Bye-Bye, Common Scold, and Hello, Rusty Magnolia!

Okay, I've tentatively settled on "The Rusty Magnolia" (flaky but strong) as my new blog's name. As of this moment, the Common Scold blog at blogspot.com is now defunct. *sniffle*

See any future postings at this new URL:
http://rustymagnolia.wordpress.com/

I'm excited to be trying out all the features of Wordpress, too. I LOVE the fact that they make categories so easy to set up and to use. Why won't Blogger do that?!

Hugs to all -- CR

Seeking Originality

Whoops, I just found out a few days ago that the highly original blog name I'm using is already being used by a well-established blawg that's been around for several years. (I missed using "the" with "common scold" when I Googled the term.) In deference to someone else's carefully tended turf and to avoid readership confusion, I've offered to change my blog's name.

I'll be silent for a bit while I think of something else clever to call this. My last posting at this site will include info on my new blog's name & location.

Some titles &/or catch phrases I'm considering include:

• Rusty Magnolia -- flaky but strong
• Aluminum Magnolia -- cheap but strong
• The Lone Deranger
• Burb Blurts

But nothing sounds just right. I want to have a name with these characteristics:

• not easily misspelled
• fairly short
• no hyphens
• catchy
• a name that covers all types of posts I might want to do -- crankiness, oddities I've noticed, humor, vents/rants, etc. -- both the good and the bad stuff

So I'm still pondering. Cheers! - CR

It's Snot for Me

I writhed and rotisserated and lurched in and out of bed most of last night with a moderately bad episode of my perpetual sinus problems. (On a scale of 1-10, it was about a 7.) Funny how just a little excess of mucous and a little dearth of good drainage can so affect my quality of life. After two sinus surgeries in recent years, I'm still hassling with constant stuffiness and recurring infections. I do try to deal with preventive measures: We have wood floors instead of carpeting, and I take a daily allergy pill and nose spray. Yeah, I have indoors pets, but they aren't allowed in the bedroom generally. I JUST finished a round of antibiotics a week or two ago for an infection. And now? It's all back again.

I wish I could just remove my sinuses (but how do you "remove" a hole?) and pave the spaces over with concrete. I'd willingly use moistening nose spray hourly for the rest of my life if it meant I didn't have to deal with this congestion ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

I lie down on my left side and feel the pressure build until GLUCK-GLUCK-GLUCk, the ketchup bottle that is my head gives an audible POP and all the snot drips from the right side to the left. Let that build for a while, and then flip over to the right side. ... GLUCK-GLUCK-GLUCK. Roll the clock forward for five hours of this. I lie there with my mind occupied with nothing more than the almost sexual pleasure of the pops and the glucks as they relieve the pressure.

And then, when I finally have puttered around the downstairs and taken enough sinus medicine that I'm both "opened up" and sufficiently groggy to sleep despite my pounding head and how the medicine makes my high blood pressure zoom up, there's that thing that happens when I spoon up next to my hubby.

You ladies know what I mean. Feel bad enough, long enough, and you don't have sex with your husband often enough for his liking. Then every time you get near him, even the most casual touch turns into a "Well, hell-OH there, baby" moment. Even when you feel like shit and he knows it.

*sigh*

He's not even awake yet, and I already feel like an ambulatory steak prancing around in front of a chained-up, starving dog.

Here's how it plays out: I lie down and sigh. The cool sheets and warm man feel so good. My hurting head has receded from a 7 on the pain scale to about a 4, and even though I know I'll pay for it tomorrow with rebound congestion, the temporary relief is enough for the moment. The front of my thighs make contact with his ass. I drape one arm across his belly and relax. Finally start to drift off. And then ... Oh. Shit.

His asshole starts to quiver. Pucker, pucker, pucker. I tense up and don't move a muscle, especially the hand across his belly.

Pucker, pucker, pucker. It would be funny if it didn't also irritate the piss out of me. It's like a little kissing fish making contact with the glass of the aquarium. Clench, clench, clench. (Stop that!)

And I know, from experience, that with each butt pucker, his pecker is inflating on the other side of his body. Soon, he'll wake up, tent the sheets, and reach for me as if he's just had A Very Good Idea.

FUCK! NO!

When I say, "No, baby, I've been trying to get to sleep for five hours and it's 4:30 and I have to get up in two hours and go to work and my head hurts," he'll flip over in a flurry of indignant, hurt rejection before I can finish the "No, baby."

Why can't he just ignore the peckertude when I've got the sickitude? WHY must he always insist on trying for the fuckitude when he knows I've got the "Oh, shit-itude" response?

And why don't I just fuck him and then make him get up and get me more aspirin, you may ask. My answer: Because my mission in life is not to be an on-demand dick sheath regardless of my mood or health. How I feel MATTERS.

At least to me.

And before I get a comment that suggests all I need is a real good old-fashioned deepdicking, I have a question for the dick philosophers: Why is it OK for him to be selfish and want to dip his wick and not OK for me to be selfish and say no when I don't feel well? Because being horny is more natural and normal than being sick? Because wanting is more important than not wanting? Because "it would just take a minute" and I will feel bad whether I open my legs or no, so why not do it "for him, because "what's the big deal"?

Is this feminism or childishness?

I've got to go see an allergist and try to explain that either the snot or my husband's pecker have got to go, and I'm way more fond of one of them than the other.

That, or start sleeping downstainrs.

Skeletons in My Mental Closet,AKA, "Why I'm a Bonehead"

I lovety-love-love the Dilbert blog. Never before have I seen a famous person feel so free to just blurt it all out, from ridiculous fears to wild-eyed theories about the universe. Awesome!

Today he talked about things he worries about -- not the big things that everyone else worries about and that someone else is probably going to handle -- the other stuff. His personal fears are here; mine are below.

I worry:

1. That I will get pregnant again and have a pregnancy as sick and miserable and worried as the last one.
2. That I will get pregnant again and I'll never be able to retire and just be me, instead of being someone's mommy. Love 'em, but there are moments when I don't want to hear a retching child's knock on my bedroom door at midnight or the afternoon stairstep stompings of an oppressed teen retiring to her room in high dudgeon.
3. That I won't get pregnant again (unlikely at my age and low-low-low sexual activity level), and I'll never have a son. I love my daughters intensely but would like to know what it's like to have a little boy, too.
4. That my older daughter will get pregnant as a teen, like so many of her cousins on her dad's side of the family did (as well as her dad's stepdaughters). We'd cope, but she doesn't need that kind of distraction; she has concentration problems in school and in life as it is.
5. That my younger daughter will never quit being a neurotic worrywart. I love her sweet personality but worry that my nutty mother's presence in her live has made my girl a fearful people-pleaser. Thank goodness for older sis, who frequently annoys little sis enough to piss her off right into the hotheaded stratosphere of a Z-snappin' attitude. Maybe she'll balance out OK.
6. That my mentally unstable mother, who lives with us, will wear me out by living another 10 years. Yes, I know it's wrong to pray for someone's death, particularly when the prayer is trembling on the doorstep of atheism. But still, somedays ...
7. That I'll never write a novel.
8. That I'll write a book, and it will excel only in suckitude.
9. That my husband will never make any "real" money.
10. That he'll someday get tired of my shit and just leave me.
11. That people are always going to depend on me and I will always have to be the strong one.
12. That I'll never be secure enough to quit worrying about whether I'm likeable. Guess the littlest girl in the house doesn't get her people-pleasing ways just from her granny.

That's enough for now, I think.

Ha-Ha, I'm Serious

A recent Boing Boing posting led me to an oddly endearing and disturbing animation at YouTube that showcased a bullied child's diary. I was at first irked that someone was mocking a child's private anger, but I read in the comments that it's part of a stage show where people read angsty postings from their childhood journals. People find it therapeutic to read these old entries on stage, and audiences are lapping it up as they laugh along.

Good lord. I could keep them going for YEARS. Mental note: Dig around in the attic and unearth my old diaries to see if there are any formerly painful moments to smile about now. Possible blog fodder, or at least my teen will get a giggle or two from them. Maybe even a moment of identification with ol' Mom.

In the comments to the bullied boy's video, someone spelled out today's quote of the day:

"Comedy is simply a funny way of being serious."
~ Peter Ustinov

A Few Shabby Ideas

Heard a podcast this morning where someone was happily mispronouncing his words. His pearl for the day was shabotage.

I was entranced, trying to think of the correct definition:
(a) when you go for the shabby chic look and totally screw it up,
(b) the act of a malicious interior designer who screws up your home's decor and insists that it's the latest style;
(c) when you dress sloppily for a date with someone you really don't want to see again.

A related word might be shaboteur -- a shabbiness perpetrator, or a shabby person who's not quite expert at shabotage yet (shabby + amateur).

And then there are:

• reluctant rulers who shabdicate
• the '70s Swedish band now gone to seed, Shabba
• trying to tighten up flabby shabdominal muscles
• college students who pack up their tattered jeans and tees and head to Europe for a few weeks shabroad
• trying to practice shabstinence and quit thinking of things like this
• but I can't help it -- I'm a shabstract thinker
• (Oh, the vocabulary shabuse)

(It's this kind of thinking that keeps me dreamily staring at my monitor instead of working.)

Shrug Off or Vent -- It's a Choice

Most of the time, I keep my nice, social, easy-going attitude on. As an adult, I've been categorized as tolerant, unflappable, easy-to-please -- a "roll with it" and "go with the flow" kind of gal. I don't quite cross over into "cheerleader for the world" status, but I tend to maintain an upbeat attitude because I like myself better that way and I like how it affects my relationships with other people. Most irritations, minor accidents to my property, and careless insults to myself are things that I just shrug off.

It doesn't always feel natural to do that, but it gets easier with practice. I do feel like a bit of a fake, doing that -- but one who's leading a fairly effective life.

But sometimes when I sense malice or persistent carelessness, the "nice" suit slips off, and the naked annoyance is bare to the astonished world. I've often felt guilty about that. Failing to bite my tongue feels both satisfying and guilt inducing, like a failure of self control. Except ... it's not really a failure of self-control, is it? For me, it's usually a conscious choice when I do decide to let 'er rip. (I can be breath-takingly harsh, so I'm very choosy about doing this. It's too easy to slide over into "vicious.")

Does that make me some kind of nut, who has to work at containing or appropriately directing anger? Do other people carry around simmering pools of irritation that they vent through sarcasm, humor, or just plenty of "ARRRGH!" diary entries?

And because I work at this, does this make me a fake -- that when I feel irritated, most of the time I choose to keep that to myself? Do I do that just so people will like me (what a needy nerd, if so)? Honestly, that's part of it, if I truly examine my motives. But I've come to believe that this is not the only reason, nor is it the major one. Few things are that simple.

Personally, I think that selectively expressing irritation is just maturity and self-restraint, finally emerging as part of my psyche in my 40s. I can't usually change how I feel, but I can change how I act. Too many people have their crabby attitudes hanging out all over the place, rubbing off on people who really don't deserve the abrasions. The perpetually crabby ones flood with heartburn and spike their own blood pressure as they unnecessarily damage their relationships with others.

To me, the most intelligent, compassionate choice is to suppress destructive expressions of anger and just express annoyance in a highly targeted, tightly focused manner of my choosing. This decision has helped me build patience. Most of the time, I use expressions of my irritation as a tool to
(1) convey displeasure to a deserving person (intentional aggravants, not just bumblers),
(2) persuade people that they need to take seriously what I'm saying
(3) make the circumstances unpleasant for someone who's being unreasonably stubborn with me (for example, customer service reps who refuse to honor their store's own return policies or explain why) -- and hope that this persuades them to change their actions,
or -- if I'm just pissed beyond measure over a recurring or severe problem --
(4) speak out very sharply, just for my own good as a mental health release.

That last one is something I try to use sparingly. No one wants to be next to a spewing Mt. Vesuvius all the time, nor, for my own sake, do I want to be one. But neither do they want to be next to a trembling mountain near-to-bursting with pent-up hot lava just barely held in check. And again, I don't want to be that, either.

So, sometimes I vent despite my good intentions. Does that make me a hypocrite? Don't think so. If I am, I think I can live with it.

It's also exasperating to exercise this kind of control and then hear some clueless person fall back on his/her own defense: "Bitch!"

If thought bubbles appeared over my head like in the cartoons, mine would respond, "Yeah, so what. Doesn't rule out you being an idiot, now does it?"