Author: Michelle

Validation is mine sayeth The Lord. Oh wait, that was me.

This has been an excellent week for the sarcastic, foul mouthed fat people of the world. Suck it, goody two shoes.

First, I read a story somewhere last weekend that indicates that there’s yet another study which shows that dark chocolate is good for you. Then later that same day, a story debunking the link between saturated fats and heart disease. I even read the story from several reputable sources. This cheese loving omnivore was particularly happy to hear about sat fat no longer being evil.

Then, I read a blurb on Twitter about a new book out by ABC news-dude Dan Harris. It’s called “10% Happier.” The mini-review talked about it as a book on mindfulness/meditation for the sarcastic. As someone who is interested in mindfulness and meditation and struggles to get through the atrocious word salad published by the big names in the field (Deepak and Ekhart? Yeah, I mean you) I was intrigued enough to buy it. And it was not only a fun read, but mocked the gurus for the very same things I struggled with–following a really great, simple point with several pages of semi-psychotic mystical bullshit, for instance.

It was the self-help for smart asses book that I’ve been looking for! If you’re interested in meditation, but put off by the “woo-woo” around it, check it out.

What else, what else….I know there was more.

Oh! Cursing!

We all know how I love profanity. We all know how I struggle with positive self-talk and shit like daily affirmations. Because who the fuck talks like that? No one! I can’t deal with daily affirmations that don’t sound like me. Know what? The Internet now says it’s fine if your mantras sound like you. As it turns out, “Give yourself a fucking break” doesn’t suck as a mantra at all. This is such good news, because I was never going to go even partially Stuart Smalley.

Finally, my personal favorite–there was a joyful sound heard in NW Portland when I read this. It was my soul laughing. Internet, or at least the portion of it at Time magazine, says that tequila will help me lose weight. TEQUILA WILL HELP ME LOSE WEIGHT, Y’ALL. TEQUILA! I’m not excited about that at all. No, I’m not worried that I’m fat now in spite of all the tequila I already drink because THINK HOW FAT I WOULD BE WITHOUT THE TEQUILA. No, I’m not worried that the study was done by Mexican researchers who may or may not be in the pockets of the tequila industry. Don’t be a hater. Let me drink my fucking tequila and believe it’s making me thinner. While we’re at it, maybe it’s making me look younger too.

Ahem.
Maybe I should calm down a little.

NO, you know what I should do?
I should give myself a fucking break. That’s what I should fucking do.

And then I should have a shot of tequila.

Wedding song

In a bright flowered dress
and high heeled shoes
borrowed from her mother.
Hair curled tight,
piled up on her head
playing at being grown up.
Nervous as any bride
To see the groom
who greeted guests
at the door of the church.
He smiled to see her,
trying too hard
to seem at ease
in the awkward situation.
Wanting to talk to her
before the wedding.
Each wanting something
neither would get.
He scared away the girl
with the bright smile
and sad eyes
who tried to show
she wished him well.
She ran away
and he kissed the bride instead.

Outgrowing a box

Wandering around NW Portland, I see a lot of urban trees. They get planted in small little squares like they’re only ever going to grow so big.

When they start out, in the words of Bob Ross, they’re happy little trees. Happy little trees that people tend to scatter around wherever they want, without considering that in 10-20-40 years they are quite possibly going to be sidewalk-eating giants.
20140318-154136.jpg

So then what happens? Eventually, if the tree was not selected and planted carefully, it outgrows the allotted space. It breaks apart the concrete around it and ruins the sidewalk, or it’s roots get all bound up and pinched trying to stay within the concrete boundary. Either the tree breaks what’s around it or the tree itself starts to break.

At the very least, they look uncomfortable:

20140313-071032.jpg

Some kinds of trees flourish in a constrained space. They don’t want to spread out. Others need more room to grow. Maybe their roots are larger. Maybe they need more enrichment than the assigned space contains.

You know where I’m going with this–I’m going back to people. People do the same thing as trees planted in a concrete cage. We need a certain amount of space, a certain amount of freedom, a certain amount of physical and mental nourishment. If we don’t get it, sometimes we break things around us like a tree cracks apart a sidewalk. Aggression, assault, robbery. Sometimes we turn against ourselves, like the tree in the box with it’s roots all scrunched in, gradually dying. Eating disorders, heart attacks, stress.

For some of us, small towns mean small minds and small opportunities. For others, they mean the comfort of family and friends. Is it restrictive or comforting? It depends on who you are. It depends on the people around you. It depends on the place.

Sometimes other people put us in boxes. Boss teacher mother sister friend lover. Sometimes we put ourselves in them. Responsible lazy smart funny.
Are any of the boxes useful? Do they make us feel safe at the cost of growth, or do they give us some structure to work with?

How do you know the difference between a comfortable box, and a box you are hiding in? How do you know when your box has gotten too small and needs to be smashed? How do you know when you’re asking too many questions?

I dunno. I’m just a chick with a blog. I make stuff up, and I write it down.