poop beetle: You're violent. No one better mess with you. Watch out if they do. 4.2005 I took this title from item number 20 from a Mr. Film and Television Rights post. This post has stuck with me. The post is called " 25 things about You". It hit close to home. I read it with this prickly, paranoid, self-centered feeling that Mr. F & T Rights was actually writing about me. (Although he wasn't. He was writing about the human condition and all).
But, I've met Mr. F & T. We used to frequent the same dog run. His dog was sweet- a sensitive, "old soul", short haired and handsome. Genteel.
My dog was weird and edgy, but beautiful. People would swoop at her, wanting to pet her because she was so pretty. She would duck her head and dance off a few inches and look at them with a spooky, human directness and suspicion that made people immediately back up and feel flustered, embarrassed and a little rejected. People would say, "oh, so she must have been abused when she was younger." And I would say, "I've had her since she was a pup and no, she was not abused. She's just weird." This always came out sounding apologetic and defensive- too much explanation, so that I imagine people who met me and my dog, Myra- years ago, might still think of me as a dog abuser.
She was part Chow and something else. She was fiery orange and her eyes were almond shaped, edged with a perfect line of black- like Egyptian Kohl. She got along well with most dogs, some she even loved. Children she didn't like so much and she wouldn't let anyone smell her butt. Myra was my dog from age 20 to 31 (mine) and some time soon I will do a post on her and others, called "Dogs who have saved me from despair and whatnot".
I came home the other afternoon and my new dog, Ginger, met me. My sister, Amy gave me Ginger for my birthday last Nov. (She got her from a shelter, and she's a couple of years old which makes it much easier to explain why she is weird, which she is.). She is also sloppy sweet and funny and also orange. She is cute- really cute, but not gorgeous. Like Myra, people are drawn to her. She dances away from people she doesn't know and barks and slinks a little. She's not really a slinky dog, once you get to know her. Once she knows someone and knows that I like them (she is great with my kids, they can maul her like crazy and she comes back for more, but I believe she loves me best- and of course I feed her- but whatever.) . . . when she knows I like you and she's given a little time, she becomes calm and confident and awfully charming.
Also, she fetches balls. I didn't teach her this, she just likes to. We live next to a golf course and she stalks the golfers. We have a lot of golf balls around the house. She has something in her that makes her want to "herd". As I try to walk through the house, she criss crosses in front of me, trying to "lead" me or "escort" me- lord knows where. And she smiles. I swear. When I come home she greets me with this freaky, teeth baring, waggy tail smile. When I fuss at her for annoying the cat, she grins and wags as well.)
I got to Myra through Mr. F & T Rights- Ginger came up because the other day I came home and she came up to greet me- smiling, like she does and I said "Hello, Myra! Miss Myra! Ma'ma' ma' Myra!" like I would have 5 years ago, when I actually had Myra.
I mention this as an example of how completely insane I've felt lately. Not insane like "oh, God life is so stressful I swear I'm going to lose it"- I passed that a while ago, but more like I'm looking at a spoon, I know I need to hand the spoon to someone. I say, "let me hand you this . . . " and I blank on the word spoon.
It's not the blanking that's so bad as the realization I'm blanking and the sick, wheely feeling that comes as one's mind does what it can to both recall the word "spoon" and sprint from the idea that it might not happen.
Eh- it happens, right? . . . . right? Or I have early onstage dementia (aka Alzheimer's, which one can not diagnose definitely without a . . . oh, fuck what do you call them things?) Not biopsy. . . . CSI episode, um, someone dies and they get a . . . . "This death is suspicious we must do a . . . . ." that thing when you're dead and they cut up your body.
Autopsy.
It's not so important how long I took to remember this, is it?
OK- about "You're violent. No one better mess with you. Watch out if they do."- what got to me to want to write about that is this thought is the fact, I do not actually want to kick anyone's ass.
Not really. The thought comes to me from time to time and the feeling is that of "hell yeah! No one's going to get over on me . . . or more likely I'm not going to get over on myself".
But, without going in to a lot of detail- I think that thought is no longer providing the kind of self-affirmation that it once did.
I was driving to work the other day. It was a weekday which was unusual. It was 4:30 in the afternoon and I confess that I did make a cell phone call. I was at a stop light and had the phone to my ear and the three burly men in a commercial grade mega truck behind me took issue. With the red light? Or the traffic? The cell phone?
When they first began to shout "you fucking asshole" I told my brother I would call him back.
I don't know how long it took me to get through the light, but it seemed to take forever- for me, for the men in the truck behind me.
In the past, sitting at a stop light with burly men bellowing insults behind me would have pissed me off. Being angry about this would have ruined my whole day.
But a couple of weeks ago I spoke with a man who's 40 year old son was beaten so badly he ended up in the ICU at the hospital I work at. The man who beat him up had followed him down the highway and off the ramp and into his drive way because this man hadn't gotten out of his way fast enough.
ICU is no fun. I, personally, don't have time for that. Where in the past I would have felt self-righteous anger at these truck men, that afternoon I felt fear.
What's good about fear as compared to rage- is fear is often relieved once you get out of the situation, whereas anger can move in and take up space in your brain and last for hours afterwards.
So- I suppose it's a little sad that these men's nastiness got them what they wanted (intimidation, power to inspire additional effort from me to get away from them - i.e. get out of their way as soon as possible).
What was good about this situation is the fact the traffic cleared sooner rather than later and I don't carry a gun- so that if the grunt necked construction worker got tired of screaming obscenities at me from his truck while we waited at the light and decided to step out and walk 4 feet towards me and tell me in person and perhaps pound on the driver's side window while he did it (which is of course what anyone would do when taking names and kicking ass)- I did not have to shoot him.
I'd like to mention that it was also a good thing that the construction worker did not have a gun or if he did, decided not to use it on me.
Can you imagine how much it would suck to go to prison over a traffic light?
No more of this "kicking ass" business for me. It sounds funny and for a second or two it can feel all big-chested and proof of existence- but I am not physically strong enough to put a satisfying hurt on anyone AND I'm not going to shoot you or anyone else.
