that one point can justify the argument as a whole. And for me, this issue can be devastating.
And no, I'm not gonna say what it is. You may know me and already know, or you might be able to guess, but let me assure you I will dodge any conversation you try and have with me about it. Why? Because it does not help my feelings of devastation to be made fun of for this.
I wish people would understand THAT point. Even if you truly believe it is natural, and therefore beneficial, and that I'm irrationally crazy for feeling as I do (which considering my being in the minority on the issue I'm honestly willing to concede) it does not change the fact I truly feel this way. Calling me stupid will not change my mind any more than the tactic I most often see wherein you merely repeat at me:
"It's natural, you know."
Sigh. "Yeah, so's arsenic."
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Beer Report
I have a friend (http://www.barenada.com/) who in his blog has a regularly recurring post, his Friday Beer Report. He tells of his evening(s) but mentions the beers he drank, with special notes or reviews on new beers.
So in parody--er, homage--I post the following.
With my condition I was left with few options in the beer world, and knowing this I narrowed my choices down by country, figuring surely a German non-alcoholic beer would be better than any where else, since German's have an old history of pilners and lagers, which is the style of all the non-alcoholics I've ever seen.
Clausthaler
Although labeled a non-alcoholic, it does contain (like pretty much all non-alcoholic beers) some alcohol, this one ringing it at a fairly high o.5 percent. However, this was still too little alcohol to prevent it spoiling. It tasted precisely like an Old Milwaukee with hints of skunkiness.
For those who know me, you understand that although I've drank many ounces of many types of many beers from many countries, I've never tried any of the 'non-alcoholics' before. But, I'm preggers, and was in my favorite beer-drinking spot. To perfect the irony, Rich-o's was in the middle of its annual Gravity Head festival (high gravity gives high alcohol for those who've not enjoyed this festival before.)
I plan next time I try such a beer to try an O'douls Amber, in hopes the caramel coloring will give it a hint of hoppiness.
It all reminds me of something that happened a couple of years ago. I worked with an Irishman named Bill, who'd been in America for about 4 years at that time. We were at work and he was stuck in line behind me at the computer where we enter orders.
"Hurry up, there." He teases me while poking me in the back.
"Hey, gimme a break!" I yell still scanning the menus on-screen, "I've never entered this thing before."
"What are you looking for?" He asks, willing to help.
"O'douls."
"what the bloody hell is that?"
"It's a non-alcoholic beer." I answer.
"What?" he says completely incredulous.
"Yeah, some American non-alcoholic beer called O'douls." I repeat. "Ah, here it is." I finish up and send the order to the bar.
Bill rushes over to the bar and picks up the bottle as the bartender sends it over. He looks at it closely, trying to believe what he's seeing.
I finally take it to put it on my tray, but Bill turns to face me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. It was a mix of disgust, disbelief, and definitely insulted indignance.
"They make a NON-ALCOHOLIC beer? And name it O'DOULS! I tell you NO Irishman would ever make such a thing!"
I still laugh about this. He didn't like the idea of run of the mill American swill, and even less taking the one thing away that gave it any value, the alcohol, but putting an Irish name on it was a personal--nay, a national--insult tantamount to a call to war.
Ah, I miss working with my favorite angry Irishman.
So in parody--er, homage--I post the following.
With my condition I was left with few options in the beer world, and knowing this I narrowed my choices down by country, figuring surely a German non-alcoholic beer would be better than any where else, since German's have an old history of pilners and lagers, which is the style of all the non-alcoholics I've ever seen.
Clausthaler
Although labeled a non-alcoholic, it does contain (like pretty much all non-alcoholic beers) some alcohol, this one ringing it at a fairly high o.5 percent. However, this was still too little alcohol to prevent it spoiling. It tasted precisely like an Old Milwaukee with hints of skunkiness.
For those who know me, you understand that although I've drank many ounces of many types of many beers from many countries, I've never tried any of the 'non-alcoholics' before. But, I'm preggers, and was in my favorite beer-drinking spot. To perfect the irony, Rich-o's was in the middle of its annual Gravity Head festival (high gravity gives high alcohol for those who've not enjoyed this festival before.)
I plan next time I try such a beer to try an O'douls Amber, in hopes the caramel coloring will give it a hint of hoppiness.
It all reminds me of something that happened a couple of years ago. I worked with an Irishman named Bill, who'd been in America for about 4 years at that time. We were at work and he was stuck in line behind me at the computer where we enter orders.
"Hurry up, there." He teases me while poking me in the back.
"Hey, gimme a break!" I yell still scanning the menus on-screen, "I've never entered this thing before."
"What are you looking for?" He asks, willing to help.
"O'douls."
"what the bloody hell is that?"
"It's a non-alcoholic beer." I answer.
"What?" he says completely incredulous.
"Yeah, some American non-alcoholic beer called O'douls." I repeat. "Ah, here it is." I finish up and send the order to the bar.
Bill rushes over to the bar and picks up the bottle as the bartender sends it over. He looks at it closely, trying to believe what he's seeing.
I finally take it to put it on my tray, but Bill turns to face me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. It was a mix of disgust, disbelief, and definitely insulted indignance.
"They make a NON-ALCOHOLIC beer? And name it O'DOULS! I tell you NO Irishman would ever make such a thing!"
I still laugh about this. He didn't like the idea of run of the mill American swill, and even less taking the one thing away that gave it any value, the alcohol, but putting an Irish name on it was a personal--nay, a national--insult tantamount to a call to war.
Ah, I miss working with my favorite angry Irishman.
Excuses, Excuses
So, yes, I am aware it's been a while since I've posted. Many have mentioned this fact to me, wondering how I managed so quickly to turn back over the new leaf I had just turned, already forsaking my resolution to post more and write better (although with the same haphazard proofreading, of course.)
At the beginning of November, there was a personal tragedy. I will not talk or write about it, as there are other people's privacy to protect as well as my own need to not dwell on it. If you know about it, you know--and if you don't, well....I think you get it.
The problem began there though. I would not write about that, but I couldn't think about anything else, let alone write about something else.
Since then, I have gained much fodder for writing: I got pregnant. Whew. Still shocking news to me, and I've known since just after the turn of the year. But, dealing with that shock, as well as what decisions I'd make concerning it, meant more stuff for me to only think, not write, about.
But, I'm feeling more centered now, and we'll see how long I can keep the same old new leaf turned this time.
At the beginning of November, there was a personal tragedy. I will not talk or write about it, as there are other people's privacy to protect as well as my own need to not dwell on it. If you know about it, you know--and if you don't, well....I think you get it.
The problem began there though. I would not write about that, but I couldn't think about anything else, let alone write about something else.
Since then, I have gained much fodder for writing: I got pregnant. Whew. Still shocking news to me, and I've known since just after the turn of the year. But, dealing with that shock, as well as what decisions I'd make concerning it, meant more stuff for me to only think, not write, about.
But, I'm feeling more centered now, and we'll see how long I can keep the same old new leaf turned this time.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Height of Paranoia, 4 inches
Pardon my misspellings of drunkenness, but let me make a point. I have, and have never had, any choice about my hieght. Genectics and all...Now whereas I fight it, let me assure you you are correct, I can do something about my weight. It's hard, but possible to loose a few pounds, but inches....?
So recently I had a couple leaveing the restaurant say this:
"Did anyone ever tell you you were tall?"
I flashed, unwillingly, to all those people who called me amazon, who called me jolly green giant (whose vegetables to this day i cannot buy) to all the paper wads and name calling I received....
And I said, in some sort of flippant moment at 6ft 2in..."No,why?"
Both of the members of this couple stopped dead to say, "Uhm, cause you are."
I replied, in my best confused, dumb blonde voice, "Really?"
Yeah, dumb asses, I know, and have been told every day since 6th grade at least. It's the reason they threw stuff at me, the reason everyone made fun of me and the reason i never had a boyfriend. Yeah, after all these years, you are not the first to tell me....but i didin't say that.
This startled couple left the retaurant but not my mind.
What I thought about though, was a lady at church.
She put my mom into a panic. In sixth grade she mentioned to my mom..."gigantism."
My mom took me to a growth specialist. They found out i didn't have gigantism, thank the gods, but however, they could give me some hormones.
"I'll take them." I said.
Let me explain what they do....
"Yes, I'll take them...."I stressed...
"well they will stop your growth (at somewhere between 5 ft 9 aqnd 5 ft 10) but there are some side effects."
"I'll take them," I repeated.
"The side effects can include breast enlargement, etc etc, tenderness here and there, etc"
"I'll take them." I again made clear.
"Also there is this and that...oh and you'll need a pelvic exham."
"What?"
"Before taking them you'll need a standard pelvic exham."
"a what?" I asked at the bright age of sixth grade.
They explained it.
I said, "Nevermind."
I was so frightened at this age at somthing that would become, as they explained, standard at older ages, that i said...."Uhm, what? No."
My mom became frightened that i had lost my virginity, something that wouldn't happen until after graduation although she couldn't know. That I said no.
I said yes to my biggest fear, in fear of someting that at that age sounded worse.
What i have now, is hindsight.
I refused the drug, on fear of the exam, which sounded so dreadful.
What was my gain/loss?
4 inches.
What is four inches?
everything.
Now, four inches would have made me shorter than my ex-husband, the same hight as my current boyfriend.
How many choices is that, unmade for me, made for others, that could have been avoided?
Too many to count.
I know girls 5ft 9, 5 ft 10, and they have normal lives and can buy clothes at walmart.......I must go to different stores=sometimes specialty stores...
My sister is less than me, and more...
Was that my life if I had not been frighteneed?
Few know of the hormone therapy choice i made then...now all of you do.
now you know....how many nights I have been up wondering about those four avoidable inches.
Did they make my life?
Or curse it?
Was god's DNA meant to be lead out, or thwarted?
I am who i am..
But would four inches made me happier? more confident? more normal?
More normal yes. More girl-like, yes. better?
I'll never know. but I think that yes..better.
It's my curse, these four inches, avoidable inches.
But now they are a part of me, my life.
And there are days you cannot know how they hurt.
Tall sizes are for up to 5 ft 11.
I'd have fit that, not been 3 inches above even the tall sizes at all the department stores.
I'd have been their high end of normal.
All for a choice, I was expected to make at 11.
Easy to say now, I want that choice back.
But then, to spread for strangers, that would prod my truly virgin soul.
At that age, I know, I made the right choice. I was too young.
But now,
I'd give ANYTHING for those measlesly four inches.
Measure for once, your life in inches.
What is an inch?
Everything.....in a child's dignity.
Even more in an adult's soul.
Who knew that exchange then?
How could I?
Today, now, I am just below 6 ft 2. My joke is that I am 5 ft 13 and a half.
Aren't I funny? How witty.
My soul....measured in four inches.
My life...years of those four inches.
Never ask what if...the answer for your self image may be more questions than you can handle.
Everyday, I remember that day.
"I don't care what it is, make me stop." What? What did you say the price was?
Know your limits.
Know yourself,
And you want the Houdini of tricks?
Love yourself anyway.....every fucking son of a bitch, god cursing, self image-harming inch.
Whatever your curse...look back, you may be surprised how much choice you had.
I have all my functioning fully formed arms, legs, mind, even clit....seriously there are more unfortunate...
It hurts, dear god it hurts.
Give thanks for your four inches of hurt. Fuck, it could be worse.
So recently I had a couple leaveing the restaurant say this:
"Did anyone ever tell you you were tall?"
I flashed, unwillingly, to all those people who called me amazon, who called me jolly green giant (whose vegetables to this day i cannot buy) to all the paper wads and name calling I received....
And I said, in some sort of flippant moment at 6ft 2in..."No,why?"
Both of the members of this couple stopped dead to say, "Uhm, cause you are."
I replied, in my best confused, dumb blonde voice, "Really?"
Yeah, dumb asses, I know, and have been told every day since 6th grade at least. It's the reason they threw stuff at me, the reason everyone made fun of me and the reason i never had a boyfriend. Yeah, after all these years, you are not the first to tell me....but i didin't say that.
This startled couple left the retaurant but not my mind.
What I thought about though, was a lady at church.
She put my mom into a panic. In sixth grade she mentioned to my mom..."gigantism."
My mom took me to a growth specialist. They found out i didn't have gigantism, thank the gods, but however, they could give me some hormones.
"I'll take them." I said.
Let me explain what they do....
"Yes, I'll take them...."I stressed...
"well they will stop your growth (at somewhere between 5 ft 9 aqnd 5 ft 10) but there are some side effects."
"I'll take them," I repeated.
"The side effects can include breast enlargement, etc etc, tenderness here and there, etc"
"I'll take them." I again made clear.
"Also there is this and that...oh and you'll need a pelvic exham."
"What?"
"Before taking them you'll need a standard pelvic exham."
"a what?" I asked at the bright age of sixth grade.
They explained it.
I said, "Nevermind."
I was so frightened at this age at somthing that would become, as they explained, standard at older ages, that i said...."Uhm, what? No."
My mom became frightened that i had lost my virginity, something that wouldn't happen until after graduation although she couldn't know. That I said no.
I said yes to my biggest fear, in fear of someting that at that age sounded worse.
What i have now, is hindsight.
I refused the drug, on fear of the exam, which sounded so dreadful.
What was my gain/loss?
4 inches.
What is four inches?
everything.
Now, four inches would have made me shorter than my ex-husband, the same hight as my current boyfriend.
How many choices is that, unmade for me, made for others, that could have been avoided?
Too many to count.
I know girls 5ft 9, 5 ft 10, and they have normal lives and can buy clothes at walmart.......I must go to different stores=sometimes specialty stores...
My sister is less than me, and more...
Was that my life if I had not been frighteneed?
Few know of the hormone therapy choice i made then...now all of you do.
now you know....how many nights I have been up wondering about those four avoidable inches.
Did they make my life?
Or curse it?
Was god's DNA meant to be lead out, or thwarted?
I am who i am..
But would four inches made me happier? more confident? more normal?
More normal yes. More girl-like, yes. better?
I'll never know. but I think that yes..better.
It's my curse, these four inches, avoidable inches.
But now they are a part of me, my life.
And there are days you cannot know how they hurt.
Tall sizes are for up to 5 ft 11.
I'd have fit that, not been 3 inches above even the tall sizes at all the department stores.
I'd have been their high end of normal.
All for a choice, I was expected to make at 11.
Easy to say now, I want that choice back.
But then, to spread for strangers, that would prod my truly virgin soul.
At that age, I know, I made the right choice. I was too young.
But now,
I'd give ANYTHING for those measlesly four inches.
Measure for once, your life in inches.
What is an inch?
Everything.....in a child's dignity.
Even more in an adult's soul.
Who knew that exchange then?
How could I?
Today, now, I am just below 6 ft 2. My joke is that I am 5 ft 13 and a half.
Aren't I funny? How witty.
My soul....measured in four inches.
My life...years of those four inches.
Never ask what if...the answer for your self image may be more questions than you can handle.
Everyday, I remember that day.
"I don't care what it is, make me stop." What? What did you say the price was?
Know your limits.
Know yourself,
And you want the Houdini of tricks?
Love yourself anyway.....every fucking son of a bitch, god cursing, self image-harming inch.
Whatever your curse...look back, you may be surprised how much choice you had.
I have all my functioning fully formed arms, legs, mind, even clit....seriously there are more unfortunate...
It hurts, dear god it hurts.
Give thanks for your four inches of hurt. Fuck, it could be worse.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Embarrassment to the Species
Shades of Grey. That is the name of the world's stupidest, most cowardly, completely devoid of all the instincts innate to its species, cat. The cat actually belongs to my boyfriend. My presence in the apartment when we first started hanging out as friends post my divorce, terrified her even while I was two rooms away.
Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!
The only way I could have been more threatening, sitting on the couch watching tv, is if I decided to vaccuum. This is a wrongness most species understand, in fact, I myself share the aversion to the appliance.
The things that scare Shades most: anything on the floor. Heaven forbid if the item is *ugh* fluffy. She tentativly reaches out a paw, not actually touching of course, and rears back as if the sweater is in fact a stricking cobra. There is one exception to the floor, plastic bags. Those are friendly and should be slept on or chewed on, or both. She, in her 'fluffy bad' concept, also avoids like the plague the bed, as it tends to be populated by a comforter, an enemy best avoided with poofed tail and big eyes.
Once several years ago, her instincts fired. She is not prey! I am a cat--a predator! (this story was related to me by my boyfriend, as it is before we met.) She was out on the back deck, on the rail, when a pigeon alighted. Time to wax on-wax off, said her kitty brain. She stalked...slowly..so slowly stalked up to it. Succesfull at sneaking up on the head bobbing bird, she swatted it with her clawless front paw. The bird bobbed a step away, and turned toward the odd furball to its left. It need not have bothered, Shades had already retreated in a fluff of panic back into the house. Instincts had said strike, she did, and aaaeeeiiyyyaaahh instincts were WRONG! Thank god she got away before the demon could breathe fire back at her.
It took us about a year to make friends. After she got to where she would let me pet her and such ( a big point for me as I worried that my boyfriend might dump a girl his cat didn't like) I decided to buy my way further into her heart. Inspired by a friend's story of becoming what he called "treat machine" to his wife's beagle pup, I began occasionally buying the cans of wet food.
This was a good move, not only am I in good graces, it taught her to read a calendar. I fed a can to her every other day, and now, every other day, she begins to pay special attention to me, knowing the good stuff is coming.
I know that my boyfriend puts high stock in his brother, with whom he is very close. Knowing that the brother must approve of me, I think I'll begin to bring him cake or beer every other day or something. Though, having him wake me up every other day meowing at me, might become annoying.
Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!
The only way I could have been more threatening, sitting on the couch watching tv, is if I decided to vaccuum. This is a wrongness most species understand, in fact, I myself share the aversion to the appliance.
The things that scare Shades most: anything on the floor. Heaven forbid if the item is *ugh* fluffy. She tentativly reaches out a paw, not actually touching of course, and rears back as if the sweater is in fact a stricking cobra. There is one exception to the floor, plastic bags. Those are friendly and should be slept on or chewed on, or both. She, in her 'fluffy bad' concept, also avoids like the plague the bed, as it tends to be populated by a comforter, an enemy best avoided with poofed tail and big eyes.
Once several years ago, her instincts fired. She is not prey! I am a cat--a predator! (this story was related to me by my boyfriend, as it is before we met.) She was out on the back deck, on the rail, when a pigeon alighted. Time to wax on-wax off, said her kitty brain. She stalked...slowly..so slowly stalked up to it. Succesfull at sneaking up on the head bobbing bird, she swatted it with her clawless front paw. The bird bobbed a step away, and turned toward the odd furball to its left. It need not have bothered, Shades had already retreated in a fluff of panic back into the house. Instincts had said strike, she did, and aaaeeeiiyyyaaahh instincts were WRONG! Thank god she got away before the demon could breathe fire back at her.
It took us about a year to make friends. After she got to where she would let me pet her and such ( a big point for me as I worried that my boyfriend might dump a girl his cat didn't like) I decided to buy my way further into her heart. Inspired by a friend's story of becoming what he called "treat machine" to his wife's beagle pup, I began occasionally buying the cans of wet food.
This was a good move, not only am I in good graces, it taught her to read a calendar. I fed a can to her every other day, and now, every other day, she begins to pay special attention to me, knowing the good stuff is coming.
I know that my boyfriend puts high stock in his brother, with whom he is very close. Knowing that the brother must approve of me, I think I'll begin to bring him cake or beer every other day or something. Though, having him wake me up every other day meowing at me, might become annoying.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
getting there
So, not too surprisingly, this is the world's least entertaining, most boring blog. It's not an accident, and anyone who knows me would tell you my personality, the way I am in real life, is far from boring. I don't mean I'm the most fantastic person you could meet (although many drunks have told me so, some without even slurring or drooling that much.) No instead my personality leans toward the annoyingly melodramtic.
So why is my blog different? Several reasons. I rant and rave in person to let off steam, so well...no steam brewing right now. Two, I actually write more coherently (and spell and punctuate better) when I'm calm. Any state of excitement or anxiety makes run on sentences paragraphs long that even I cannot later make sense of. Three, and here's the biggie, I'm kinda private actually.
That last line has sent all my friends, hell even my aquaintances, into gales of disbelieving laughter. But there's a big difference between what I will say (and how I carefully word it) in person, and what I'm willing to have recorded. Recorded. In court, someone types EVERYTHING down, you know, the court recorder. It's legal; it's binding.
Writing real things down doesn't allow me to convince you later you misunderstood me. Or, well I was being melodramatic. Or, I was hyperbolizing at the time, you know, to be funny. Or the always popular, Geez, I cannot believe you bought anything I said while drunk! Yes, my reality baring conversation was your foolishness, you silly, you!
In college, being that writing was my major concentration, I took amongst other things, poetry classes. I write the absolute most boring poetry. (this blog is a real page turner by comparison.) I wrote about, oh I don't know, the sky or picnic tables at parks before I'd write about the day I stared at the sky asking the great beyond why my Grandad died, or what it felt like to have a man older and smarter than me, an accountant, decided to make a move on me while sitting on the picnic table at our supposedly platonic picnic. The real things were to real, too accountable, to record where just any fool could read it, critique the poem, or *gasp* critique ME.
One of the reasons I'm a horrible blogger is I've never journaled in any way before. It's not in my innate nature, for the above reasons. Even in a private journal, I'D have to face it again, and that wreaks havoc on my preferred methods of denial. I'm gifted with a fantatastic memory, so I don't need a record for myself. And the things that fade out in my mind, fade for a darn good reason, thank you.
"Hey, girl, remember that time you got drunk and danced on the pool table half naked?" Hmm, I cannot possible recall what you mean.---Yes, that works nicely. As opposed to: Hey girl, remember that post where you recorded for all mankind and prosterity the time you got drunk and....well you see my point.
No, this isn't an excuse for my boring blog. It's partially an explanation, but more aptly it is both an appeal for patience, and a warning/introduction for what is to come.
Oddly, I am now very aware that I started this blog because I was inspired by the open bravery of a friend's blog. (www.barenada.com) I think I want to try this, a sort of open forum of exposure, meant to get some things off my chest, invite commentary, make some realities permanant to me, and yea, even get a bit o writing practice in.
If you've already given up, cool 'nough. Who'd blame you? I was aware, as I stated in my first post, that I may well be the only one who ever reads this, but facing these things myself is a good enough reason to write. But, I do now have an intention, to write more intimate thoughts, to record some inner worries, to admit some things to myself and the world.
And now that I've written the above--recorded that intent for all mankind--I've made step one. I'm getting there.
So why is my blog different? Several reasons. I rant and rave in person to let off steam, so well...no steam brewing right now. Two, I actually write more coherently (and spell and punctuate better) when I'm calm. Any state of excitement or anxiety makes run on sentences paragraphs long that even I cannot later make sense of. Three, and here's the biggie, I'm kinda private actually.
That last line has sent all my friends, hell even my aquaintances, into gales of disbelieving laughter. But there's a big difference between what I will say (and how I carefully word it) in person, and what I'm willing to have recorded. Recorded. In court, someone types EVERYTHING down, you know, the court recorder. It's legal; it's binding.
Writing real things down doesn't allow me to convince you later you misunderstood me. Or, well I was being melodramatic. Or, I was hyperbolizing at the time, you know, to be funny. Or the always popular, Geez, I cannot believe you bought anything I said while drunk! Yes, my reality baring conversation was your foolishness, you silly, you!
In college, being that writing was my major concentration, I took amongst other things, poetry classes. I write the absolute most boring poetry. (this blog is a real page turner by comparison.) I wrote about, oh I don't know, the sky or picnic tables at parks before I'd write about the day I stared at the sky asking the great beyond why my Grandad died, or what it felt like to have a man older and smarter than me, an accountant, decided to make a move on me while sitting on the picnic table at our supposedly platonic picnic. The real things were to real, too accountable, to record where just any fool could read it, critique the poem, or *gasp* critique ME.
One of the reasons I'm a horrible blogger is I've never journaled in any way before. It's not in my innate nature, for the above reasons. Even in a private journal, I'D have to face it again, and that wreaks havoc on my preferred methods of denial. I'm gifted with a fantatastic memory, so I don't need a record for myself. And the things that fade out in my mind, fade for a darn good reason, thank you.
"Hey, girl, remember that time you got drunk and danced on the pool table half naked?" Hmm, I cannot possible recall what you mean.---Yes, that works nicely. As opposed to: Hey girl, remember that post where you recorded for all mankind and prosterity the time you got drunk and....well you see my point.
No, this isn't an excuse for my boring blog. It's partially an explanation, but more aptly it is both an appeal for patience, and a warning/introduction for what is to come.
Oddly, I am now very aware that I started this blog because I was inspired by the open bravery of a friend's blog. (www.barenada.com) I think I want to try this, a sort of open forum of exposure, meant to get some things off my chest, invite commentary, make some realities permanant to me, and yea, even get a bit o writing practice in.
If you've already given up, cool 'nough. Who'd blame you? I was aware, as I stated in my first post, that I may well be the only one who ever reads this, but facing these things myself is a good enough reason to write. But, I do now have an intention, to write more intimate thoughts, to record some inner worries, to admit some things to myself and the world.
And now that I've written the above--recorded that intent for all mankind--I've made step one. I'm getting there.
The Beginning of (my) Gaming
To write a blog about myself and not include something about my gaming would be as remiss as writing a relationship blog and never mentioning I was female. However, to write about a topic that became so vast in my life, one should start at the beginning, and so here it is.
I was born in 1971, I can remember the Iran hostage affair as the "moment of silence" it would bring into my second-grade day's life. I, therefore, remember all the big things of the eighties as childhood memories, having finished out the decade by graduating high school in 1990, as if to perfectly coincide my leaving childhood with leaving that decade, so yeah, I had an atari.
We got it when I was in fifth grade, or perhaps a bit before. I enjoyed it, and played many games both that my father bought or I would occasionally trade, library loaning style, with my freinds. I remember several favorites, but the real winner for me was called Adventure. My avatar was a cube, but I got to fight dragons and unlock castles. The fault was after a while, the game became old--something I could do in my sleep. It's world was static, not randomly generated, so it was pretty much the same everytime.
I also enjoyed racing games, and as a side note must say I sort of miss the simplicity of them. You got a poorly represented car, then you tried to go fast without wrecking. The physics of those games were stupidly simple, but I sort long for the days when I could just load up and race. Now, I must spend time tweaking my suspension and engine and whatnot before ever getting to a track. I asked for more realism, now I want less--isn't that just the way. Remember when a football game asked you before a play, 'run, pass, punt?' Now I can control every man on my team, and I both love and hate Madden's NFL for giving me what I wanted and making me work at it.
We did get a computer somewhere in the middle of the decade, but we got an IBM pc, which at the time and for my age group was lame. (it was in fact more adaptable and powerful that my friend's comodores and apples,) but getting games for it wasn't all that easy. It was a work comp, not a gaming comp. Remember there wasn't a best buy and gamestop on every corner, the comp gaming had yet to boom, and my allowance was something like 50 cents a week. So I played a lot of text only star trek and castle wolfenstien (oh yes, there was one before the fps, btw.) but otherwise spent my time learning to program in basic drawing kitty cats that would move across the screen.
We didn't have a nintendo, but most of my friend's did, and I was temporarily addicted to Mario, despite my complete lack of competence at hand-eye coordination. So I finished the decade as I came into it, not gaming.
In the early 90's my dad had been given by a workmate some computer game he wanted me to try. I repeatedly refused. I do not like the pointlessness of spending my time at the computer gaming. It's stupid. No, Dad, not interested. Ok, fine, what is this game called again? Doom? What a stupid name. ....Now enter a few weeks of solid living in my basement killing demons with cool weapons. LOVED IT! Then, after those weeks, left it.
The latter half of the nineties had me again not interested in gaming, but in 97 I married a man addicted to them. It was fine, he did that, I did other things. I then read an article about a game once panned by all critics but was the best selling game of all time until the Sims unseated it years later, Myst. Now, THAT was awesome, but it had no real replayability, and there wasn't much else like it, at least not of the same caliber, so again, I remembered I didn't like gaming.
Then the game that changed it all for me, Diablo. Diablo was different, I was a person, not a cube, and I could be several types of persons. My diablo stories are a post all their own, and maybe I'll let you in on how lame I was at it at a later date, but for now the important thing about Diablo was it set the stage for the passing fad to become a raging addiction.
One evening I got up from TV to see what hubby was doing. He was playing a game. It had people, set in a medievil sort of place, and he was sewing things to make money. He walks up to another little person and asked a question. The answer was amazing.
"Wow," I said, "that game has a very sophisticated dialog tree."
"No," he explained, "that is an actual person. That's why."
Well, that was silly, how would a person be able to contact him like that while he was playing a game? He explained the game was over the internet, and people all over the world were hooked up, doing the same sort of thing he was, and he could talk to them.
"And those clothes you are sewing...you can wear them?" I ask. He changes his little avatar's outfit.
"Whoah! it's like Barbies with swords! I soooo have to try that!"
The game was called Ultima Online, and was what is now called an MMORPG, massively multi-player online role playing game.
He warned me, as I was not the gaming type, that it was complicated and hard to learn, and required lots of time. Well, long story short, I played it for years, had three accounts, four houses, and did volunteer work for the company that ran it.
Since then, I've played many non MMORPG's. The other pieces in the Myst series, the Civilazation series, other role playing games, but my fav is still the MMORPG's. I've played and beta-tested many of them. I've played, oh let's see, Ultima Online, Everquest, Asheron's Call, Dark Ages of Camelot, Sims Online, City of Heroes, Star Wars Galaxies, and a smattering of others. Some of them I can remember the worlds and my characters, but the name of the game escapes me. And currently, I am playing World of Warcraft. I've played around with Lord of the Rings Online and Guildwars, but not enough to really mention.
A couple of years ago I was on a panel at a sci-fi/fantasy gaming convention (I actually did three panels that year) on online gaming, particularly the aspect of female gaming. Female gamers are well on the rise, and have been for years, but we are still a minority in the game world.
I still think of them as Barbies with swords. As a child I loved Barbie dolls. My sister and myself would dress them up and spend hours out of our days constructing storylines for them. At least one storyline lasted for months. Our dolls didn't have weddings or tea-parties. They were warrior princesses, sometimes mages, that adventured out to save their kingdoms. It's the fun of make-believe with the social aspect of playing with others, and like I said, there's lots of swords and weaponry.
Online Gaming is often considered the province of geeky high school children and college kids bored between classes, but I have played these games with lawyers, physicists, teachers, and other professionals rangin in age from my own children (my eldest daughter started playing UO at 4) to people in their fifties, of many genders and several nationalities. I once had a guy in Singapore I used to play with all the time, and he had schooled in his youth at Oxford, and I still miss my old buddy from Everquest who could play with me in the early mornings because he lived in Australia. There was the french woman who I couldn't hardly speak with due to our only having a smattering of each other's language. Everytime I healed her she'd reply, mbc--just like we say ty, when we mean merci.
These games have nicknames, Evercrack, World of Warcrack, because of their addictiveness. South Park dedicated an entire episode to WoW. They are big business. There are people who are actually employed to play these games, because the games' money have the highest exchange rate on the planet. You can spend real life money to buy money and items in game--very irritating to those of us who play, but a reality nonetheless. You can buy characters and accounts even.
Getting to enjoy these games in your life while still enjoying your real life is a trick that took me a while to learn, and some people never do, but I'm glad I have that excapism personally.
I was born in 1971, I can remember the Iran hostage affair as the "moment of silence" it would bring into my second-grade day's life. I, therefore, remember all the big things of the eighties as childhood memories, having finished out the decade by graduating high school in 1990, as if to perfectly coincide my leaving childhood with leaving that decade, so yeah, I had an atari.
We got it when I was in fifth grade, or perhaps a bit before. I enjoyed it, and played many games both that my father bought or I would occasionally trade, library loaning style, with my freinds. I remember several favorites, but the real winner for me was called Adventure. My avatar was a cube, but I got to fight dragons and unlock castles. The fault was after a while, the game became old--something I could do in my sleep. It's world was static, not randomly generated, so it was pretty much the same everytime.
I also enjoyed racing games, and as a side note must say I sort of miss the simplicity of them. You got a poorly represented car, then you tried to go fast without wrecking. The physics of those games were stupidly simple, but I sort long for the days when I could just load up and race. Now, I must spend time tweaking my suspension and engine and whatnot before ever getting to a track. I asked for more realism, now I want less--isn't that just the way. Remember when a football game asked you before a play, 'run, pass, punt?' Now I can control every man on my team, and I both love and hate Madden's NFL for giving me what I wanted and making me work at it.
We did get a computer somewhere in the middle of the decade, but we got an IBM pc, which at the time and for my age group was lame. (it was in fact more adaptable and powerful that my friend's comodores and apples,) but getting games for it wasn't all that easy. It was a work comp, not a gaming comp. Remember there wasn't a best buy and gamestop on every corner, the comp gaming had yet to boom, and my allowance was something like 50 cents a week. So I played a lot of text only star trek and castle wolfenstien (oh yes, there was one before the fps, btw.) but otherwise spent my time learning to program in basic drawing kitty cats that would move across the screen.
We didn't have a nintendo, but most of my friend's did, and I was temporarily addicted to Mario, despite my complete lack of competence at hand-eye coordination. So I finished the decade as I came into it, not gaming.
In the early 90's my dad had been given by a workmate some computer game he wanted me to try. I repeatedly refused. I do not like the pointlessness of spending my time at the computer gaming. It's stupid. No, Dad, not interested. Ok, fine, what is this game called again? Doom? What a stupid name. ....Now enter a few weeks of solid living in my basement killing demons with cool weapons. LOVED IT! Then, after those weeks, left it.
The latter half of the nineties had me again not interested in gaming, but in 97 I married a man addicted to them. It was fine, he did that, I did other things. I then read an article about a game once panned by all critics but was the best selling game of all time until the Sims unseated it years later, Myst. Now, THAT was awesome, but it had no real replayability, and there wasn't much else like it, at least not of the same caliber, so again, I remembered I didn't like gaming.
Then the game that changed it all for me, Diablo. Diablo was different, I was a person, not a cube, and I could be several types of persons. My diablo stories are a post all their own, and maybe I'll let you in on how lame I was at it at a later date, but for now the important thing about Diablo was it set the stage for the passing fad to become a raging addiction.
One evening I got up from TV to see what hubby was doing. He was playing a game. It had people, set in a medievil sort of place, and he was sewing things to make money. He walks up to another little person and asked a question. The answer was amazing.
"Wow," I said, "that game has a very sophisticated dialog tree."
"No," he explained, "that is an actual person. That's why."
Well, that was silly, how would a person be able to contact him like that while he was playing a game? He explained the game was over the internet, and people all over the world were hooked up, doing the same sort of thing he was, and he could talk to them.
"And those clothes you are sewing...you can wear them?" I ask. He changes his little avatar's outfit.
"Whoah! it's like Barbies with swords! I soooo have to try that!"
The game was called Ultima Online, and was what is now called an MMORPG, massively multi-player online role playing game.
He warned me, as I was not the gaming type, that it was complicated and hard to learn, and required lots of time. Well, long story short, I played it for years, had three accounts, four houses, and did volunteer work for the company that ran it.
Since then, I've played many non MMORPG's. The other pieces in the Myst series, the Civilazation series, other role playing games, but my fav is still the MMORPG's. I've played and beta-tested many of them. I've played, oh let's see, Ultima Online, Everquest, Asheron's Call, Dark Ages of Camelot, Sims Online, City of Heroes, Star Wars Galaxies, and a smattering of others. Some of them I can remember the worlds and my characters, but the name of the game escapes me. And currently, I am playing World of Warcraft. I've played around with Lord of the Rings Online and Guildwars, but not enough to really mention.
A couple of years ago I was on a panel at a sci-fi/fantasy gaming convention (I actually did three panels that year) on online gaming, particularly the aspect of female gaming. Female gamers are well on the rise, and have been for years, but we are still a minority in the game world.
I still think of them as Barbies with swords. As a child I loved Barbie dolls. My sister and myself would dress them up and spend hours out of our days constructing storylines for them. At least one storyline lasted for months. Our dolls didn't have weddings or tea-parties. They were warrior princesses, sometimes mages, that adventured out to save their kingdoms. It's the fun of make-believe with the social aspect of playing with others, and like I said, there's lots of swords and weaponry.
Online Gaming is often considered the province of geeky high school children and college kids bored between classes, but I have played these games with lawyers, physicists, teachers, and other professionals rangin in age from my own children (my eldest daughter started playing UO at 4) to people in their fifties, of many genders and several nationalities. I once had a guy in Singapore I used to play with all the time, and he had schooled in his youth at Oxford, and I still miss my old buddy from Everquest who could play with me in the early mornings because he lived in Australia. There was the french woman who I couldn't hardly speak with due to our only having a smattering of each other's language. Everytime I healed her she'd reply, mbc--just like we say ty, when we mean merci.
These games have nicknames, Evercrack, World of Warcrack, because of their addictiveness. South Park dedicated an entire episode to WoW. They are big business. There are people who are actually employed to play these games, because the games' money have the highest exchange rate on the planet. You can spend real life money to buy money and items in game--very irritating to those of us who play, but a reality nonetheless. You can buy characters and accounts even.
Getting to enjoy these games in your life while still enjoying your real life is a trick that took me a while to learn, and some people never do, but I'm glad I have that excapism personally.
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