Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

Clearly My Powers Are Growing

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Yesterday I had a very odd experience.

The lawn guy was here, and my husband had requested that the next time he showed up, could I please ask him a couple of questions. So I went outside to do just that.

At first the lawn guy seemed genuinely happy to see me. He turned off the leaf blower, took out his earplugs, and greeted me warmly. Then I began to ask him my questions.

I have experienced a lot of different people having a lot of different reactions to me as a person. There has been enjoyment, inspiration, laughter, confusion, repulsion, condescension, and lo, so very many different things. But this is the first time that the person to whom I was speaking reacted as if they were enduring some kind of excruciating psychic pain caused by my mere presence.

Here’s how our conversation went.

Me: “So, we were wondering if from now on you could trim those bushes so that they are the same height all the way across.”

The lawn guy: (Nervous, uncomfortable laughter, grimacing at me all the while as if to say, “Each one of your words has become a tiny, poisoned dagger that pierces through my flesh every time you speak to me.” I truly thought he might start to cry.)

Me: “Also, how much would you charge us to take away our bags of lawn trash?”

The lawn guy: “Um, well, that depends.” (Now the grimace is pleading, “Dear God, please let this torture end!”)

So apparently there was something in that interchange that transformed me from Holly Hobbie Homeowner (a 1970’s icon that I totally resembled yesterday, clad as I was entirely in denim, and missing only the kicky braids) into Hellacious Helga, Purveyor Of Psychic Pain.

I have absolutely no idea what that something might be, or where it was during the three years I was a classroom teacher and really could have used that ability. But clearly it is time to investigate this further.

If I Wanted To Feel This Bad About Myself, I Would Have Tried On A Bathing Suit

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Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

So, I have been having some issues with my fax machine lately. Issues that yesterday caused me to walk through my house all day long yelling about just how much I hate it, and how desperately I yearn for it to undergo a painful, explosive death.

I am the first to admit that I have absolutely NO patience when it comes to things like this. I go from ZERO to ENRAGED in less than a nanosecond. That is why my husband is in charge of All Inanimate Objects Containing Moving Or Electrical Parts.

But today I decided I would TRY and act like a responsible, mature adult, and so I called the “alleged” help line for my fax machine’s manufacturer.

Now, I will admit that I do have pretty high standards when it comes to customer service. And that is due to the fact that I, personally, have experienced outstanding customer service many times. So I know that it does actually exist.

For example, take the people who sold us our car.

My husband and I own an Audi, and a couple of years ago it was in the shop for service. Happily, our dealer provided us with a rental car to use in the meantime. We went to see a movie, and when we got back to the parking lot after the movie was over we discovered that we were unable to unlock the rental car. We called our dealer, and within a very short time someone drove out to the movie theater, popped open the trunk, GOT IN THE TRUNK, CLIMBED THROUGH THE ENTIRE CAR, and unlocked it for us from the inside. And they were GENUINELY HAPPY to do that for us. This is just one of the many reasons why we love Audi.

Or take our pest control company, Breda. It doesn’t matter how many times I call them, or what I ask them to do; they too are always happy to help me. I could call them up and say, “Um, there is a black cloud of death located directly over our house, and it’s raining down fiery, flaming scorpions on top of us, and they’re falling into a black pit of writhing, poisonous snakes, which is being whipped around by the hurricane-force winds of killer bees that is blowing in from the west,” and they would say, “OK, we can have your guy there tomorrow morning at 8 am.” And that is why we also love Breda.

I have also experienced extremely poor customer service, which unfortunately was what was constantly displayed by Our Former Internet Service Provider. Our high-speed Internet connection was giving us A Lot of problems, and eventually was “off” more than it was ever “on”. It got to the point where it would start cutting off in anticipation of any kind of inclement weather. So we’d wake up in the morning, see that, “Oh, the Internet connection’s out again,” and know that it was probably going to rain that day somewhere in the state of Georgia. So as a weather forecasting system it worked great, but as an Internet connection it totally sucked.

I called their so-called “help” line quite a bit back in those days, but all they ever told me to do was this: “Go get a paper clip, straighten it out, and poke it in the tiny hole on the back of your modem.”

So here’s what a hypothetical conversation with them would’ve looked like:

Hypothetical Me: “Um, there are flames shooting out of the top of my computer, and the screen has opened up and disgorged all of the fiery demons of hell, and there is a deep, cackling maniacal voice coming out of my speakers, and the demons are snatching up my cats and tossing them into the air to use as props in their satanical juggling routine. HELP!”

Hypothetical ISP: (in a heavy Indian accent) “OK. Do you have a paper clip?”

But, back to today.  So I called the fax machine’s “help” line and did get connected to an actual human being, but I knew I was in trouble the minute I heard her speak. Because she was talking to me in the tone of voice that said, “Whatever is wrong is your fault, because you are a total %$$@&*(^% idiot, and now I have to deal with you.” Now, there have been PLENTY of times in my life when I have, in fact, been a total &^%$#&*( &^% idiot, but to just ASSUME that I am one because I needed to call your help line is kind of a big jump in my mind. Whatever happened to “innocent until proven guilty”?

But I really need to send some faxes today so I continued the conversation, willing for her to dislike me if she could just tell me how to get my machine to work. But, no, that was not in the cards for me today. Because no matter what I said to her, all she ever said back to me was, “Hm, that could be a problem.” Every answer I gave her was wrong. It was like being hit on the head repeatedly with the hammer of, “This Is How Much You Suck!”

I could’ve had this conversation with her, and the answer would have been just the same.

Hypothetical Me: “Hi, I’m calling about my Sharp fax machine. I’m calling from Sharp headquarters. I invented every single Sharp product known to man. I am the physical embodiment of all Sharp technology that currently exists in physical form on this planet.”

Sharp Help Line Lady : (hypothetically speaking) “Hm, that could be the problem.”

EEEECCCCKKKK! THUNK! (Those are the hypothetical sounds of me traveling through the phone line and bludgeoning her to death with my dysfunctional fax machine).

So anyway, I guess I will have to wait until tonight when my husband gets home so I can ask him to take a look at The Stupid Fax Machine Which I Hate And I Hope It Dies And I Wish I Could Beat It To Death With A Sledgehammer!!!!

Not that I am bitter. Or cranky. And I definitely DO NOT need a nap! Ggrr!

There Ain’t No Way To Hide Your Lyin’ Eyes

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Yesterday I took a very large step, one that I had been debating for quite some time: I changed banks.

I decided that I was tired of paying the old bank every month just for the privilege of keeping my money there. So I found a new bank that doesn’t do that, which is very nice. Unfortunately, the new bank is located directly across the street from the old bank, a place I’ve frequented for the last 6 1/2 years, where, in the immortal words of Cheers, “everybody knows my name.”

So instead of being able to drift quietly away into my new banking relationship, letting my old bank have the time and space it needs to mourn the end of our association, I am forced to flaunt my new financial partnership in full view of the bank with whom I’ve just broken up.

And to make matters worse, I had to go to the old bank first and take care of some business, and the whole time I was there I just knew that everyone was watching me, knowing exactly what I was about to do.

So here’s how that visit went.

I open the door to the bank.
(I just know that somewhere, the Eagles’ song, “Lyin’ Eyes” has begun to play).

The Bank Teller: “Good morning, Mrs. Ryan”
Me: “Hello”
(“You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes”)

The Bank Teller: “And how are you doing today?”
Me:(shifting anxiously, not willing to meet her eyes) “Oh I’m just fine, thanks.”
(“And your smile is a thin disguise”)

The Bank Teller: “How can I help you today?”
Me: “Um, I just need to make a deposit.” (Please, please, don’t ask me anything else!)
(“I thought by now you’d realize”)

The Bank Teller: “Thanks so much for banking with us.”
Me:(mumbling) “Mmhhmm”
(“There ain’t no way to hide your lyin’ eyes”)

I felt so guilty that I just wanted to yell out, “Please don’t feel bad. It’s not you-it’s me! Except, it is you because you keep taking my money. If you would just stop taking my money then everything would be just fine. But you won’t, and so you’ve forced me to go out and find someone else, someone new, someone who can give me what I really need. So I’m sorry, but it’s over. I’m leaving you.”

Breaking up really is hard to do.

OK, So My Mom Was Right About This

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So last weekend my husband and I were at dinner with 3 other couples, and during the course of the conversation the woman next to me informed me that I was going to, and I quote, “H-E-double hockey sticks.” Oh, and not only was I going, but so was my husband. Oh, and not only was he going too, but the fact that he was going was also my fault.

That was a lot of information to take in all at once, and I really didn’t know how to respond to her statements. Plus, I was always raised to follow this advice: “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I am even more of a believer now, and am considering a more prominent, physical representation of this statement (such as having it tattooed across my forehead), in order to avoid any more confrontations like that one.

Of course I couldn’t think of any snappy comebacks in the moment, but here are some responses I’ve come up with since then.

-“What?!”

-“Ah, yes, my powers are growing. I must be sure to use them only for good, and never for evil.”

-“I wasn’t aware that you were the person who got to make that decision.”

-“Um, I think your recruiting technique needs a little work.”

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but unfortunately, I’ve also noticed that it can be a whole lot slower.

The Road Less Traveled

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You know how sometimes in life you start out with these great plans, and then unexpected things happen and you find yourself in a place that you never could’ve imagined? Well, that is happening to me now. But not in a misty, nostalgic, “oh, look at the funny twists of fate” kind of way. It’s more of an, “I wonder how I could erase certain parts of my memory without causing myself actual brain damage” kind of way.

Because, through no fault of my own, and totally against my will, I am becoming…an Expert In Rats. Believe me-I have fought this tooth and nail (no pun intended). But these people keep on foisting off all of this unwanted knowledge on me, and unfortunately it’s the kind of knowledge that really sticks with you.

I wasn’t even going to write about this subject at all, because deep down, I feel like I’ve been tainted by the stigma of having a known association with rodents. Like somehow, the fact that I have a rodent problem means that it’s really my own fault. Like somehow my lifestyle is so shameful that its cumulative effect on the world is to explode into an actual, physical, nirvana-like haven for rodents.

That’s not actually true, but part of me is strongly tempted to think that it might be. It probably comes from being a girl, since we are conditioned from the womb to feel personally responsible for the Entire Known Universe. (But that’s a different blog post.)

But seriously, I am wracking my brains and trying to figure out exactly what it is I’m doing that is inviting all of this extremely unwanted knowledge into my life so I can make it stop. It’s like when you’re a teenager, (speaking of how girls are socialized) and your mother warns you about dressing a certain way or acting a certain way, because you don’t want to give boys “the wrong message”. But see, here I’m kind of walking a fine line, because I want to remain open and friendly enough so that the bug guys will still come and deal with these rats for me, but not so friendly that they continue adding to my increasing store of rodent-related information. And finding that perfect balance is still apparently a mystery to me, much like the mystery of how the [CENSORED] are getting into our basement in the first place.

So anyway, I’m sure I will have much more to post on this subject later, because apparently this weekend somebody, and by “somebody” I mean, “my husband”, has to go down into the basement and clean up all the old, uh, we’ll just call them “presents”, so that the bug guy can come back again next week and see if there are any new “presents”, which he can then track to see if he can find out exactly where these evil beasts are coming from. And maybe by the end of next week I’ll have convinced my basement to stop wearing such slinky, low-cut, rodent-enticing outfits and trashy eye makeup, and I’ll have convinced the rats to stop acting like elementary school boys who show their affection for you by hitting you, or teasing you (or poo-ing in your basement). And then the bug guy can make some new best friends.

It Really Really Is The Little Things

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My younger brother just recently got engaged (yay!), and as his older sister I am really feeling like I need to pass along to him the wisdom I’ve gained from being married for almost 10 years.

I could share with him that I’ve learned to ask myself this very important question during tense marital moments: “Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?”

I could emphasize that fact that it is a really bad idea to come up behind your spouse when they are engaged in performing a chore that you do not want to do, look over their shoulder, and then say, “Hm, that‘s how you’re doing it?”

But I think the most important thing I could tell him is that, sure, premarital counseling may cover things like money, children, and in-laws, but what it doesn’t tell you is this: it really, really is the little, everyday things that have the potential to trip you up in a marriage.

For example, I remember that when we were moving into our first apartment it was VITALLY important to me that I get to arrange the silverware drawer in the order to which I was accustomed (fork, then knife, then spoon). My husband really could not have cared less about that, but he wisely took advantage of that moment to negotiate some household point for himself, which I can’t actually recall at this moment, but which I’m sure was EQUALLY as important as my silverware thing.

But no one ever talks about that kind of stuff.

Nor do they talk about what to do if, one day when he happens to be in a bad mood, your husband goes off on a rant about how nobody (translation: “you”) ever puts the new rolls of toilet paper on the actual toilet paper holder, but how everyone (again, meaning “you”) just leave them sitting there on top of it. So then for the next few years you obsessively RUN to “correctly” replace the toilet paper every time a roll runs out, until one day you notice that the person who was totally freaking out about this situation earlier is doing The Exact Same Thing that caused his freaking out to begin with, so you finally work up the courage to mention this little inconsistency to him, and he has no recollection whatsoever of that particular conversation and tells you that you need to not take things so seriously. And then you have to kill him.

Hm. On second thought, maybe I’ll just let them discover all these fun little marital treasures for themselves.

Random Access Memory

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I’ve been very conscious of my mind lately, as I have been making a concerted effort to quiet down the mental chatter that is frequently taking place in my head. So this weekend after much breathing, visualizing, and cognitive retraining I was able to connect with a place of intense inner stillness and quietness.

And what did I encounter in this amazing place of clarity? A deep insight into the mystery of life? A powerful connection with the Divine? Actually, yes. But in the middle of those incredible experiences, somehow there was also still room for the following thought:

“Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.”

So what that says to me is that apparently, I will never truly understand how the mind works, no matter how much I may study it.

For example, why is it that I often have trouble remembering simple things like my age and my phone number, yet I can recall almost the entire sign language alphabet which I learned in 1977 when I was in kindergarten?

And it’s not just my mind I don’t understand, either.

This weekend my husband and I were visiting some friends, one of whom was telling us about her brother’s recent wedding. She began by describing how her brother called her on a Thursday to tell her that he was getting married that following Monday. So she and her mother decided to fly out and help with the preparations. After running around all weekend they finally made it to the day of the wedding, and she and her mom were with the bride-to-be as she was getting her hair done for the ceremony.

Our friend: “So, she finally found someone to do her hair. He was a little person. You know, that’s what you’re supposed to call midgets now.”
Us: “Huh. That’s different.”
Our friend: “Yeah, so as he was doing her hair and riding around on his scooter…”
Us: (interrupting with snorts of laughter)
Us: “What?! He was riding a scooter?!”
Our Friend: “Well, yeah, because he couldn’t walk. So, anyway, I had to be his assistant and hand him his tools because his partner had to go out.”
Us: (the snorts have become shouts now)
Us: “What?! He was a gay midget hairdresser?”
Our Friend: “Yeah. But his partner isn’t a midget. He’s a regular-sized person.”

At this point further conversation became impossible, because my husband was laughing so hard that he was crying, and I was laughing so hard that I fell off of their couch and onto their living room floor.

But believe it or not, that was not the funniest part of this story. The funniest part was the fact that our friend told us this story with absolutely no reaction whatsoever. She. Never. Laughed. Once. And she honestly did not understand why we were in hysterics. She told the story in a tone of voice that suggested that gay, scooter-riding, hair-dressing midgets are a time-honored, traditional part of everyone’s nuptial experience.

I don’t really have anything more to add to this story, which I truly believe was a gift from the humor heavens. So to close, I will share with you the additional mental gem I received during my weekend of quiet contemplation:

“Pass, pass, pass, pass the Old El Paso.”

It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

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No, I don’t mean Christmas. I am talking about The Day That Daylight Savings Time Finally Ends.

I passionately love this day, and each year I prepare for its coming with the same fervor and anticipation usually reserved for more far-reaching events, like, say, the coronation of a new king or queen, or the discovery of a miraculous wonder drug.

I’ve not met many other people who share the intense happiness I feel when this day finally arrives. I try to sum it up in the most compelling terms I can for them. “We get an extra hour of sleep!” I exclaim, while choking back tears of joy. But they just don’t get it.

But I don’t let their lack of comprehension ruin my second favorite day of the year. (My favorite day of the year is my birthday, when I am celebrated just for the fact that I exist. And my third favorite day of the year is “Shiny Ring Day”, which is the day when I take my jewelry in to be inspected and cleaned.)

Interestingly enough, the people who don’t quite understand my excitement at The End of Daylight Savings Time are often the same people who take issue with my choice of holidays. When I share my favorite days with them they feel the need to get offended, perhaps on behalf of all the other holidays I didn’t choose, whose feelings I’ve apparently wounded.

“But what about Christmas? Or, your anniversary?”, they splutter, confident that they’ve hit on the two days absolutely guaranteed to make me feel the maximum amount of guilt, and see the error of my ways.

Clearly these people never read my blog, because if they did they would realize that, if my husband is unfazed by my belief that our couch has “magical healing powers”, most likely he is not going to mind that I make up my own holidays.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love all holidays, and I can deck the halls and trim the tree with the best of them. But somehow, none of those other activities bring me the same thrills of satisfaction I receive when, just for a while, the days return to the rhythm and schedule that is most natural to me. And, just like with my other favorite days, just for a while, it really does seem as if the world actually does revolve around me.

Emily Post, Where Are You?

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While I wouldn’t say that I am highly skilled in all forms of social etiquette, I feel like I at least cover the basics pretty well.

I hand write all of my thank-you notes, making sure to mention by name the item I received, as well as specifically discuss how I am using it in my life. When I am invited to dinner, I ask the hosts what I can bring. When we have company I make sure there are clean sheets and towels, as well as lots of toilet paper in the guest bathroom.

So I usually navigate the waters of social interaction with fairly minimal turbulence. But this weekend I found myself in a situation that pushed my abilities in the social graces to the edge.

My husband and I were invited to be the first dinner guests at the new home of some friends. After presenting them with a housewarming mum and taking a tour of their new place, we sat down to dinner. Once again, I thought I was doing pretty well. Napkin in the lap? Check. Elbows off the table? Check. Not talking with my mouth full? Check.

Apparently I need to pay a lot less attention to these pesky minor details, and a lot more attention to what is going on around me. Because when I finally returned from my little self-congratulatory tour and tuned back in, I realized that the entire table was caught up in a heated discussion involving chimpanzee sex, and its’ biological and ethical implications for all of humankind. And I had no idea what to do.

I felt exactly the same way I did when I was conducting one of my first coaching sessions, and the client mentioned a situation with which I was completely unfamiliar. I was mentally rifling through all of my various manuals in a frantic search for help thinking, “That’s not in here!”

Just to double check I went to the bookstore today and consulted with some of the authorities on etiquette to see what they might have to say about this situation. While I did not find anything that specifically addressed the topic of chimpanzee sex, I did find these helpful conversational-related tidbits.

From Letitia Baldridge: Bad Conversational Moves

Discussing how our society is going to hell. (Good to know).

“So, is it true that your child has________ (fill in the blank with a disease or condition that is life-threatening, and/or has a giant stigma attached to it)?” (Um, are we really at the point where we need a book to tell us that this comment is inappropriate?)

From Miss Manners: Conversation Starters

Dear Miss Manners: What do you consider a good conversational opener?

Gentle Reader: Almost anything except, “I’ve been on a wonderful journey of self-discovery lately, and I’d like to share it with you.”

So now, of course, I totally want to use that in my next conversation. Who’s up for a chat? Anyone…Anyone…?