Fiercely Independent (for my mother)

For one of my classes, a memoir reading class taught by a totally badass professor, we read a book called Fierce Attachments by Vivian Gornick. Most of the people in my class didn't like the book because there wasn't a "story" but I enjoyed it because it was about the attachment (mostly volatile) that she has with her mother. While I don't have any large conflicts with my mother like this woman had, I realize more and more every day that I am becoming her.

The woman is 51 years old and just broke her elbow while taking a "brisk walk" with my father. She likes to remind people of this event and add that, "Exercise will kill you." But, what I noticed more than anything is that I don't think I've ever seen my mother so frustrated as when she had to ask me for help turning the ignition key in her car. She was pissed. She is fiercely independent, and she has led me to believe the same things.

What she's taught me:
You not only can do anything a man can do, but you can probably do it faster and better.
You can multitask- men cannot.
Only ask men for help when you need it- otherwise you simply look pathetic.
From when I was fourteen: "Men are like buses, if you wait around long enough another one will come by. So no need to worry."
Trim the fat of your life: you can't spend your life dealing with other people's problems. If that means you have to be the bitch in the relationship and leave, then leave.

My mom is the shit. And, I feel like she has made me a somewhat intimidating person. But, I'm over it.

Gornick's quote from her mother reminded me so much of mine: "When a woman can't tell a man to go to hell, I have noticed, she is often crazy."

I have to agree.

An Offering

I have had a bike with one wheel sitting outside my apartment on the tiny "patio" since I moved in. I've never been much of a bike-rider, and with Pullman's massive hills I question the safety of journeying on the bike due to my novice status in this area. The other wheel of this bike is in the locked storage closet outside, so I just assumed that no one would steal the bike. It's not like you can ride it away. And I was correct- no one ever rode the bike away. It was there for months and months, getting buried and un-buried with snow, always hangin out with the flattened cardboard boxes I used to move in with.
And then just a moment ago I looked out the window and it was gone. Just...gone.
I assumed it would always just still be underneath the cardboard boxes. One wheel is still there and I never noticed that a bike was not attached to it. So...no one took the wheels, just the body of the bike. I don't blame them. It's a nice body, and clearly I haven't ridden it ever. Instead of being upset, I have chosen to consider it an offering to someone who will get bike riding love out of it. Clearly I have not.
And now, I can look out my window without guilt that I'm not out riding my bike.

Back in the game: a bit apprehensive, but getting over it.

Hello all, I seem to be back in action. Mostly due to the fact that I remembered how much I enjoy writing even if no one reads any of it. While not the best writer in the world (like most of my other friends in the blogging-world), I do believe that I might be interesting to some people. And, if you don't see me on a regular basis for some reason or another, here I am. I'm waiting to hear from you. Also, maybe if you come visit me I'll buy you lunch. Either way, on with the musing of the day:

Brelin recently invited me to go to a concert with her in Portland. I was surprised for a moment when she failed to mention to me what band it was. Oh yes, friends, she wanted me to go to a RASCAL FLATTS concert. I puked in my mouth. I recoiled from my gut reaction and weighed my options: I would get to see Brelin, who I see maybe three times a year, BUT (and this is a big BUT) I would have to listen to a slightly overweight man sweaking out like Windex on a whorehouse window some supposedly uplifting song about his mother. Options weighed: not a chance in hell.

That, and the fact that there is no way in hell I would let Brelin drive to Portland by herself. That would be the worst sister move in the world.

So to sum up this anecdote, I think I'm with everyone when I declare that listening to Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" for 4 hours in a row is far better than any ONE Rascal Flatts song.

I'm back.