Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
life, the universe, and everything
At six this morning, I was suddenly seized by a brain-wrenching, stomach-stabbing, drool-inducing craving for macaroni and cheese that had the effect of turning me into some kind of sodium-seeking zombie, unable to think of anything else or have full range of motion in my limbs until that fattening orange substance was burning my tongue. Unfortunately, we were completely out of Easy Mac, so I had to bite the bullet and make myself a batch of Difficult Mac.
As I usually do when I'm cooking pasta in the wee hours o'the morning, I began to contemplate how my attitude toward the steps in preparing a box of Difficult Mac reflect my current stage of developmental psychology. And by the time my noodles were tender, I'd mentally outlined the course of human maturation in a way that, not to oversell it, was more accurate and brilliant than the entirety of the musings of Freud and Jung combined.
MANDIE'S OBSERVATIONS ON THE RELATIONSHIP OF THE HUMAN SUBJECT AND DOING STUFF
Phase One: I LOVE DOING STUFF!!!!
This phase lasts from birth until about age nine. Have you ever noticed how much children love doing stuff? Especially if it involves pressing buttons. Let a small child push the up or down button next time you need to get on an elevator, and then just watch his face explode into a supernova of joy. For those few seconds that his tiny digit touches that incomprehensibly germy triangular button, he IS God.
My sister and I were both in this phase at the same time for a while, and when there was something that needed to be done and could be done by either of us, there was a lot of underlying tension. We rarely fought; we respected that each of us had an intense desire to push elevator buttons and therefore the role of button-pusher would have to be alternated between us. However, when one sister was pushing the elevator button, the other sister always stood back and seethed slightly, images playing out in her head that somewhat resembled a scene from King Lear. The fact that she would get to push the button next time was little to no consolation.
Likewise, we had a system when we made macaroni and cheese. I don't remember which of us always put the butter in and which of us always put the milk in, but it always had to be that way. If we each got to add one ingredient and therefore feel important, the fragile harmony of our household could be preserved. The day that one sister tried to add both ingredients would be the day that nothing would be regarded as sacred anymore, and civil war would be imminent.
If you doubt this phase of development, I recommend you go to a third grade classroom and have the pleasure of dispensing "jobs" for the week. I was fortunate enough to randomly draw names for the job board in Corinne's classroom one Friday afternoon, and as I looked into those children's radiant faces and informed them they'd be passing out papers or leading the bathroom line for the next five days, I felt like I was Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy rolled into one.
Phase Two: I don't really care about doing stuff, but I will anyway because I don't like seeing my younger sibling happy.
This phase doesn't last very long and only applies to older siblings. This happens when you no longer feel a rush of godlike power from stirring dairy products and pasta together, but no way you're going to let your already cocky little sibling experience the sublime joy that would come from assuming full macaroni and cheese or elevator duties. This is kind of a perverse psychological impulse, and it really lets you traumatize your little sibling a lot, especially since you're probably taller and faster. The damage you can do ranges from:
Older sibling: "Oh, did you want to push that elevator button?"
Younger sibling: cries
to
Older sibling: "Oh, did you want to push down that first of 486 dominoes?"
Younger sibling: Will not let you stand up in his wedding, will dedicate his entire adult life to becoming more successful than you, and will probably have images of dominoes flash across his vision every time he looks at you. Dominoes and fratricide.
I know two brothers right now, the older of whom is in Phase Two and the younger of whom is in Phase One, and while they have no relation to my nephews at all, I think I shall call them D and H. Most of their interactions are in the form of D calmly and apathetically performing tasks that H wanted to do, and then looking on calmly and apathetically as H simultaneously endures all nine circles of hell.
While playing Uno:
H: D, I WANTED TO DEAL THE CARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that I deal faster.
While playing Mad Libs:
H: D, I WANTED TO WRITE THAT VERB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that I have better handwriting.
While doing nothing at all:
H: D, I WANTED TO CLOSE THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that my arm got there first.
I think next time I make macaroni and cheese, I may enlist D and H's help... just to see what happens.
Phase Three: Indifference
This is the phase that begins in junior high and lasts until late middle age. You do things all the time and don't think about the fact you're doing things. Yeah, I put the milk in the macaroni and cheese, but I was only thinking about eating. Yeah, I guess I pushed an elevator button the other day, but I was only thinking about getting to my interview on time.
My sister could have pushed that elevator button right in front of me and I wouldn't have cared.
Phase Four: WHAT??????? YOU WANT ME TO DO STUFF????????????? GO TO HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This phase begins in late middle age and unfortunately lasts for the rest of your life. For some reason, when we get old, we are the exact opposites of our young selves and every button we must press, every paper we must sign, every ingredient we must add, is a personal insult and the equivalent of deducting a year from our very exciting lives.
I get to witness this a lot at the podiatrist's office where I currently work. All new patients have to fill out four pages of paperwork. That sounds like a lot, but two of the pages only require signatures, and another is only checking the boxes that apply to your particular symptoms.
Still, I tremble with dread every time I have to ask someone over 65 to fill out the paperwork. They will generally bare their elderly teeth at the clipboard of papers that I give them, and sometimes sneer at me in a way that makes me certain they will come in the night to harvest the soul of my firstborn child, if I ever have any.
"I have to fill out all this? Just to get my feet checked? This is RIDICULOUS."
Me: "Blame the government, tee hee..."
It unfortunately turns out that the people who are most irate about having to fill out paperwork are the ones who only fill out the top page and then bring it back to me.
Me: "Oh... you've got the hardest page all done, but there are a couple more... the last two just need a signature..."
Asking someone in Phase Four to sign something is like asking them to crucify themselves upside down in the middle of on off-ramp from I-55 during rush hour. They emit groans of supreme agony as they once again lift their pens and return to the papers... usually only filling out the second paper and then handing the clipboard back to me.
At this point I begin to fear for my life as well as the soul of my hypothetical future child. "Oh... almost done... you just missed a few things..."
One of these days I will come home to find my apartment set on fire. Oh, wait, I probably won't, because striking a match would be doing something, which is out of the question, so I guess I'm safe.
So there you have it. A complete explanation of the development of the human psyche as well as an explanation of why my younger sister moved to a different continent as soon as she possibly could.
I should have macaroni and cheese for breakfast more often.
As I usually do when I'm cooking pasta in the wee hours o'the morning, I began to contemplate how my attitude toward the steps in preparing a box of Difficult Mac reflect my current stage of developmental psychology. And by the time my noodles were tender, I'd mentally outlined the course of human maturation in a way that, not to oversell it, was more accurate and brilliant than the entirety of the musings of Freud and Jung combined.
MANDIE'S OBSERVATIONS ON THE RELATIONSHIP OF THE HUMAN SUBJECT AND DOING STUFF
Phase One: I LOVE DOING STUFF!!!!
This phase lasts from birth until about age nine. Have you ever noticed how much children love doing stuff? Especially if it involves pressing buttons. Let a small child push the up or down button next time you need to get on an elevator, and then just watch his face explode into a supernova of joy. For those few seconds that his tiny digit touches that incomprehensibly germy triangular button, he IS God.
My sister and I were both in this phase at the same time for a while, and when there was something that needed to be done and could be done by either of us, there was a lot of underlying tension. We rarely fought; we respected that each of us had an intense desire to push elevator buttons and therefore the role of button-pusher would have to be alternated between us. However, when one sister was pushing the elevator button, the other sister always stood back and seethed slightly, images playing out in her head that somewhat resembled a scene from King Lear. The fact that she would get to push the button next time was little to no consolation.
Likewise, we had a system when we made macaroni and cheese. I don't remember which of us always put the butter in and which of us always put the milk in, but it always had to be that way. If we each got to add one ingredient and therefore feel important, the fragile harmony of our household could be preserved. The day that one sister tried to add both ingredients would be the day that nothing would be regarded as sacred anymore, and civil war would be imminent.
If you doubt this phase of development, I recommend you go to a third grade classroom and have the pleasure of dispensing "jobs" for the week. I was fortunate enough to randomly draw names for the job board in Corinne's classroom one Friday afternoon, and as I looked into those children's radiant faces and informed them they'd be passing out papers or leading the bathroom line for the next five days, I felt like I was Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy rolled into one.
Phase Two: I don't really care about doing stuff, but I will anyway because I don't like seeing my younger sibling happy.
This phase doesn't last very long and only applies to older siblings. This happens when you no longer feel a rush of godlike power from stirring dairy products and pasta together, but no way you're going to let your already cocky little sibling experience the sublime joy that would come from assuming full macaroni and cheese or elevator duties. This is kind of a perverse psychological impulse, and it really lets you traumatize your little sibling a lot, especially since you're probably taller and faster. The damage you can do ranges from:
Older sibling: "Oh, did you want to push that elevator button?"
Younger sibling: cries
to
Older sibling: "Oh, did you want to push down that first of 486 dominoes?"
Younger sibling: Will not let you stand up in his wedding, will dedicate his entire adult life to becoming more successful than you, and will probably have images of dominoes flash across his vision every time he looks at you. Dominoes and fratricide.
I know two brothers right now, the older of whom is in Phase Two and the younger of whom is in Phase One, and while they have no relation to my nephews at all, I think I shall call them D and H. Most of their interactions are in the form of D calmly and apathetically performing tasks that H wanted to do, and then looking on calmly and apathetically as H simultaneously endures all nine circles of hell.
While playing Uno:
H: D, I WANTED TO DEAL THE CARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that I deal faster.
While playing Mad Libs:
H: D, I WANTED TO WRITE THAT VERB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that I have better handwriting.
While doing nothing at all:
H: D, I WANTED TO CLOSE THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: Oh, did you? It's just that my arm got there first.
I think next time I make macaroni and cheese, I may enlist D and H's help... just to see what happens.
Phase Three: Indifference
This is the phase that begins in junior high and lasts until late middle age. You do things all the time and don't think about the fact you're doing things. Yeah, I put the milk in the macaroni and cheese, but I was only thinking about eating. Yeah, I guess I pushed an elevator button the other day, but I was only thinking about getting to my interview on time.
My sister could have pushed that elevator button right in front of me and I wouldn't have cared.
Phase Four: WHAT??????? YOU WANT ME TO DO STUFF????????????? GO TO HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This phase begins in late middle age and unfortunately lasts for the rest of your life. For some reason, when we get old, we are the exact opposites of our young selves and every button we must press, every paper we must sign, every ingredient we must add, is a personal insult and the equivalent of deducting a year from our very exciting lives.
I get to witness this a lot at the podiatrist's office where I currently work. All new patients have to fill out four pages of paperwork. That sounds like a lot, but two of the pages only require signatures, and another is only checking the boxes that apply to your particular symptoms.
Still, I tremble with dread every time I have to ask someone over 65 to fill out the paperwork. They will generally bare their elderly teeth at the clipboard of papers that I give them, and sometimes sneer at me in a way that makes me certain they will come in the night to harvest the soul of my firstborn child, if I ever have any.
"I have to fill out all this? Just to get my feet checked? This is RIDICULOUS."
Me: "Blame the government, tee hee..."
It unfortunately turns out that the people who are most irate about having to fill out paperwork are the ones who only fill out the top page and then bring it back to me.
Me: "Oh... you've got the hardest page all done, but there are a couple more... the last two just need a signature..."
Asking someone in Phase Four to sign something is like asking them to crucify themselves upside down in the middle of on off-ramp from I-55 during rush hour. They emit groans of supreme agony as they once again lift their pens and return to the papers... usually only filling out the second paper and then handing the clipboard back to me.
At this point I begin to fear for my life as well as the soul of my hypothetical future child. "Oh... almost done... you just missed a few things..."
One of these days I will come home to find my apartment set on fire. Oh, wait, I probably won't, because striking a match would be doing something, which is out of the question, so I guess I'm safe.
So there you have it. A complete explanation of the development of the human psyche as well as an explanation of why my younger sister moved to a different continent as soon as she possibly could.
I should have macaroni and cheese for breakfast more often.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
This has to count as therapy
Hi. My name is Mandie and I have two firmly held beliefs: that the world is going to collapse all around me, and that I am going to be informed of said collapse through text, email, or facebook.
So imagine my shock when I turned to the September page in my revered, barely-written-on calendar and saw the word "apocalypse" written on September 19.
It didn't matter that it was written in pencil, crookedly, and grotesquely misspelled. That calendar had been in plastic wrap when my great-uncle gave it to me, PLASTIC WRAP. If it hadn't still been sealed, then MAYBE I could accept that this was a prank played by some errant child, but as it was I had to face the fact that this was a poorly spelled divine prophecy.
The longer the actual message is delayed, the greater my sense of impending doom, the higher my heart rate, the more likely I am to burst into random weeping or chug a bag of Raisinets to comfort me. You know, come to think of it, the same thing applies when verbal messages are delayed. If you say that you have news, or that you have to talk to me about something, and I don't get to find out what it is right away, I will probably get so stressed out that I won't be able to focus on anything and may lose feeling in one or both sides of my body.
Now, this is not a completely groundless belief, because I have received a lot of really bad news (some expected, some completely out of the blue) through the magic of technology and social networking, especially in the past year or so. And I have also always kind of believed I would be the first person to know about the end of the world. Maybe ever since I was 10 or 11 and my great-uncle gave me a Monet calendar. I think it was one of many subtle attempts by my great-uncle and great-aunt to make me smarter, or maybe calmer, I don't know. At any rate, I understood that the calendar was not intended for regular use so much as it was intended to remain in pristine, museum-like condition on my wall to send out waves of intellectually stimulating and psychologically soothing microparticles that would infest my belongings, body, and brain like so many a superplague.
So imagine my shock when I turned to the September page in my revered, barely-written-on calendar and saw the word "apocalypse" written on September 19.It didn't matter that it was written in pencil, crookedly, and grotesquely misspelled. That calendar had been in plastic wrap when my great-uncle gave it to me, PLASTIC WRAP. If it hadn't still been sealed, then MAYBE I could accept that this was a prank played by some errant child, but as it was I had to face the fact that this was a poorly spelled divine prophecy.
Yes, I admit I lived through that September 19 and many more after that, but it doesn't really affect my belief system. This could have just been God testing me. To see if I was alert. To see if I would heed His warning and edit His spelling. See, God also decided I would want to be an editor when I grew up. (In which case, God really does not like me.)
Now, I'm not a pessimist in general. Yes, I kind of do expect disastrous tidings to await me every time I check my email or my text messages...
Now, I'm not a pessimist in general. Yes, I kind of do expect disastrous tidings to await me every time I check my email or my text messages...
EXAMPLE: This summer I came home and Corinne and Staci were waiting for me, looking as if they had something to say.
Corinne: Mandie. Cirena and Nathan called. JUST called. And they told us... it was like five minutes ago...
Staci: Or so... maybe ten...
(the conversation about the exact minute of the phone call went on for 30 seconds that seemed like 30 minutes)
My hyperactive brain: OH MY GOD, CIRENA AND NATHAN DIED IN A CAR ACCIDENT. WHERE WAS IT? WHAT INTERSTATE? TALK, DAMN YOU CORINNE! IS THERE STILL TIME TO SAVE THEM? CAN I DONATE ANY ORGANS? OUT WITH IT!!!
Me: What?????????????
Corinne: Um... they invited us over to watch a movie, but I know we were going to go to the wine tasting so I wanted to see what you thought?
I know it's not good for me to get stressed out this easily. Especially now that I have a new phone. When I got a text message on my old phone, the name of the person texting me would pop up on the screen. With my new phone, the name does not show up, just the first word or two of the message, and in order to read that message, I have to click read, wait 58 hours while it deducts half a minute (I bought unlimited minutes but it still feels the need to go through that motion), and then wait 160 more hours while my message loads. So, for those 218 hours, I don't know who texted me or what they said, I only know the first word or two of the text.
This. Is. Awful. Here's a sample of what my life is like now:
Text: Don't
My hyperactive brain: DON'T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN YOU *****
Text: I just
My hyperactive brain: I JUST GOT MAULED BY BEARS AND AM USING MY NON-MANGLED HAND TO TEXT YOU FROM MY DEATHBED
Text: We are
My hyperactive brain: WE ARE NOT FRIENDS ANYMORE AND I AM BURNING YOU IN EFFIGY TONIGHT. P.S. YES, YOUR ASS DID LOOK FAT IN THOSE JEANS
I should really calm down when I check my text messages. After all, it's not the end of the world.
But what if one day it is?
I mean, God has unlimited power. So I haven't completely ruled out the possibility that one day I and every other cell phone owner will receive the following text:
Hai earth! It's God. I hijacked ur phones lol. Time 4 armageddon :-O
Corinne: Mandie. Cirena and Nathan called. JUST called. And they told us... it was like five minutes ago...
Staci: Or so... maybe ten...
(the conversation about the exact minute of the phone call went on for 30 seconds that seemed like 30 minutes)
My hyperactive brain: OH MY GOD, CIRENA AND NATHAN DIED IN A CAR ACCIDENT. WHERE WAS IT? WHAT INTERSTATE? TALK, DAMN YOU CORINNE! IS THERE STILL TIME TO SAVE THEM? CAN I DONATE ANY ORGANS? OUT WITH IT!!!
Me: What?????????????
Corinne: Um... they invited us over to watch a movie, but I know we were going to go to the wine tasting so I wanted to see what you thought?
I know it's not good for me to get stressed out this easily. Especially now that I have a new phone. When I got a text message on my old phone, the name of the person texting me would pop up on the screen. With my new phone, the name does not show up, just the first word or two of the message, and in order to read that message, I have to click read, wait 58 hours while it deducts half a minute (I bought unlimited minutes but it still feels the need to go through that motion), and then wait 160 more hours while my message loads. So, for those 218 hours, I don't know who texted me or what they said, I only know the first word or two of the text.
This. Is. Awful. Here's a sample of what my life is like now:
Text: Don't
My hyperactive brain: DON'T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN YOU *****
Text: I just
My hyperactive brain: I JUST GOT MAULED BY BEARS AND AM USING MY NON-MANGLED HAND TO TEXT YOU FROM MY DEATHBED
Text: We are
My hyperactive brain: WE ARE NOT FRIENDS ANYMORE AND I AM BURNING YOU IN EFFIGY TONIGHT. P.S. YES, YOUR ASS DID LOOK FAT IN THOSE JEANS
I should really calm down when I check my text messages. After all, it's not the end of the world.
But what if one day it is?
I mean, God has unlimited power. So I haven't completely ruled out the possibility that one day I and every other cell phone owner will receive the following text:
Hai earth! It's God. I hijacked ur phones lol. Time 4 armageddon :-O
And when that happens, I will throw back my head and into the collapsing sky I will scream with my final breath, "CURSE YOU, CLAUDE MONET!"
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