Never Gonna Be That Old

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  I am in love with Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.  Let’s try another way of stating this:  I, a 65-year-old-evangelical-Black-woman, am in love with Macklemore and Lewis’ new video release of “Can’t Hold Us” (featuring that cutie-pie, Ray Dalton).  If you know what I’m talking about then you are probably under 30-years old and your jaw just dropped to the floor that a 65-year-old-chubby-ass woman knows and likes the writers of “Thrift Shop”—pee-pee sheets and all.  But if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, then you’re most likely a Mormon, dead, a conservative Christian—all over 50-years-old—and you’re thanking your God that you never heard of the alternative Hip-Hop group from Seattle whose song, “Can’t Hold Us,” from “The Heist,” that is now my new anthem.  Just the musical hook alone makes you want to soar if you’ve got any life left in you:

“Here we go back, this is the moment

 Tonight is the night—we’ll fight ’til it’s over

 So we put our hands up like the ceiling can’t hold us…”

Scene from “Thrift Shop” video: Macklemore and Ryan Lewis

Remember how I told you in my previous “I Do, I Do” post that it was my 65^th birthday and 34^th wedding anniversary (I gave my husband to me as a birthday present), and that my husband (WW) and I were going to sit around in my garden, drink wine, and read books (not that there is anything wrong with that on any given Sunday)?   Well, forget-that-Jack.  That lasted about 2 hours.  The next thing I knew we were on a plane to California in search of great friends (translation: not boring, non-judgmental, and generous to a fault friends), good wines, and fine times!

(“Traffic Jam” balloons ahead of us) Photo by:  Eleanor Tomczyk/2013

“Did you know that Eleanor Roosevelt said that ‘We’re to do something scary every day,’” asked my friend as she gingerly plopped her little body (no bigger than a minute) into one side of the balloon basket and giving the rest of us the first indication that she might be scared shitless about our adventure?  I wanted to tell her that I didn’t know if the logic of that quote held up on its own because there is some pretty scary shit out there that I personally wouldn’t even want to try because of its aftermath:  you may survive it, but it could leave you maimed, crippled, brain-dead, or de-balled.  Just recently I heard about a scary fad that Baby-boomer men are doing called “tackle-tightening” (a.k.a. “ball ironing”).  It’s a new spa treatment in Santa Monica that polishes the family jewels with a laser and irons out the wrinkles (only in California, right?) to make said balls look younger.  Now the concept of this scares the crap out of me and I would never do it even if I had the equipment—I’m just sayin’.  I asked WW if he’d ever consider the procedure, and he said he’d rather go up in a hot-air balloon and crash-land (thank you very much), and there would be no more discussion about scary gonad scraping as he cupped the family jewels and fled to his man cave.  So there you have it.  Not all things that are scary should be engaged in.

Tweety meme from: www.photobucket.com

But I do have a “born to be wild” type of personality, so I soared over the California vineyards with my husband and dear friends and conquered my own fear (a slight problem with vertigo) by holding onto the basket railings and poles in what I perceived to be a nonchalant stance.  I was feeling pretty sure of myself until almost near the end when the pilot announced that we had drifted slightly off course, but he wasn’t allowed to land in any of the vineyards below:

BALLOON PILOT:  “Aw folks—it looks as if we’ve going to have to land on that knoll straight ahead, and it is going to be a rough landing.  Brace yourselves—bend your knees, lean to the left pushing your body into the side of the balloon, grab the rope rings, and hang onto them for dear life!”

The four passengers (my husband, my two newly married friends, and I) tried to look as cool as cucumbers as we crouched below the sight lines of the basket.  But as I sank below the rails, I caught a glimpse of their faces and I could tell what they were thinking:

SHORT FEMALE FRIEND:   (“Eleanor Roosevelt:  you didn’t know what the hell you were talking about, and I even used your useless quote in a business conference to encourage women to be fearless.  It looks as if we’re headed for a crash landing, which means if we survive it, we’re all going to roll down the hill like four Jack and Jills summarily breaking our crowns.  Jesus, Mary, Mother of God—help!”)

FEMALE FRIEND’S TALL HUSBAND:  (“Maybe if we jump from this height, we’ll only break a leg or two!!!”)

BALLOON PILOT (out loud as if able to read our minds):  “Don’t even think about jumping or it will throw off the balance of the balloon and whoever doesn’t make the jump will go shooting straight up in the air and really drift off course.  Now, stop fidgeting, and do exactly what I told you to do!”

WW:     (“Oh, God:  This was my idea as an anniversary fun event, and now we’re all going to die?  Well, that’s awfully rude!”)

As for me, I went all Edvard Munch in my head and stayed that way until we landed:

“The Scream” by Edvard Munch

Upon survival of our balloon ride, I think there is a coda that should be added to Eleanor Roosevelt’s epigraph:  “Do something that scares you every day, but regularly live your sorry-ass life to the fullest because on any given day it truly may be your last.”

I can’t remember if I was scared when the pilot finally landed our craft, but I just remember thinking that this didn’t feel like the day I would die.  We all landed without a scratch (albeit a little lopsided) due to the expert steering of our pilot, and other than the inability to climb out of the basket due to my short height and cumbersome ass (so much for my tall friend’s concept of me jumping out of a hot-air balloon in mid-air), it was quite the adventure. (IMP. NOTE:  Our pilot was a Baby-boomer with a quarter century of flying experience, and like “Sully” Sullenberger, who safely landed his plane in the Hudson River without losing a passenger, you really want the old dudes to be your pilots when you’re going down and it’s not your time to meet your Maker—this guy really kicked ass!

But isn’t THIS ironic:  At one of the wineries the next day, I wore platform shoes (inappropriate for the events of the day, but since I was being transported by a limo, I felt I’d have no issues), and I slipped and fell on the level ground of gravel, bloodied my left leg something fierce (ruined my to-die-for-outfit), and I can hardly walk today.  It just goes to show you, that we all are going to die someday, and it could be on scary high heels or some scary-ass adventure, but since God only knows the date and time, we might as well chill and just reach for our dreams doing whatever it is that rings our bells!

I am discovering the reason I like Macklemore and Ryan Lewis so much is not because I’m trying to “act young” or “hip” as I used to say in my youth—it is because they inspire me as an artist—no matter what the age.  I love Ben Haggerty’s (Macklemore) backstory:

“All of their success has come in just a few months, and all of it is on their own.  They have no record label and no agents—just Haggerty, Ryan Lewis and a dream.”—ABC Nightline

Their soul-searching lyrics have become an “overnight” sensation which took 14 years of hard work and their big-tent hearts launched the career of 51-year-old Seattle-born Wanz (Michael Wansley) who had given up on ever having a career as a singer.   He had a dead-end job at Microsoft before recording one of the most memorable “Barry White-like” hooks ever:

“I’m gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket / I-I-I’m hunting, looking for a come-up / This is fu-cking awe-soommme…”—Hook from Thrift Shop/Macklemore and Ryan Lewis

There is nothing wrong with working for Microsoft until one retires, unless you have hopes that bypass a corporate ceiling, you know in your heart of hearts that you ain’t never gonna be that old, and “you can put your hands up like the ceiling can’t hold you” to reach for your dreams and keep doing so until you’re dead!  As a Baby-boomer, I refuse to have my best years having happened in my youth only.  The good times are ahead of me, today, tomorrow, and any day after that (God willing).  I just have to stop wearing inappropriate shoes on my adventures setting me up for classic pratfalls on level ground that everyone on Earth and in the Heavens are laughing their asses over.   Grrr!

Cartoon by: John Wagner (“Maxine”)

“But I’m kind of comfortable with getting older because it’s better than the other option, which is being dead. So I’ll take getting older.”—George Clooney

 “Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved.”― Meg Rosoff, What I Was

“Life is not a journey to the grave with the intentions of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to slide in broad-side, thoroughly used up—totally worn out—and loudly proclaiming:  ‘Wow, what  a ride!’”—Mark Frost

Cartoon by: David Horsey

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

I DO, I DO!

A glimpse of E. Tomczyk’s garden | photo by “WW” Tomczyk

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  It is just days before my thirty-forth wedding anniversary when I’ll celebrate being married to the most amazing human being I’ve ever met:  WW (a.k.a. “White and Wonderful”).  So it seems like a good time to take a couple of weeks off and hang out with my man and revel in those gorgeous blue eyes—contemplating how blessed I am to know such a man of integrity, strength, and courage.  I want to celebrate love with a man who has spent our entire married life helping to heal all the wounds my childhood haters inflicted.  To do this, I will need to step away from the news (Farewell, M. Bachmann: there is a God and you just got schooled by him), step away from my blog, and tune out all my trolls.   I plan to sit amongst my flowers with my man, read some books, drink lots of wine, thank God I’m alive, and work on my memoir—especially the love story of WW and me which is the book’s last chapter and rivals anything Nicholas Sparks has ever written (yeah, Baby!).  And then I’ll swing back in a couple of weeks to pick up where I’ve left off and see if my readers have kept out of trouble.    In the meantime, here are a few thoughts on marriage.

Cartoonist:  Kevin Siers | The Charlotte Observer

What’s your secret?  That is the most commonly asked question I get when people hear that I’ve been over-the-moon, happily hitched for thirty-four years (plus six dating years) to a white dude.   Anyone who knew me in my youth knew that my mantra was that I would never marry someone who was white, because “there was nothin’ no white man could do for me.”  (Good grief—the arrogance of youth still makes me shudder!)  In previous years when asked what I thought made a successful interracial marriage, I’d say all sorts of cliché bullshit that first popped into my mind without giving it much thought:

“Communication”

“Loving God”

“Weekly date nights”

“Great sex”

“Must have things in common”

“Being each other’s best friends”

“Learning how to pick your battles”

“Being a good listener”

Early on there was also the Herculean task of ignoring the racist naysayers when they tried to thwart our marriage by saying stupid shit like:  “A robin can marry a dolphin, but where will they live and what about the children—they won’t be fish or fowl!”

The children (ages 29 and 30) did just fine—they neither have flippers nor wings—and WW and I didn’t have to summer in a nest at the top of a tall tree or winter beneath the waves of the Caribbean Sea to survive.  While the list above contains some truths about sustaining a marriage, none of them were ever any guarantee that our marriage would form into the rock that it became.  I’ve known Christian couples who claimed Jesus as their Lord and Savior every other breath, could quote the Bible backwards and forwards, went to church whenever the doors were open, were religious about a date night every Friday, preached against Gay marriage as a sin and a detriment to heterosexual marriage, and yet they were the nastiest piece of work toward each other that I’ve ever had the unfortunate opportunity to witness.

Somehow, being at peace with the concept that one has found the right person who aligns with one’s spiritual and aspirational goals is half the battle.  But making damn sure that one is truly in love with the individual and not “in love with being in love” is the hardest plumb line to adjust to—especially for women.  Between our little girl dress-up fantasies, our Cinderella and Prince Charming fairy tales that we’ve grown up with all our lives, and now the “keeping up with the Joneses” Pinterest, women can get pretty screwed up when it comes to what is real or what would make a great “pinned by______” on the photo-sharing website when it comes to getting married and staying married.

Cartoon from:  www.thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com

I am discovering that I do know (after 33 years) what makes a good marriage go the distance—no matter who you are, and even if you’re a robin who married a dolphin:   It is grace, respect, and a sense of humor.

Grace:  to be able to accept the things about each other that drive us nuts without developing a nervous tic whenever our spouse’s peccadillos emerge.  Grace doesn’t work without forgiveness and therein lays the stumbling block to it—grace takes daily exercise.

Respect:  to never, ever, ever cross the line of contempt, disdain, rage, or abuse when it comes to dealing with our lovers.  Those are flesh-eating zombies and very difficult to survive.  But if it should happen, having the grace to immediately, and genuinely, ask forgiveness, along with the grace to do whatever it takes to never cross those boundaries again.  No amount of love can keep a marriage together without an equal amount of respect.

A sense of humor:  the ability not to take oneself too seriously—about anything!  The ability to laugh uproariously—in the moment—about our own imperfect humanity!

Cartoonist:  Walt Handelman|Newsday

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”—Friedrich Nietzsche

“Every good relationship, especially marriage, is based on respect. If it’s not based on respect, nothing that appears to be good will last very long.”—Amy Grant

“People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each other’s personalities. Who wouldn’t? Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person. But that’s not the clever trick. The really clever trick is this:  Can you accept the flaws? Can you look at your partner’s faults honestly and say, ‘I can work around that. I can make something out of it.’? Because the good stuff is always going to be there, and it’s always going to pretty and sparkly, but the crap underneath can ruin you.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage

“A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. The order varies for any given year.”—Paul Sweeney

E. and “WW” Tomczyk| Photo: Tomczyk Archives

WW and I:  many anniversary celebrations ago . . . a little more hair, a little less “fluffy-nutter,” but very much in love.

E. and “WW” Tomczyk| Photo: C. Tomczyk

Ebony and Ivory:  34 years and counting . . . a little less hair, a lot more ass, but still very, very much in love.  Thank you Loving v. Virginia (Mildred Jeter, a black woman, and Richard Loving, a white man) for paving the way.  WW and I are eternally grateful to you and I know you cheered us on in that great cloud of witnesses!

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

A Conspiracy Theory Tall Tale

Do you know what I’ve discovered?   Somebody’s messing with me and I really think it is part of a right-wing conspiracy!  Last week (while I was still asleep) something or someone pulled me out of the bed (feet first) like a slithery wet noodle off a well-oiled spoon.  What made the situation even weirder is that I ended up on my back (not my stomach which would be normal), and I landed on my feet with half my body bending towards the floor and the other half of it still on the bed while my hands extended above my head in a “hallelujah, praise you Jesus” pose—replete with jazz hands.  I don’t know how long I maintained that position before I woke up, but when I did awaken and interrogated my husband, WW disavowed all knowledge of “messing with me” and posing me in that sleep-walk position.  He also denied having seen me sleep-walk and says he thinks I just rolled off the bed under my own volition in an attempt to go to the bathroom and obviously never completed my mission.   WW said he was glad to see I had contained my bladder (more than I could ever know), and he also said that his line of reasoning was the only logical, scientific explanation.

Really?  I don’t believe WW’s explanation for one hot minute:  I think what happened to me is a plot by the Tea Party or one of those Patriot wingnuts who hate my blog.   I had no proof, but I could sense that this had Tea Party written all over it!  Also, what I didn’t tell WW was that I had been obsessively worried about one of my upcoming errands while simultaneously reading Dan Brown’s new book:  Inferno.  (There are certain things I dread that are part of the human experience that I am convinced were inspired by the Devil who I think secretly runs a plethora of conspiracy groups, including the Tea Party, the Birthers, the Truthers, the various Patriot groups—in other words, I have conspiracy theories about conspiracy theorists.)  Anyway, one of the many things I dread is going to the gynecologist and the dentist (both doctors have onerous jobs, if you ask me, and they both have to say “open wide” to get their desired results which I find to be both compromising and most uncomfortable).  But the other thing that ranks a close second to being poked and prodded by a gynecologist and a dentist is doing business with the DMV, and I had appointments to visit all three that week!

Cartoon by W. Hawland

I think I was trying to run away and hide in my sleep when I slid out of the bed because sometime during the night I dreamt that I stumbled upon a government conspiracy that revealed that the DMV had been sold to the Devil.  In the dream, the Devil had his DMV window agents mess with my mind while I tried to register for a renewal of my driver’s license, and they kept thwarting my plans so I wouldn’t be able to drive or vote ever again.  Now, I am a rational woman.  I realize that my waking mind had been dealing with all sorts of stress:  news about the bogus scandals being ginned up against the President, news about a new conspiracy cretin by the name of Alex Jones, a fundamentalist Christian, who has all sorts of stupid theories about everything (government responsible for Sandy Hook, Aurora shooting, tornado in Oklahoma was a red flag, to name a few), impending dentist and gynecologist appointments, reading Dan Brown’s Inferno which is one giant conspiracy theory, and not to mention the fact that I had received notification that I needed to haul my ass before the DMV (and who doesn’t hate the DMV?).  I chalked the entire dream and sleep-walking incident up to stress until I had another dream that suggested my conspiracy theory just might have legs.  In this dream, my alter-ego, the Dalai Mama, placed a call to the DMV to get her license renewed.

Cartoonist:  Horsey/Los Angeles Times

DALAI MAMA:   “Hello, hello?  Can you hear me, DMV?  NO, NO, NO—DON’T YOU DARE TRANSFER ME AGAIN!  I’ve been on the phone for almost an hour trying to get to a fuc ____, I mean a “real” human.   I got a letter in the mail from you people three months ago saying my driver’s license was up for renewal, but the letter says I have to come and get my license in person.   What’s up with that?   Nothin’ has changed about me since the last time you tortured my ass to renew my license:  same address, I stayed black, I’m not dead, my weight is . . . kind of the same, and I don’t look any older because ‘black don’t crack!’”

DMV:    “No can do, lady—the law is the law and there are no exceptions.”

DALAI MAMA:   “What do you mean:  ‘There are no exceptions?’    I have never had a good experience with you people since the beginning of time, and I know from my Internet sources that President Bush sold the DMV to the highest bidder (in this case, the Devil) in order to help pay for the two wars he forgot to fund.  I’m not interested in getting’ that close to evil.  So can’t you simply renew my license via the mail?”

DMV:    “Sorry, lady—you have to follow the rules!  It’s been a decade since we last saw your face in this office.  Get your chubby old ass in here so that we can confirm you’re still you, that you still can see straight, and you’re still black—not to mention the fact that you will need a new photo.  I’m sure a lot has changed about you in a decade.  If I remember correctly, you tend to pack on the pounds.”

DALAI MAMA:   “But, but, but. . .”

DMV:    “No buts Chica!  No face time—no license.”

Cartoonist:  D. Piraro | www.bizarro.com

(IN THE DREAM, THE DALAI MAMA SLAMS DOWN THE PHONE AND MARCHES OFF TO THE DMV OFFICE TO FACE HER CONSPIRATORS.  THE PARKING LOT IS PACKED AND THE DALAI MAMA IS FORCED TO PARK ABOUT A BLOCK AND A HALF AWAY.  IT IS A WINDY DAY AND BY THE TIME SHE ARRIVES AT THE DMV, HER WELL-ANCHORED WIG STANDS STRAIGHT UP ON TOP OF HER HEAD AS IF THE DALAI MAMA HAD STUCK HER FINGERS IN A SOCKET.  THIS WAS ENOUGH TO CONVINCE HER THAT MORE THAN A GOVERNMENT BUREAUCRACY WAS OUT TO MESS WITH HER AND RUIN HER DAY.  AFTER BEING BARKED AT BY A RENT-A-COP ABOUT BEING IN THE WRONG LINE [THREE TIMES], THE DALAI MAMA FINALLY GETS HER TICKET—“E337”—AND TAKES HER SEAT WITH THE REST OF THE SHLEMIELS, WONDERING IF SHE HAS TIME TO WAIT IN THE EXCRUCIATINGLY LONG BATHROOM LINE TO FINGER COMB HER HAIR INTO SOME TYPE OF HUMAN HAIR-DO, BECAUSE, OF COURSE SHE HAS FORGOTTEN HER BRUSH.)

DALAI MAMA:   “E337, huh? What’s your number (Dalai Mama says this to nobody in particular but hoping to get a response from the guy sitting next to her since she realizes that Jesus may return to Earth before her number is actually called and a friendly seat mate might be a good thing).”

DMV GUY:          “A14”

DALAI MAMA:   “WTF?  What number did they call before I sat my sorry-ass down beside you?”

DMV GUY:          “D216.”

DALAI MAMA:   “There is no rhyme or reason to that numbering system.  How long have you been here?”

DMV GUY:          “Lost count.  When I came in, Bush was still president.”

(THE DALAI MAMA SHARES A SYMPATHETIC LAUGH WITH THE GUY NEXT TO HER AND TRIES TO FINGER COMB HER HAIR INTO PLACE TO NO GREAT AVAIL.  AS SHE LOOKS BACK TOWARDS THE LADIES’ ROOM, SHE SEES THERE IS STILL A LINE THREE LANES DEEP.  THE DALAI MAMA CONGRATULATES HERSELF FOR HAVING BROUGHT ALONG THE NEW DAN BROWN BOOK AND HONKERS DOWN FOR A GOOD LONG READ, FAILING TO HEAR THE INCESSANT BLEATING OF THE INTERCOM WHEN IT FINALLY ANNOUNCES HER NUMBER.)

INTERCOM:        “E337 report to window 10—E337.”

INTERCOM:        “E337—REPORT TO WINDOW 10 OR LOSE YOUR SPOT IN LINE!”

INTERCOM:        “E337—THIS IS THE LAST CALL FOR E337 . . . GOING ONCE, GOING TWICE . . .!”

WINDOW 10:     “Oh, der ju r:  Were ju sleep?  Innercalm call ju dre times.  Here, sin dez pipers and pay dirty-dicks dollars befo I sin ju to winnow sextin.”

DALAI MAMA:   “Oh, God—Baby, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have a clue what you just said or what language you said it in, and I know I can’t afford to screw this up or I’ll never be able to drive again.  Did you say, go to Window 16?  Do I pay you thirty-three dollars?  Do I get my license at Window 16 or from Window 10?  Huh?”  (The Window 10 woman grabs the credit card from Dalai Mama’s hand in disgust at what she perceives is mockery of her accent, gives Dalai Mama a receipt, and points to a window that has the number 17 on it.  There is no window 16.  The windows go from 15 to 17 with a sign in between that says employees only, but the Dalai Mama goes toward Window 17 hoping to find someone she can understand.)

WINDOW 17:  “Sit down and look at the camera.  You may smile but you can’t show any teeth.  Do you understand English or shall I have someone tell you the rules in Spanish?  What?  No, you can’t ask why, ‘no teeth.’  But I can tell you that it’s for scientific reasons so that we can properly measure the ‘cortex of the bio flex that makes up the grio-dynamix.’  Understand?  Click!  Now go back to Window 10.”

WINDOW 10:      “Take of ju glazzes and luk into de fewfender and read de firs lean.”

DALAI MAMA:   “But it’s scratched.  I can’t see anything through this 20-year-old view finder.  Can’t I put on my glasses?”

WINDOW 10:     “What ju meen, ju can’t see?  Do ju want ju leesence?  Den red de liters!  Who tol’ ju to take of ju glazes?  I nefer tol’ ju dat!  Are ju habing truble?  Do ju need someone who speech Spanish?

DALAI MAMA:   “Sorry, so sorry!  I misunderstood, girlfriend.  See, I’ve put my glasses back on and I can read the line perfectly:  B, D, F, R, 3, C, T!  Perfect, yeah?  Now can I please have my license so that I can get the hell out of here?  I’m kind of anxious to see my picture—my old picture was just so fine and I was really foxy looking in that one—I’d hate to lose it.  Why didn’t Window 17, I mean 16, let me smile?”

WINDOW 10:     “No!  No pixture for du!  Ju no unnerstennd science why we no let you smile—it’s ‘cause of de ‘bipper-fex of de myerbermaplex,’ so it don’t ‘intermess wit de lubercromex.’  Ju license be sent to ju in tin to fifftin dazs.  And are ju sur ju told de truff on ju application abut ju weight, ‘cause you luk a lot fatter den ju say ju iz on form?”

I am discovering that the main ingredients of conspiracy theories are based on fear, ignorance, and feeling out of control of one’s circumstances or life.  I had great fun turning a sleep-walking dream into a satirical conspiracy, but in the light of day, I know the truth:  there are no demonic underworld figures controlling the DMV, my gynecologist, or my dentist—just a cumbersome bureaucratic agency where the customer service people all hate their jobs, a doctor that can sometimes be too up-close-and-personal, and another type of doctor I’ve feared sense childhood because I can’t stand the sound of a drill.   But if one knows history, it is replete with actual conspiracy theories that have caused great harm to large people groups and fueled major world wars just because fear, ignorance, and feeling out of control were easily manipulated to wreak great havoc and evil on the Earth.  Everyday another conspiracy theorist crawls out of the Internet sewer in the U.S. and more and more conspiracy bile gets released into the air for us to consume as Americans.  My fellow Americans, I have a suggestion:  “Wake up!”  Let’s shut the conspiracy theorists down by not succumbing to our fears, let’s learn the “Truth” about all their lies, let’s turn the liars off, shut them down, and make them go away by giving them no credence at all.  I think we’ll be the wiser for it and our lives will be a lot more peaceful.

GLENN BECK “SAMPLE CONSPIRACY THEORIES”

“Barack Hussein Obama and his fellow Muslims are conspiring to force you to gay-marry an illegal immigrant in a mosque at Ground Zero.”  The Glenn Beck Conspiracy Theory:  Fair and Balanced Paranoia, Delivered on Demand (About.com/political humor)

“Islamicists and the uber-left don’t want you to know that their real plan is to remove your appendix and eat it in front of you and your children.” The Glenn Beck Conspiracy Theory:  Fair and Balanced Paranoia, Delivered on Demand (About.com/political humor)

ABOUT GLENN BECK’S CONSPIRACY THEORIES

“Finally, a guy who says what people who aren’t thinking are thinking.” –Jon Stewart, on the “The Daily Show”

Cartoonist:   Lowe | Tribune Media

POST SCRIPT:  Tall tale actualities or conspiracies:  sliding out of bed like a noodle while still asleep, reading Dan Brown’s Inferno while at the DMV, and being tortured by the DMV windows are accurate and happened to me over the course of several DMV visits.  I still haven’t received my new driver’s license with the picture of my hair that looks like I’m standing in an electric-shock wind tunnel yet.  It may never come, at which point, I’ll acquiesce to never drive again.  I can live with that.  WW will just have to drive me around like a reverse “Driving Miss Daisy” (Driver = white man; passenger = cranky, black, old woman who always dreamed of having a chauffeur).  Fellow Citizens:  beware; there are forces at play here that we cannot control!

REFERENCES:

http://www.salon.com/2013/05/02/alex_jones_conspiracy_inc/

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

False Identity

Do you know what I’ve discovered after attending a funeral last week of someone who died before her time (she was two years younger than I, and believe you me, I am not ready to exit stage left just yet)?  After meditating at great length on the premature death of my co-worker, I discovered that Shakespeare was right:  “To thine own self be true!”  Doing otherwise will just fuck with your mind and your life.

Because I’m always thinking of what spiritual legacy WW and I can implant in our grandson before we kick the bucket, I was mulling over the concept of how to convey recognizing one’s “True Self” vs. the “False Self” we often get imprisoned in by the opinions of others to a four-year-old.  But Little-Dude beat me to it. The other day the phone rang and my daughter (Boo)—choked with laughter—started to rattle off one of Baby-boy’s latest adventures.

BOO:     “Mom, you are never going to believe what Baby-boy did to Mama-Mama (Baby-boy’s paternal grandmother)!”

Baby-Boy (a.k.a. Pumbaa Impersonator Extraordinaire)

ME:        “Oh, whatever it is, I’m sure it is going to be a hoot and totally blog worthy.”

BOO:     “Well, I don’t know how blog worthy it is, but Mama-Mama and Baby-boy stopped by the grocery store for a hot minute and before you could say, ‘stay put wiggle-worm,’ your grandson wandered off to another aisle.  The next thing Mama-Mama heard was Baby-boy shouting at someone:

 ‘Are you talkin’ to me?  Are YOU talkin’ TO ME??

‘So, you want a piece of me?  YOU want a PIECE of ME??’

BOO:     “Mama-Mama almost had a heart attack thinking that her worst fears had come to fruition, and Baby-boy was being kidnapped and dragged out of the store.  But when Mama-Mama ran around the corner, nobody was there but your grandson looking at her like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.  Mama-Mama asked Baby-boy who he was talking to and he answered her in that sly way of his that makes you think you’re going crazy:  ‘Nobody.’  After scolding him to stay close to her, the two got in the check-out line and were almost finished when  all of a sudden, Baby-boy started his ‘Are you talkin’ to me?’ spiel again while staring directly at Mama-Mama’s butt as if he and the butt were having a tussle (she did say, ‘stay close to me’).  While his grandmother hustled our little giggling terrorist out of the grocery store, she told me that all the customers were staring at her with the kind of looks that say:  ‘Should we or should we not call the Child Abuse Hotline?”

ME:        “Well, it’s obvious that our darling boy picked this phrase up from something he watched on TV, and he was either channeling Al Pacino’s “Scarface” (in which case a phone call to the abuse hotline might be in order) or he was imitating Pumbaa’s speech from The Lion King.  How did Baby-boy end the speech?  Did he say: ‘AND THEY CALL ME, MR. PIG?’  Because that is definitely a Pumbaa line!”

Pumbaa from “The Lion King”/Disney

BOO:     “Maybe, but Mama-Mama swears she has no idea where he picked that dialogue up.  She thinks it might have come from his pre-school (“The Our Lady of Goodness and Grace Holy Child of the Heavenly Jesus Loves You School”).  But it gets worse, Mom.  On Sunday we went out to dinner with one of the deacons at the church.  I told Baby-boy he needed to be on his best behavior and at first he was a total angel—showing off my parenting as if he had never done a bratty thing in his life.  The waiter came over to take our orders and after finishing with the adults the server asked me what Baby-boy would like to eat.  Before I could say, ‘Oh, he’ll have his usual—chicken nuggets with fries and chocolate soy milk’—your grandson reared back in his seat with a ‘high noon at the O.K. Corral shoot-out’ look and said to the waiter:  ‘Are you talkin’ to me?  Are YOU talkin’ TO ME??  You want a piece of me?  Do YOU want a PIECE of ME??’  Mom—he’s only four-years-old!  Can I send him to live with you until he’s eighteen or he’s out of his Al Pacino phase—whichever comes first?  My nerves can’t take much more of this!”

ME:        “No.  I’m not raising anymore babies, thank you very much.  Besides, it sounds like Baby-boy is just trying on identities like a new set of clothes—trying to figure out what persona he wants to be.   Maybe since winning ‘Student of the Month’ in pre-school last month, he’s having issues with his street cred.  Ha!  Maybe there’s a four-year-old gang that’s messin’ with him on the playground.  (By the way, what do you have to do to become ‘Student of the Month’ out of all the four-year-old classes in a school—not pee your pants before lunch is served?)”

Calvin and Hobbes | Cartoonist Bill Watterson

BOO:     “Mom, this is not funny!  The child is embarrassing me and his New York City grandmother.  Would you please work with me here and take this seriously?  I called you for advice—do I have a gangsta in the making?”

ME:        “Fine.  There is nothing to worry about.  Baby-boy will grow out of it because trying on identities at four years old is like playing dress-up.  Just be glad he’s no longer practicing his Chipette impersonation while channeling Beyoncé and Willow Smith when he was three years old.  Remember how we couldn’t stop Baby-boy from breaking into his Beyoncé/Willow medley no matter where we were?   With one hand on hip, the other hand in the air—he’d burst into song and out booty-pop anything Beyoncé could do as he burst into his three-year-old rendition of ‘All the Single Ladies.’  And in true Chipette style (because, obviously, Chipettes have no hair), Baby-boy would segue into (without missing a beat):  ‘I whip my TAIL back and forth; I whip my TAIL back and forth. . .’”

ME:        “Just be glad Baby-boy is channeling the spirit of Pumbaa, the farting warthog!”  At least the other four-year-olds can all relate to farts and it makes them laugh.  The Beyonce-Willow-Chipette medley might have gotten his butt kicked at his little inner-city Catholic School—Jesus or no Jesus—because those people know how to rumble.  Remember West Side Story?  All Catholics!  Besides, the ages you have to worry about are the middle school years and up.  That’s when Baby-boy will try on different identities that just might be false, and if they stick they could affect his life-choices rendering irreversible circumstances to his journey.

“What you have to be on the look-out for are people like that asshole, Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch, who has been in the news the last few days for the unabashed way he sells “false selves” while trampling all over the psyches of young people without so much as a ‘by your leave.’    Allegedly, Mike Jefferies said his brand-killing quotes about ‘only wanting beautiful people to wear his brand’ in an interview seven years ago, but the interview has resurfaced—to much more backlash than before (IMP. NOTE:  Nothing ever goes away on the Internet, Mr. Jeffries).  Keep in mind that he doesn’t allow his stores to carry any girls’ jeans larger than a size 10 which are really a size 6—I know, because I checked them out when you were in high school and A&F was the divining rod of who was “in” and who was “out”!   The CEO of A&F only allows larger sizes for guys because athletes are usually buff and sexy and need a larger size (his words—not mine).

“He (Mike Jeffries) doesn’t want larger people shopping in his store, he wants thin and beautiful people,” Lewis said. “He doesn’t want his core customers to see people who aren’t as hot as them wearing his clothing. People who wear his clothing should feel like they’re one of the ‘cool kids.’”— Robin Lewis, author of The New Rules of Retail as told to Business Insider*

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids . . . Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends.  A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary?  Absolutely. . .”—Mike Jeffries to Salon.com by Sean Levinson*

Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch

ME:        “When Baby-boy reaches the age when creeps like Mike Jeffries can mess with his mind and cause him to think he is not “good enough” because he can’t squeeze his ass into a pair of A&F’s jeans, then we’ll have trouble on our hands.  Even if A&F is out of business by then (please, God, please), there will be others to take its place.  If Baby-boy or his friends start starving themselves to become the false selves that Jeffries or others like him are selling or he starts labeling himself as the ‘cool kid’ and the others the ‘losers,’ then you’ll know that you need to grab the family, far and wide, to do an intervention before his soul gets sucked right out of his body and we lose him to a false God and a false identity.   Show Baby-boy that his worth comes from the inside out—that he’s spirit, soul, and body, and that nothing anyone says about him is his true self unless he answers to it and makes it his own.

“In the meantime, I’ve got to go and alert all the mothers and grandmothers I know through my blog and Facebook page to this latest assault on our children’s psyches.  I even have an idea for a picket sign.  What do you think?”

“…because if you are, Jeffries:  Talk to the hand, Mofo!”

I am discovering that just as snowflakes (no two being identical) are formed with yesterday’s moisture and today’s arctic air, so it is with people.   We form our identity with a little bit of this from our past and a little bit of that from the present—elements from our family environment and the world around us.  Just as each snowflake must own its individuality to develop into the snowball, the snowman, the snow mound that never existed before but makes all the difference in the world, so must we as humans.   To fit in with the rest of the snowflakes is great in order to build something constructive, but we must never forget that we are all unique and it is that uniqueness that makes the world a fabulous place.  To settle for less is to live a less than excellent life, and it allows others to undermine our destiny, our credibility, and our “True Selves.”

I am also discovering that we can bring smug-ass Jeffries to his knees in a heartbeat by helping our children see that even though they may be able to fit into A&F’s clothes, for the “common good” of their “uncool” sisters and brothers, cousins and nieces, friends and acquaintances, the poor and disenfranchised, they should not spend another dime in this man’s stores.   And in the meantime, they can do like the Los Angeles filmmaker, Greg Karber,** and collect Abercrombie and Fitch brands from thrift stores and friends who’ve outgrown Mr. Arrogant-ass’ rags and give them to the homeless.  Let’s see how Jeffries “cool” brand looks on the “ugly” street-bound chic!

AMEN, AND AMEN! 

 “Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”― Oscar Wilde

“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

 “Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life, but define yourself.”― Harvey Fierstein

* http://elitedaily.com/news/world/abercrombie-fitch-ceo-explains-why-he-hates-fat-chicks/

** http://www.kpho.com/story/22259490/la-man-doles-out-abercrombie-fitch-clothing-to-homeless

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

My Crazy-Ass Mother

Do you know what I’ve discovered?   I could really do without Mother’s Day.  In fact, I pretty much hate the celebration.   It is not my fault—it’s God’s.  He could have arranged for me to be born as Michelle Obama and have her delightful mother and her life, or God could have delayed my birth and let me be one of Michelle and Barack’s kids.  I’d be so cute, rich, and smart right now, and man, my upper arms would be on the road to becoming spectacular like my mother’s instead of flapping in the breeze like the morning wash hung out to dry.  But noooooo!  God had to let me be born to a crazy woman who thought if she, ever so sweetly, ignored me (except when she was trying to kill me), that maybe somehow my sister and I would disappear before anybody noticed we belonged to her.

I suspect my mother was paranoid-schizophrenic long before I was born, but she kept it well hidden until the hormones of menopausal, illegitimate pregnancies produced offspring who demanded to have a mother.  Children are self-centered like that.  They don’t give a shit what is going on in your life, if you’re their mother, then you better damn well show up and do your job:

“Feed me, change me, hold me, love me, discipline me, goddamnit, or I’m going down to the nearest ne’er-do-well office and fill out an application to become the local (fill in the blank____________) thief, drug-addict, ‘ho, gangsta, self-centered brat—you name it.  Forewarned is forearmed, Mommie Dearest.”

There is an old adage that women end up emulating their mothers which scared the bejesus out of my sister, Pee-wee, and me.   We were always looking over our shoulders to see if the crazies were going to catch up with us.  We’re both in our sixties now and we’ve managed not to go insane (knock on wood), but we did so by tip-toeing past the graveyard of Mother’s Days lost and putting each other through a sanity check once or twice a year.

Cartoon by Dan Piraro | www.bizzaro.com

Pee-wee and I would take each other’s mental temperature with questions about scenarios that once plagued our mother’s daily existence:

“Are you talking to the wall, yet?”  (No, only to myself, but I try not to answer me or to talk to myself more than once a day!)

“Are you sewing extraneous pockets inside your sweaters and coats and stuffing them with stolen Saltine crackers, sugar packets, salt and pepper shakers, and anything not nailed down at the lunch counter of the Woolworths 5 and 10 to prepare for Armageddon?” (No, but I must confess that I take home the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner from fancy hotels.  Does that count?) 

“Do you make up conspiracy theories about the Russians trying to take control of your mind through radio waves?”  (No, although I must admit that I am starting to believe a conspiracy theory that the Tea Party has hypnotized some of my ex-friends who are evangelical Christians, and the Baggers have syphoned the love of Christ, their goodwill, and the intelligence out of their hearts and brains.  Given the troll bullying from the Baggers that I get regarding my blog, I think they may be after my soul next.  I’m paranoid that I may turn into an idiot like Palin, Bachmann, or Cruz.) 

“Do you fantasize about killing your children in order to protect them from the “Russians” and white people”?  (No, but I did have copious dreams for years about me killing our mother after that time I invited her to the Girls’ Ensemble concert I was conducting at a church.   It was my last ditch effort to reestablish a relationship with Mama after cutting her out of my life for years.   Mommie Dearest hadn’t been in the concert for more than fifteen minutes before she got “agitated from being surrounded by too many white people” she said, and decided to accompany the Negro spiritual I was conducting [“God’s Gonna Rain Down Fire”] with her personal pyrotechnics.  She couldn’t understand why I didn’t understand that she was aiding God and me with the lighted matches she was throwing with trancelike abandonment into the audience’s hair.  I can still hear the curses of those poor white folks as they scattered like roaches swatting their heads while security tried to subdue our crazy-ass mother.  Did I ever tell you how I kept conducting the choir as if nothing crazy was happening, and as if I didn’t know that woman?  I was too horrified to turn around and face the audience.  All I could do was sob like a hot mess while never missing a beat with my baton, hope the audience thought the crazy woman was related to the only other black person in the choir, and beg God to open up the ground and yank our mother down into the deepest hole in Hell.)

Cartoon by Peter Broelman | www.broelman.com.au

Every year, Pee-wee and I have passed our own litmus tests, and we didn’t become paranoid-schizophrenic like our mother—thank God.   But one doesn’t rub elbows with that type of mother and come out unscathed.  Children of alcoholics, drug addicts, or crazy people usually become like their parents or become the polar opposite. With all due respect, my sister Pee-wee is a control-freak and never had children. I overcompensated for my mother’s mental and physical abandonment by trying to be the perfect mom who was always up in my children’s grill, which almost drove my kids and me insane.  All children make mistakes and have to find their own way in life, no matter how inept or how great the mother.  Every stumble, every rebellion, and every mistake my children have made, I took it as a personal rejection of my “shoddy” parenting, and I would just try harder.   My kids weren’t allowed to fuck up in life and that is a pressure no child can withstand, even if their hearts are in the right place to do the right thing.   They love me dearly, and I them, but I’ve always felt that I could have done better by them by providing more clear-thinking advice about the pitfalls of life.  I have nightmares about the things I never had a chance to teach them before they flew the coop.  My secret horror is that they will be confronted with something in life and not have the life skills with which to overcome, and that lack, in turn, will fling them into the insanity of their grandmother.  When asked what keeps me awake at night—this is it.

Cartoon by Nick Galifiakis | www.nickandzuzu.com

I am discovering that I am cautiously falling in love with the memory of my crazy-ass mother and coming to the adult realization that she did the best she could, given her circumstances.   Mama has been dead for thirty-two years now (died in her sleep on an Easter morning after singing in the church choir), and I’m just beginning to see her through the prism of a life destroyed by intrinsic racism, sexual abuse, and poverty.  As I interview people from my past to chronicle my mother’s all-consuming insanity for my memoirs, I am beginning to see a woman who was not too different from me in her aspirations, dreams, and talents.  The difference in my sanity and my mother’s insanity is that I found the true love of a man (she was summarily abandoned by my father and left to perish in poverty with two babies).   The winds of history blew open the doors at just the right time for my intelligent mind to be educated and my talent to be cultivated beyond the aspirations of scrubbing somebody’s toilet (Mama was never allowed to go past high school and spent much of her life as a maid rather than an opera singer which was her dream).   I have traveled the world and lived extremely well (wasting more money on Broadway shows, travel, and gourmet meals than my mother made in her entire life as a servant).

Am I sane because I escaped ignorance and want?   Can I “get over” in life because I don’t have to live under an apartheid system as my mother did in the US?  Were my babies safe from my descent into madness because I had hope for tomorrow and didn’t have to worry about my children’s next meal?  Only God knows.  But one thing is for sure—I no longer judge my mother for the pain I endured as a child.  Besides, it has made me who I am and given me a riotous sense of humor.  I am truly coming to love and understand the woman who gave me life.   From the conversations I’ve had recently with my grown children, it seems as if they are affording me the same grace.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MAMA!

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”—J. D. Salinger

 “Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met.”― Marguerite Duras

 “When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it’s a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.”― Erma Bombeck

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did—that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.”― Debra Ginsberg

Cartoon by Dan Piraro | www.bizarro.com

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Celebrate, Good Times—Come On!

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  People like me—they really like me, and I’m gonna do what Cool and the Gang have exhorted me to do:  “Celebrate, Good Times!”  As of this moment (more by the time this blog is posted), my blog has received 100,321 hits.  593 hits happened on my best day for the review of Skyfall in November (note to self:  do more movie reviews), and I’ve been spammed 8,625 times.  I am spam worthy, y’all!

Google 100,000 Meme

This 100,000 hits and counting is all so ironic because I never wanted to write a blog, had never read a blog before writing one of my own, and didn’t think I had anything to say that anyone wanted to hear.  I got into this gig as so many others do because I wrote a book and arrogantly thought I’d get a literary agent on try #5 (actually I did get a nibble but she rejected me in the end) and a publisher at try #20.   (I did get a nibble from a small imprint publisher who wanted to feature my book as part of their African–American section, but after months of holding my manuscript, he decided they were going in a different direction.)   When I got my 236^th rejection, various literary agents confirmed that it was generally due to the fact that I was a “nobody” with no followers (code for:  “Nobody wants to read a ‘nobody memoir’—become notorious and we’ll talk.”)  One of my published author friends counseled me to start a blog to get my style of writing and name out there, and when I balked and asked him what I should write about, he said: “Anything and everything—it doesn’t matter, just write.”

For weeks I pondered what a chubby-ass, post-menopausal black woman would post on a blog and in what format?  I had recently gone rogue and had taken back my belief in God after thirty years from it being hijacked in the clutches of right-wing conservatism, and I had a lot to say about being duped in life.   And then I got a revelation:  make ‘em laugh, sista’—make ‘em laugh at you and them.  I’ve always been a storyteller so I started writing stories about the absurdities in life because I’m old, and just about everything I’ve seen and done in the past can be laid waste by the magic wand of absurdity.  I can be absurd, you can be absurd, our neighbors can be absurd, sex can be absurd, politics is definitely absurd, religions at their worst are absurd, and the world at large is absurd because we all take ourselves much too seriously and do great damage in the wake of that absurdity.  I figured if I could make people laugh at themselves, maybe they (we) would take a look at the truth of the matter and change any of their (our) ways that were hurting themselves or our world.

At first the stories were low-hanging fruit and easy to come by because I am a pratfalling, Lucille Ball-type of character who tries to pretend that I’ve got my shit together in real life.  But once those stories were all used up, I started looking to my family who immediately rushed forward to tell me what I could not write about:

ME:                        “Hey, Babe, can I write about our sex life?”

HUSBAND:          “No!”

ME:                        “Why not?  Sex is funny at any age and when you’re old, it’s hilarious.  What about that time we were doing the ‘wild thing’ and I fell asleep?”

HUSBAND:          (Total silence, which is how my husband responds to me when he has had enough of my shenanigans and doesn’t see the funny in what I see as funny.)

Then I started using stories about my kids when they were little or my grandson as he makes his way through life, but I’ve noticed over the last few family get-togethers that qualifiers are being placed on stories that my urchins share with me about their lives or the lives of their friends:  “This is not blog fodder, Mother!”

Politics made for great blog ingredients for a while, but I was glad when the presidential campaign season ended.  Tea Baggers, so-called Patriots, and folks who claim to be Born-again Christians dedicated to saving our country from Socialists and white-people-hating bloggers like me (one troll’s frothing response to my Black History piece) have absolutely no sense of humor.   These folks can be quite rabid when you poke fun at them or their media darlings, and they come after you with guns a blazing—morphing into “trolls” that definitely made me realize that getting everyone’s approval is not what makes a successful blogger.

Mimi and Eunice |www.mimiandeunice.com

Pretty soon I couldn’t encounter a person or a situation without wondering whether they or it was a potential blog story.   I never exist in the moment anymore (not that I ever did) because I’m either thinking about writing a blog, actually writing the blog, or I’m editing a blog.  Like the time I went to a gorgeous spa for a quick get-away with my husband to have a romantic weekend and be rested enough so I didn’t repeat the faux pas of falling asleep (oops!), and while getting a quick mani-pedi, the nail technician began to regale me with her stories:

NAIL LADY:         “So you’re a blogger, huh?  What types of things do you blog about?”

ME:                        “Oh, anything and everything—whatever makes me laugh and has an underlying life-lesson.”

NAIL LADY:         “People tell me that I should write a book or something because you won’t believe some of the stories I hear sitting in this chair.  People tell me everything.”

ME:                        “I bet you have some juicy stories to tell.  But I warn you, anything you tell me could and probably will be used in an upcoming blog.”  (At this point, I woke up from my laid-back state of mind and turned on my inner tape recorder as I mentally took notes for what I could “smell” would be delicious comedic blog fodder for weeks to come.)

NAIL LADY:         “No problem.  Just don’t mention my name or the resort’s name and you can use anything you want.  Anyway, the funniest thing I ever had happen sitting in this chair was when a really young woman with tons of money came into the salon to get a mani-pedi.   You know the type:  blond, fake triple D tits, spray tan, and an engagement ring the size of Mt. Rushmore.   Miss “Got Rocks” immediately started telling me that she had recently married a man much, much older than herself, and they had come to the resort for a romantic weekend because, due to his age, they had been having trouble getting it on—or should I say, getting it up.  I had just finished her manicure and put her feet in the pedicure bath to soak when her cell phone rang.   At first she ignored it, mouthing (‘it’s my old man’), but he kept ringing her over and over until she picked up the phone.   She immediately became agitated and started screaming at him:  ‘I can’t come back to the room now—I’m just starting my pedicure.  What?  You took the pill already?  But you knew I had this mani-pedi appointment, and I’d be here for a while.  Why did you take the pill so early?  Well, doesn’t the damn thing last for four hours?  What do you mean, that’s if something goes wrong?  Oh, fuck!  All right, I’ll come back to the room now—oh, for God’s sake!’   I try to tune out to my customer’s phone calls, but there’s not much you can do when you’re squatting near the floor scrubbing somebody’s feet.  Finally with a huge sigh of frustration, she told me that her ‘old man’ had taken his Cialis pill thirty minutes ago, and it looked as if his fun stick was beginning to droop at half-mast and he was in a panic.  He needed her to get back to the room ASAP before he was left aimlessly swinging in the breeze like a mourning flag at half-mast.”

ME:                        “Well, what did you do?”

NAIL TECH:         “The only thing I could do.  I suggested we reschedule her pedicure because if I polished her toes they would surely be destroyed in the morning’s ‘aerobic exercise’ with her husband.  She never returned.”

ME:                        “So I guess falling asleep while doing the wild thing isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a couple, right?”

NAIL LADY:         “Huh, what?”

ME:                        “Ah, never mind!”

http://www.funnytimes.com

When I first started my blog, I could hardly wait to get comments.  The first comments were from friends and family, but comments from other bloggers took a while until I established myself by consistently posting stories and leaving comments on their blogs.   It was as though credible bloggers were waiting to see if I was worth their time.   I learned to be patient, write quality pieces that would attract readers (make ‘em laugh, baby), and make as few mistakes as possible.  (Apparently, spelling and grammatical errors can get you run out of blogosphere town on a rail.)

Soon people (usually ones that I wished had passed me by) started finding my blog through search lines in Google that were beyond bizarre.  Some of them (they show up in the daily data script of the blog) I could read and laugh about, but some of them were just sick.  (I’ve often wondered what I could have written that would link my blog to the sicko searches that show up in my stats until another blogger who just posts gorgeous pictures of flowers once wrote a blog on the perverse search lines that bring people to her artistic site.)  Here are some of the searches that led people to my blog over the last year:

Tea Party fishing hats

Fat-ass chicks in flesh colored tights

WHEN DID THAT BITCH ELEANOR TOMCZYK LEAVE MY CHURCH?!

Little Ni**er Babies

Axolotls

Ms piggy

Brother’s keeper tattoos designs

Rihanna hands

Who the fuck is Eleanor Tomczyk?

Amy farrah fowler

How the hell did steven

Fat girl on a zipline

Katie Holmes journey

(PLUS, UNMENTIONABLE GOOGLE SEARCHES THAT ARE NOT WORTHY OF REPRINTING—JUST KNOW THAT THEY WERE HORRIBLE AND DESPICABLE—I NEEDED SOAP TO WASH OUT MY BRAIN!)

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I am discovering that blogging has strengthened my relationship with my family (my kids discovered I was cool and smart because their friends read my blog and like it), and it’s given me something I never expected:  community.   As my writing has more clearly defined who I really am—as I have become freer to be me—it has not been without consequences here and there in relationships that I thought would go the distance.   My blog became a winnowing rod.  People who thought they knew me, didn’t, and people who should have known me and journeyed with me in my growth, refused, even though I had walked similar journeys with them.  But as some people from my past peeled away (“c’est la vie”), almost seamlessly, a community of amazing people wandered in from various walks of life (thanks Sondra, Maxine, Greg, Joanne, WW (my editor and husband), CDT and KLT and their multitudinous co-workers and friends, Kirsten, Deb, Peter, Sarah, Patty, Jean, Pam, Kathy, Lakeisha, Jeffrey, Susannah and a host of fans that I left behind at work) and the blogosphere.  They all liked the “me” they saw, and stayed to lend encouragement and support.

I am also discovering that the bloggers who encouraged me are people I’d love to gather together for wine and cheese on my deck on any given Sunday afternoon and celebrate their generosity to me.  I would keep my mouth shut and just listen to them talk amongst themselves as they spoke about what they most eloquently blog about—living, loving, beauty, and grace.  I love their writings, photos, and music, and they have given me constant encouragement to keep on keepin’ on with my journey as a writer.  I owe the following bloggers a great debt of gratitude for following, reading, linking to me, and in many cases listing me as one of their favorite blogs.  The fact that they return week after week and leave such delicious comments is sweetness personified.  Here’s a shout-out to some of the best bloggers in the sphere:  TDashfield at http://imagesbytdashfield.wordpress.com/ , Elyse at http://fiftyfourandahalf.com/,  Frank at http://afrankangle.wordpress.com/, Lynn Purse at http://composerinthegarden.com/ , Dawn G at http://talesfromthemotherland.me/ , Momsheib at http://momshieb.wordpress.com/ , Val at http://valentinelogar.com/ , Nonnie 9999 at http://mikk2.wordpress.com/ , Hudson Howl at www.beyondplumcreek.com, Karyn at http://anobservantmind.com/ , Miss Vixiev at http://eurobrat.wordpress.com/ , Tina at http://daysift.com/, Ronnie at http://morristownmemos.wordpress.com/ , Heather D at http://becomingcliche.wordpress.com/ , Nancy at http://notquiteold.wordpress.com/, George at http://georgefloreswrite.com/ , and Lindy Lee at http://poeticlicensee.wordpress.com/.  Thank you, all!  (If I forgot anyone, please don’t hate me—my brain is not what it used to be!)

“I don’t want to go viral, I want to set hearts on fire.”― Coco J. Ginger

“My blog is a collection of answers people don’t want to hear to questions they didn’t ask.”― Sebastyne Young

 “If you’re going to fall out of love with public approval, something interesting will happen: people will be deeply attracted to your work.”― Jeff Goins

 “I finished the [blog] post reflecting on the fact that, despite all the changes in my life, maybe I wasn’t so different after all. If I typed it, maybe I could believe it, too.”― Stephanie Nielson

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

The Arrogance of Ignorance

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  The President is correct:  this has been one hell of a week!  I’ve been so stressed out worrying and praying for my fellow Americans that all I could do was eat and pray—pray and eat (my way of dealing with stress which seems to make me fatter, albeit, not any holier).

Garfield by cartoonist Jim Davis

This “hell of a week” started out with the colossal moral failure of four Democrats (4 votes if you don’t count Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid’s “procedural ‘no’ vote”—WTF??):  Sens. Max Baucus, Mark Begich, Heidi Heitkamp and Mark Pryor, voting “no” against universal background checks for gun purchases because of their lily-livered fear of the NRA.   The fact that the majority of the Republican Senators voted against the bill didn’t come as a surprise (kudos to the courageous Republicans who showed moral fortitude in voting “yes”), but the Democrats who betrayed the 20 innocent children slaughtered in Newtown and the thousands of others across our land since then made me madder than Hell and sent me straight to the gluten-free cheesecake.

Cartoonist:  Steve Sack/Chicago Star Tribune

What brought me to my knees, crying out to a God for help who I am confident exists but sometimes seems to be on an extended holiday, was the nightmare we’ve all just woken up from:  Boston under siege.  Even my dreams reflected my fears.  The night of the Boston Marathon bombing I dreamt that my husband (WW) and I were being chased by rabid paparazzi as if we were Hollywood stars.  My white husband (WW), who is always pitch perfect in tone and dress, wore a sharp black pin-striped suit with a patriotic tie (in real life he looks like a Presbyterian minister or president of the RNC, so this outfit is de rigueur for him).  I, the chocolate Lucille Ball of my family who often makes missteps in my fashion choices (I once wore a stunning white suit with matching hat and veil to a wedding—don’t ask!), walked beside WW in a two-piece skimpy bikini (seriously, demon-dream tormentors, did you lose your minds?).   Feeling particularly vulnerable with my exposed, pudgy body, I kept crying out for some type of “grace” to provide me a swimsuit covering to escape the tormenting laughter of the paparazzi who were chasing after me to get pictures of my fluffy-nutter midriff.  I kept asking WW why someone with “power” didn’t show up to rescue me from my shabby wardrobe faux pas—where was a helper when you really needed one?

Fortunately, I woke up from my naked dream, and I turned on the news to see what progress had been made in capturing the Boston Marathon terrorists. I heard an interview with a retired FBI agent who said something that will stick with me for the rest of my life.  When questioned by the interviewer if we’d ever catch the perpetrators, the very wise FBI profiler said something tantamount to this:  “Oh, we’ll catch them—one way or the other—today or another day—we’ll catch them, because these terrorists don’t know what they don’t know.  In other words, they are arrogant of their ignorance.”  The profiler went on to explain that no matter how meticulous a plan is to commit a crime, there is always something that the perpetrators are blind to or unaware of that will eventually trip him or her up.  It was right then and there that I realized the Boston terrorists had planned everything “perfectly,” but in their arrogance they were ignorant to God’s grace appearing on the scene masquerading as ordinary helpers and undermining the bad guys’ ability to escape.

GOD’S “HELPERS”

The surveillance camera on a Lord & Taylor store, across where the second bomb exploded, provided video of the area and captured the first grainy images of the terrorists.

Carlos Arredondo (a peace activist):  the man in the white cowboy hat who had come to the race to honor his two dead sons (one died in Iraq and the other committed suicide in response to his brother’s death), who ran toward the explosion, put tourniquets on Jeff Bauman who lost both legs from one of the bombs, rushed Jeff to the first ambulance to arrive, and reassured the young man that he would be okay.

Jeff Bauman:  the amputee (saved by Carlos Arredondo) who demanded a pen and piece of paper as soon as he came out of surgery while he was still groggy, because he wanted to let the police know that he had seen the bomber put down a backpack—had made eye contact with the man—and could describe him (“Bag.  Saw the guy, looked right at me,” Jeff Bauman wrote.).

Heroes Carlos Arredondo and Jeff Bauman | Charles Krupa—AP Photo

Bob Leonard:  a Boston Marathon veteran, who always stood in the same place year after year, snapped 10 – 20 photos a minute of the crowd and the winners as they approached the finish line.  His photos of the two terrorists were the first crystal-clear images of the men and gave law enforcement their first breakthrough in the case and ultimately led to the demise of suspect #1 (Black Cap).

David Henneberry:  A man who stepped outside of his house for a smoke less than an hour after police lifted a stay-indoors order for Watertown and the surrounding area.  He saw blood on the tarp of his boat in his yard, gingerly lifted a corner of the cover to discover someone in the boat, and very wisely ran back into the house and called the police.  The police had combed that area for hours and were pulling out to leave, figuring that suspect #2 (White Cap) had slipped through their net.  Because of the actions of the smoking resident, the 5-day reign of terror came to an end for Boston, and the country breathed a sigh of relief as Bostonians cheered the jubilant declaration:  “WE GOT HIM!”

Cartoonist: Randy Bish

I am discovering that sometimes the question is not why did you let this happen, God, but it is more significant to ask:  Where were you in the midst of all this chaos and pain?    Bad shit happens to good people here, there, and everywhere because we are free as human souls to choose between good and evil (if I ever get a chance to create my own world, nobody will have the freedom to choose anything—I’ll guarantee you that).   Being able to recognize God’s grace in the midst of evil keeps us from losing our minds, especially when we don’t understand why the bad things are happening to good people in the first place.

I am also discovering that the arrogance of evil is always ignorant of the good that is ever prevalent—ever watching and all-powerful—to defeat evil in the end.  But we must be very careful not to become like those who attacked us.  Within the last 48 hours, a female doctor by the name of Heba Abolaban  (dressed in a hijab and carrying her baby) was attacked on a Boston street.  According to the Huffington Post, the attacker hit her and shouted: “Fuck you Muslims! You are terrorists! I hate you! You are involved in the Boston explosions! Fuck you!”   We all must resist the pull to allow our anger to descend into “demonic anger” (“characterized by a fury that takes over or possesses us”) as Paul Brandeis Raushenbush so eloquently described it in his article* on responding to Boston anger.  Instead we must get angry—very angry—at the evil perpetrated by the terrorists, but it must be a “righteous anger” that does not forgo justice or strike out at the innocent so that we maintain what Raushenbush says makes us “people of peace, compassion and justice, that we want to be in this world.”*

Cartoonist:  David Baldinger

 “It is the certainty that they possess the truth that makes men cruel.”― Anatole France

“I see myself capable of arrogance and brutality… That’s a fierce thing, to discover within yourself that which you despise the most in others.”—George Stevens

“For all the different labels that get attached to it—terrorism, serial killing, ethnic war—much of mass violence is actually one big thing: the attempt by a small group of nihilistic and idiosyncratic individuals to murder, indiscriminately, a great many more.”—Charles King (“Every American Muslim’s Fear after the Boston Bombing”/Daily Beast)

*RESPONDING TO BOSTON ANGER:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paul-raushenbush/responding-to-boston-anger_b_3092758.html

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.