Be Afraid. Be very afraid. ( But you can take our cushion )

( This post contains scenes and descriptions of a worrying nature. Do not read if you’ll be flying anywhere soon.)

Seen on Facebook :

” There is good news this morning: Your Essential Travel Info airplane seat cushions can be used for flotation; and in the event of an emergency water landing, please paddle to shore and take them with our compliments – thanks Essential Travel Info team.”

Well, yes. Thank you an’ all. Will remember to take that free cushion…

 

I’m not a happy flyer.

And I don’t fly without at least three glasses of white swirling through my blood.

Without it I would not set foot on an aeroplane.

I don’t trust them. I don’t trust them during take-off and I don’t trust them in the air. And I don’t trust their ability to slow down to a standstill after landing so that I can get the hell out of there.

 

Over the years I have avoided flying wherever and whenever possible.

I’d rather sit in a Greyhound bus for 14 hours than sit in a 747  for 1 1/2 hours to get to the same destination.

I’ve been told that it’s because I’m a control freak. And that in order for me to feel safer in the air all I need to do is push my feet firmly into the aeroplane floor during turbulence.

( No. It doesn’t work. What works is alcohol. )

And saying Psalm 23 17 times over and over until we reach “flight height” and that little “ping” comes on to tell us we can now unfasten our seatbelts. ( And the drinks trolley is ready to come out. For more white. )

That’s another thing. I get the purpose of seatbelts in stopping a body propelling forward. But how is the seatbelt going to help me in the case of a body falling downward?

Ah. Yes.

That’s where the flotation cushion comes in….

 

 

Gloria Gaynor Revisited

“Iiiih    ammmmm what IiiiH ammmmm

Iiiih am my oooooown

spppppehcial

crea-tionnnnnnn”

                                                                                                                                                                    ( 1980-something???)

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking happens a lot when one drives from a farm to most places where there are more people than animals and more shops than trees.

Yes, I know reading about someone else’s thoughts is right up there in the  ”shoot-me-now” category with listening to someone else’s dream-from-last-night told in boring detail after boring detail.

But I’m in the mood for sharing titbits of wisdom so you’ll just have to read it.

Granted, these are my titbits of wisdom concerning my own life.  And my memories coloured by my take on what happened.

Right or wrong and most probably twisted. But I need to put a few things in sentences for my own sake.

What I’ve been thinking about goes more or less like this:

- I studied psychology to the point of doing an honours degree mostly because I wanted to “get” other people and their doings and most of all to “get” myself.

- To this day the only thing about those gruelling years of working and studying that struck a chord with me was cognitive psychology. In short, cognitive psychology treats the thought process of an individual. If the client says : “Everybody thinks I’m fat and ugly” the therapist says : “EVERYBODY? How can you be sure of the thoughts of others? Can you read minds? No, you can’t. So your statement that EVERYBODY thinks you’re fat and ugly is UNTRUE. “

- Cognitive psychology made me question my ingrained assumptions about most things. Mostly my assumptions about the way others are in the world and about what they need. In short, I started moving away from MEH- MEH- MEH ( carried firmly along since teenagehood where I wore only black for years, thought I was hideously ugly with a face that “worked funny”  and during which I sulked and frowned myself into teenage drama-delux. )

Stay with me here. STOP YAWNING.

- The point I’m trying to get to is : Why did it all centre around me so much? Granted, I had parents always ALWAYS impressed with beauty, thinness, achievement, awards. I liked those things too. I liked being “the best”. And being “the best” meant coming first. Second meant “you lose, dear.”  Second or silver or 70% meant grovelling in the dirt with 95% of the population. NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

- I married a man who is happy to just “be in the world”. He never got a prize or an award for anything in his life. Not even a certificate for 100% school attendance. And he couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether our children come first or last in the class/race/party- invite- popularity contest.  I found this quality of his to be hairpullingly frustrating in the first few years of our marriage. Now all I feel is intense relief.

OK. I’m almost done. Hang in there.

During me thinking all of this over on the gravel road to town I have come to the conclusion that I never, ever really “got it”.

I never “got” the simple concept that people need people. And in essence, people don’t care about your hair, your weight, your clothes. Your degree, your published article, your stuffed-with-real-goose-feathers pillows.

They really, really just…well……..don’t.

People care about how you make them feel.

That’s it.

I wish I could tell my 16-year old self that.

You know?

 

 

 

An Evening In The Life Of Our Living Room Floor

Quotes are always impressive . Complicated quotes are even more impressive,  so lets start this with  one of them:

“I have always thought that one man of tolerable abilities may work great changes, and accomplish great affairs among mankind, if he first forms a good plan, and, cutting off all amusements or other employments that would divert his attention, make the execution of that same plan his sole study and business.”

- Benjamin Franklin

 

And now that you are suitably impressed and confused we’ll move straight onto the subject of our living room floor.

First up, the floor plan :

 

 

Our living room is where we spend our evenings as a family. BC it used to be a tranquil space with subtle yet cosy yet artsy ornaments and throws and candles and pot plants actually making a living ON THE FLOOR.

Husband sat in AREA 4 ( a chair )  and I sat in AREA 5 ( the couch ). With between us a little table where TV remotes and used toothpicks stayed where they were for weeks.  ( he likes using the same toothpick over and over to “save money”. He also breaks them in half to save even more money. Yes. I know. )

Since the birth of our children and them growing larger and larger daily I’ve had to come up with THE PLAN. ( refer back to quote above )

THE PLAN ( which has it’s roots in growing up with “Little House On The Prairie” and “The Waltons ” ) works like this :

1. Husband sits in AREA 4.

2. I sit in AREA 5.

3. Babygirl and her toys are in AREA 1. ( pink )

4. Son and his toys remain in AREA 2. ( blue )

5. AREA 3 is the fireplace and out of bounds for children.

6.AREA 6 is a no-go zone for kids. Imagine an invisible dividing line if you will. They will sense this because of where I’ve placed their respective toys.

7. The cushions and throws and blankets  in AREA 5 ( the couch) stay in place until the kids  fall asleep next to me/ on my lap.

8. No one under 5 touches the TV remotes and used toothpicks on the little table.

9. During the course of the evening the children come into AREA 4 and AREA 5 calmly and hug their parents occasionally before going back to playing contentedly in their respective areas.

10. We ( the parents) gaze lovingly upon our calm and loving and cute children every now and then before continuing watching our choice of TV programmes and reading our books.

11. When  they get sleepy the children move to the couch where they fall asleep gently and contentedly on my lap/ next to me on the couch.

 

This is how THE PLAN normally pans out:

 

 

More “Clash Of The Titans Ninja Warrior  Terminal Impact” than “Goodnight, JohnBoy! Goodnight, Mary Ellen…”

 

“If John Lennon was right that life is what happens when you’re making other plans, parenthood is what happens when everything is flipped over and spilling everywhere and you can’t find a towel or a sponge or your “inside” voice.”
― Kelly Corrigan, Lift

 

Yip. That’s when it happens.

 

 

 

 

GOODBYE MR GREY. It’s not me. It’s you.

I’m on page 195 of “Fifty Shades Of Grey”. ( yes. I’m behind that way.)

I’ve sensed a vague irritation ” inside the deepest, darkest place of me ” building up since about  page 105. To quote leading lady Anastasia Steele:

and another one :

And one more :

Her of the “breathtakingly on turning pig tails and “unworldly innocent” virginity who made it to the age of 24 without ever kissing a man. Despite the fact that she is a” beautiful natural brunette”  with perfect skin and  the ability to absent-mindedly chew her lower lip in such a way that Christian Grey wants to eat her. Alive. After he has smacked her pert little  behind for being such a naughty girl.

UGH.

The truth is, “Fifty Shades” just doesn’t do it for me.

Maybe it’s the repetition of certain phrases.

“Oh. PLEASE!”

“His pants are hanging off his hips in THAT way. I can see that he works out. “( what way might this be? Anyone? )

“Oh. My.”

“Holy. Shit.”

“Eat your dinner!”

“Keep still!”

“My hips start tilting.”

And last but not least there’s the widening and narrowing and darkening of the eyes.

“His eyes widen momentarily.”

“His eyes narrow momentarily.”

“His eyes darken MOMENTARILY.”

“Oh. My.”

Maybe it’s my strict Calvinistic upbringing. 16 Years of attending Sunday School.

Maybe it’s being interrupted constantly. It’s hard to concentrate on the climax literary build up of a scene when in between “he applies the nipple clamps” and “My hips start tilting” I have to control, bath and feed  two children under the age of five.

Maybe it’s the sheer deliberately chosen brainlessness of the woman.

So I’m sorry Mr Grey, SIR. I’m just not that into you.

It’s not me.

It’s you.