The Electric Toaster Support Group

18 Nov

In which I completely ignore all the homework I’m behind on, and write a good ol’ fashioned short story dedicated to Miss Katherine Fritz of the fantastic “I Am Begging My Mother Not To Read This Blog,” who came up with this title.

“It just… pops out at me! Every time! I can never expect it!” Sadie dropped her head into her hands, stifling a sob. Around her, the group nodded knowingly. One member reached out and patted Sadie on the back. She looked up, and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. “I never know when it’s going to happen! I look for patterns, try to anticipate the time, but it’s never the same. I can’t handle all this anxiety, every single day!”

“I burned myself yesterday,” another group member mumbled. He’d pulled his hood up over his head and had his hands stuffed deep into his sweatshirt pockets. Now, he pulled them out to let the group oggle his bandages.

From a chair far away in the circle, a small, flighty voice peeped up. “Why’d you do it, Howard?”

Howard shrugged. “Didn’t really mean to. I just… needed to know when it would be over. I had to get that control back.”

“Well,” a woman’s deep, husky voice slid into the conversation, “Mary and I, we’ve started bringing… implements, if you know what I mean, into our daily routine. Makes it easier to, uh, get things out, without having to worry about putting yourself in too much danger. More structure, more distance.”

The group was silent for a while.

“I don’t know,” the flighty voice again, now a little less tepid, “seems like you’re just trying to ignore the problem, by removing yourself from it. Doesn’t require any physical action on your part. Almost like you’re putting up a wall.”

There was whispering and head nodding and murmuring and head shaking at that. The group leader looked up from her clipboard, finally noticing the din that warned her group might break out of control.

“Celia,” she cut in, “that was some very good insight – if it had been about your experience. Let’s all focus on talking about our own feelings, and not telling other people out theirs, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Celia piped timidly. She grasped the edges of her chair with both hands and slid herself as far back as she could go.

The husky-voiced woman stared at her. “You haven’t even been able to do it at all, have you?” she asked. “At least, not recently. Look at you, all pale and trembling. When was the last time you were actually able to go all the way through, satisfy yourself?”

Celia burst out into tears. “All right!” she wailed. “I admit it! It’s been a year! I just… I couldn’t take it, the waiting and the uncertainty. And sometimes it comes out too hot and then I get all grossed out. I tried adding oils and all that stuff, but nothing helped! By the end, I was so nervous, I just fell apart!”

More sounds came out of Celia’s mouth, but they’d devolved into noises that were more animal than human. The group sat silently on their folding chairs, most of them looking at their hands or feet, some of them displaying a nervous tick or two that only got worse with the increasing tension. But the husky-voiced woman, she got out of her chair, completely ignoring the disapproving look the group leader shot her, and crossed the room to kneel by Celia. She wrapped her arms around the smaller woman.

“Hey honey, it’s going to be okay. I know it’s hard. Why, before Mary and I started our new approach, I could barely take all the build up too. It just takes practice, and finding what works for you. Electric toasters, they don’t have to be so scary.”

Celia sniffled and dragged a mealy tissue from her coat pocket. She blew her nose loudly. “But it’s so hard!” she cried. “You never know when your toast is going to be done, not really! And then it just shoots out, sometimes even lands on the floor if you haven’t calibrated the springs right! And Howard’s right, sometimes, it’s too much! I used to burn myself so often, trying to pull the toast out before it was really done. And even if I managed to get through the toasting alright, the toaster was always there, on the counter, staring at me. And I knew the toast came from it. Butter, olive oil – nothing made it friendlier!” She collapsed back over her knees. “I just don’t know what to do!”

The husky-voiced woman was silent.

The group leader checked her watch. “Well, that’s all for now. I think we’ve had a very productive session today.” The room stirred with the sound of feet shuffling and chair legs scraping against the floor as people started preparing to leave, even as Celia still sobbed under the ministrations of the husky-voiced woman. The group leader seemed unconcerned. “Please remember,” she continued, checking something off on her clipboard, “everything we discuss in the electric toaster support group is confidential. This is a safe, private place for people to move beyond their fears and learn to enjoy toast again. Good luck with breakfast, everyone. I’ll see you all next week.”

The economic meritocracy is broken. Let’s ditch.

15 Nov
I here the internet likes cats and infographics.

I hear the internet likes cats.

The world can’t be a meritocracy; the reward system isn’t even.

By which I mean, there’s a whole lot of disparity in the way that the world’s resources get distributed. Where “resources” means food, water, shelter, medicine, money – and pretty much everything else.

Guys, this is not ok.

So, call me a crazy anarchist hippy, or whatever political term of undearment (yes, spelling is intentional) you prefer, but generally, I think that people should pretty much be able to do whatever they want, as long as it’s not hurting other people (or, you know, themselves) in the short or long term. Yes, sure, go out and spend your money however you want, as long as you’re not buying mass amounts of mercenaries or heroine or something.

But, well, purchases are not made in isolation. And unfortunately, it appears that how we spend the resources of the world around us is currently a zero-sum game. Which means that while you’re not directly hurting anyone by buying your second mansion – or second latte – there are other people who because you made that purchase instead of giving the money (or the resource it could have bought) to them aren’t able to get their kid’s dinner, or their wife’s medication.

Now, I’m not saying “go out and donate every fucking chance you get.” There are waaaaay too may organizations out there, for just about every cause there is, for donating to every single one of them to do much good. Not all organizations are made equal, and not all money goes straight to funding what you thought it was. And besides, I get that not everybody out there has spare change to give. It’s okay for people to want to maintain a reasonably enjoyable standard of life. This is not entirely a “people don’t give enough money away” problem – it’s a corruption and inefficiency and societal structure problem as well.

But… still, on a pretty fundamental level, it is a problem with the way people spend money. There are tons of people out there who far surpass the “reasonably enjoyable standard of life” level. Millionaires. Billionaires. Hundreds-of-thousands-aires.

And then there’s our government. Oh god, our government. I’m referring specifically to the one that sits around most of the day in an air-conditioned building in Washington, DC (except for when they, you know, decide they don’t want to talk to each other anymore for a few weeks…), though what I’m about to say is probably true for pretty much every government. The US head haunchos collect so much fucking money every year, largely in the form of taxes from the lower and middle class, and is absolutely terrible at spending it. Because instead of funding domestic aid programs and poverty-prevention programs and welfare options for women fleeing abuse and higher salaries for teachers and a whole bunch of other things that might actually help relieve a lot of the poverty and homelessness in this country, it’s somehow more necessary that the government buy even shinier weapons for our military (because apparently wars are won through an our-technological-dicks-are-bigger-than-yours contest or something…), even as we by and large forget about the actual military people after they’re done shooting guns at non-Americans.

But anyhoo. That’s a really long rant, and there’s still a slightly different direction that I’d actually prefer to take this.

Let’s discuss a solution.

Vaguely.

Now, what I’m about to propose may sound like heresy. And yes, I understand that it would involve massive global reform, all the way from the level of the government down to local NGO’s, but with the understanding that I’m taking the spherical cow physics problem approach here, let’s move forward.

So – what if we just finally sucked it up and decided that we are in fact living as a collective pool of humans with a collective pool of resources, instead of a bunch of individuals who just don’t give a fuck about anyone we don’t actually have to deal with, as long as we can have that second latte every day?

I know it may sound like “raging dangerous communism,” but what if we had a “third party” (NOT our government, which already sucks at just doing its own job) decide who’s getting taxed how much and how all of that collective money is being spent (I know, I know, oh god, all the logistics), and see if we can’t do a better job of spreading around our polio vaccinations and PB&J’s?

“But I don’t need the government telling me how to spend my money!” Oh how many times I’ve heard this one. I understand. Yes, you have worked hard for that money. And it’s not optimal that someone else would take some away. But you did not make that money in a vacuum. And because all the collective money-spenders of the world haven’t seemed to do much besides make things worse while they’ve been running around without anyone really telling them what to do with all their dollars and cents, it’s time someone steps in and tells them how to clean this all up.

Think about it. How similar does this all sound to a belligerent teenager with a messy room? Yes, he knows his room is starting to sprout its own ecosystem, but it’s Friday night and there’s a party, and he’s worked hard on his homework all week, so doesn’t he deserve to go out and have a little fun?!

You know what that teenager’s mom is going to do? She’s going to tell him that he already had a little fun at that other party last week, that she’s been asking him to clean his room for weeks now, and since he still hasn’t done it, she’s freezing his assets – a.k.a. the car keys – until he’s learned to show proper respect for the rest of the people living in his house and not let his room turn into the source of a house-wide mold infection – or at least get rid of whatever rancid pizza box is causing that retched stench. And – if the teenager’s got a particularly vindictive mother – that mom might even tell her son that hey, his sister hasn’t been able to use the car for three weeks, so it’s her turn to have the keys anyway, never mind that he’s paying more towards the car insurance and gets better grades than she does. Because we were all supposed to learn share back in, like, kindergarten. And when you live in a collective, whether it’s a family of four or a world of almost seven billion, you base resource distribution on the recognition that there is another human being standing before you, not on what kind of “productivity value” has been arbitrarily assigned them by the luck of the draw that is existence. Because think about it in terms of a family; if members were given resources based on how much economic productivity they contributed to the family, live-in grandpas and hospital-bound newborns would be shit outta luck.

Because again, you can’t make the world a meritocracy when its reward system is broken. In the urban US, working 50 hours a week might get you enough to pay for a nice studio apartment, eat out a few times a week, and take a yearly vacation. In rural Pakistan, working 50 hours a week will get you a sore back, a sunburn, and oh man, your kids didn’t starve to death! Though oh hey, your medication-less wife did still die of a totally treatable infection…

So, how about until we’ve managed to become responsible global teenagers and cleaned up the world’s resource disparity, we freeze some people’s assets, reallocate what we have, and create a mother figure (you know, crowd-sourcing knowledge is a thing…) who can tuck in all the respective governments for a nap until they stop throwing hissy fits and learn to share better? Sound like a plan?

Yes, I know, it would be almost impossibly difficult.

But then again, people said that about airplanes too.

Did I mention that I just bought tickets for a flight on Monday?

 

 

Feel like shouting yet? The awesome Harry Potter Alliance has a plan (Hunger Games-based, brilliantly enough) to make some noise at our own Capitol about how we feel about all this economic inequality:

http://oddsinourfavor.org/

On a Long Week and Adulthood

14 Nov

This has been a long, odd week, lovely readers. Monday felt like Tuesday, except Tuesday apparently hated me and was even worse than the perennially detested Monday, and then Wednesday came in and decided that it could outdo Tuesday in the emotional writhing and logistical blows departments. It’s been fun. Where “fun” actually means “can I please rewind to Sunday and then press the ‘skip scene’ button so I can just move on to the weekend?”

I’m not sure how I feel about Thursday yet. I was the first one to the office (hoorah campus job), and considering ALL of my supervisors were at least 15 minutes late, it meant I got to be the one to handle three other people’s jobs until they showed up. But I did see a hummingbird while outside, waiting for security to come and unlock the building for me. And I think seeing a hummingbird is enough to make it a good day.

So, can I just go back to bed now?

Responsibility is tough. I don’t particularly like when I have to be “real world” adult. I’m not talking about being all grown up and taking care of myself and having to go work and pay bills and whatnot – I’m generally of the opinion that one can go out and do all those things, even be professional about it, but still come back home at the end of the day and build a fort in your bedroom. I usually find that the most well-adjusted adults are the ones that can still stick their tongue out at people and have tickle fights.

No, what I’m talking about is not the responsibility that I have as an adult to take care of myself and clean up my own messes. I’m talking about when I have to clean up other people’s messes because they’ve hurt me, but done absolutely nothing to the other person.

Like frantically calling my psychiatrist’s emergency phone number all night because my pharmacy still hadn’t filled my antidepressant prescription from three days ago and informed me that the medication was in fact on backorder, which is manufacturer speak for “god knows how long it’ll be till we get this to you.” Or like having to fill in for people, or run their errands for them, because they don’t have time and I forgot about the word “no.” Or like having to negotiate the sometimes conflicting expectations that other people have about my schedule when it comes to my being a volunteer and an employee and a student and a person.

This is the complicated part of being an adult. This is the part they don’t tell you about when they talk about preparing for the “real world.”

I’ll just go hide in that fort now, thank you.

What Happens When You Have Facebook Friends from Treatment

12 Nov

There’s something about having facebook friends from treatment. It’s an odd sort of dynamic, because I don’t think other people have it, those people that haven’t sat in a room full of twelve other girls and shared their deepest secrets and cried their eyes out in front of all of them, and then moved on and discharged and never talked to a single one of those twelve other girls ever again.

Sure, maybe we’ll do the occasional photo “like” when it randomly shows up in our feed. But if that photo contains any portion of the body of that girl from treatment, that’s when the scrutiny begins.

Are they fatter? Do they look like they’ve lost weight? Can you still see the little pudge of skin between their breasts and their arms? Are their cheek bones showing more than when you last saw them? How about the collar bones? And the color in their face? Are their arms still carrying the appropriate amount of flab, or do they look like they’ve gotten a little bloated from purging again? Were they brave enough to instagram a pic of their meal? Are they still calling attention the fact that oh man, they ordered fries? Or have they gone a little food-crazy on their wall, posting pictures of ever-increasing portion sizes you worry they haven’t even noticed?

Where are they in this love affair with starvation and stuffing?

You haven’t seen or talked to them in six months. But because their new profile picture popped up as you scrolled through the detritus of other people’s lives, you stop and wonder all that, in a matter of mere microseconds.

Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you hurriedly flick your mouse pad or your down arrow key, because for all that work you did learning to deal with feelings, this picture of someone you cried your eyes out to and then never talked to again – and who, identically, never talked to you – this picture makes you just a little too uncomfortable.

But still, even if you ignore it, there is something to being facebook friends with girls from treatment. Because even if you ignore it, even if you shove that image that flashed across your retina and branded you once again with feelings you thought you could choose to ignore, the question will still be there. It will still nag, day in and day out, at that part of your brain that remembers sitting that room crying your eyes out in front of those twelve other girls.

How are they doing?

A Down Payment for the Galapagos

6 Nov

You know that dream you concocted back when you still had braces and watched more cartoons than romcoms? The one that adopted some kind of mellow, benevolent halo as it faded into background nostalgia and watched over the more practical ambitions that you formed as you learned to relinquish excitement for feasibility? The one that when you’re by yourself and you know nobody else is listening you still venture to tell yourself in a small, hopeful whisper, “I’ll get there someday!” Yeah, I’m talking about that dream.

Mine has been to go to the Galapagos.

For over a decade, I’ve fantasized about gawking at Galapagos fur seals and seeing marine iguanas in person and walking the same landscape that’s been a mecca for the mind of biology for almost two centuries. And now, thanks to a Caltech course I was accepted into, I have that chance. I’m not on cloud nine. I’m pretty sure I passed cloud nine like a month ago. I don’t think they even have a number for the cloud I’m currently floating on.

But… there’s a problem. While Caltech is covering most of the costs, I’ve still gotta pay for my own plane tickets. Which, if the demigod of finances is feeling kind, estimates to somewhere around $800.

I’m a soon-to-graduate college student eking out what’s really just an allowance by freelance writing. I don’t have $800.

But between the masses – or at least, the part of the masses that cares about me and/or my writing – I think we do have $800. Which is why I’ve started a GoFundMe called “Send Miceala to the Galapagos!” I really hate asking you all for money (seriously, I’m flattered that you all even take the time to read my blog, and for those of you who have gotten versions of this post through multiple channels, I’m so sorry about the spam), but I can’t really do this one alone. But I’m not asking you to donate completely for free! I’ll write you things in return!

If you are interested and able to donate, you can find out the whole story on my GoFundMe page: http://www.gofundme.com/53r4wo

For those of you who don’t donate, I hope this post hasn’t turned you off my blog. I promise I don’t enjoy panhandling. You all deserve better posts than that. You know, posts with actual content…

But for those of you who do donate, thank you so much. Because this is something that I’m excited about. And I’m glad you think it’s worth it, helping make a down payment on my life dream.

 

Oh, and here’s a picture of a blue-footed booby:

blue footed booby

Some Adolescence for Your Tuesday

5 Nov

Well, oh lovely readers, it’s Tuesday. Not quite the bane of the week that Monday is, but possibly much more humdrum. Tuesday is the day where the rush and flurry of catching up from the weekend is over and the hum of seriousness kicking into drive whirs in the background. So, while I started the week off with the friendliness of Shel Silverstein in Some Childhood for Your Monday, today I’ve got a complementary post from my teenage years. Silverstein looked at where the sidewalk ends – I looked one step back, at the end of the sidewalk.

end of sidewalk tree

end of the sidewalk poem

 

“The End of the Sidewalk” is part of a collection of original poetry, Tales of an Early Morning. The complete collection is available for Kindle through Amazon.com.

Some Childhood for Your Monday

4 Nov

I’m unusually happy for a Monday morning, lovely readers. Especially a cool Monday morning still cloaked in the grey air and grey sky of a recent rain and oncoming fall. Maybe it’s because of the way my boyfriend snuggled me on my way out of bed. Maybe it’s because I had an especially good (read: caffeinated) cup of coffee before starting my morning by talking about books with my thesis advisor. Or maybe it’s because I finally had time to slow down and make a cup of black current tea and write for a bit, instead of hastily microwaving a second round of instant coffee before rushing off to oh-no-I’m-going-to-be-late-for-class. Or maybe it’s just because instead of stapling a boring plain piece of paper to the back of my midterm (we had to provide a second “cover” sheet to keep our answers all cozy or something), I printed out my favorite Shel Silverstein poem and attached that instead. Because who doesn’t need a bit of the contented kind of childhood to more happily start off their Monday?

Thought you all might appreciate some of that too. 🙂

Where the Sidewalk Ends gif

Date Books

4 Nov

For my almost-little sister. It was good getting coffee.

 

It’s funny how cancer changes things. You suddenly have the urge to see them more often. To take them out for coffee or have them over to your place, just like you always meant to. Told yourself you’d get around to. Later.

You wanted to, really, until wanting to slipped beneath the pile of work you wanted to get done, the emails you wanted to send, the pants you wanted to buy, the TV shows you wanted to watch – that stack of acts and intentions that life collects on everyone’s desks.

This sense of incessant urgency, it does not come from the fear that something may be taken away from you – or so you tell yourself – but from the affront that she has been given terribly more, and you thought you might help carry some of it.

Funny, how cancer changes things. And then, that’s only thinking about it for you.

A Poem to Monte Cristo

3 Nov

monte cristo

A Poem to Monte Cristo

But perhaps I do not wish to forget.
Perhaps the memory of those scars on my mind
are what make you, in the moment, now, so much sweeter.
Perhaps I wish to remember –
yes, even all the pain,
the fear,
the disgrace that my most inner part of me
felt at their touches
their glances
their words.
Perhaps I wish to remember because with you,
I never feel dirty.
Even as you have me in a way they never will at all.
Though perhaps I may wish that those were never my memories at all,
I would be a fool to wish those cornerstones
of which I have made beauty from ugly
to be plucked from this girl I have constructed,
this woman I have made of myself
despite the ragged claw marks on my life
that would have had me not grow into anything at all.
No, I do not want the flashbacks
the repeated nightmares
the panic that leaves me circling, wondering where I lost my breath
but I want the way you breathe your belief back into me,
in who I am.
No, I do not want the constant brood
of stomach-churning replays,
but I want to remember that yes, I once went through that,
because with you,
I don’t go through that anymore.
Because with you,
even though I remember,
sometimes – most times –
it still feels like I never went through it at all.
And that, my love, I would never wish to forget.

The Ironic Love Story

2 Nov

The Ironic Love Story

I’m tired of fucking loneliness.

It’s a terrible lover.

But I couldn’t stay in your room

and be reminded of the absence of you.

I wonder if you’ll even notice

that my side of the bed is empty tonight.

Or are you really fucking empty, too?