bewize

“The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.

But on the inside there is nothing—only the bare gingerbread walls.

It is not a real house—not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.

That’s when the stories can move in.

They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.”

― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

My office has a tradition of putting together gingerbread houses for our firm Christmas party. Last year, we started meeting at a restaurant instead of one of the partner's homes, so we skipped this particular tradition. That was a relief, y'all, because those little suckers are HARD to put together.

Monday morning two weeks ago, I came into my office to see a brightly colored wrapped package. I was super excited, because it wasn't the day for Secret Santa, so this was just a random gift.

Or, so I thought.

"Bring to the office on December 14 for judging."

There it was, in all it's slick lies and promise of simplicity, a gingerbread house in a box kit.

Of course, I waited until last night to assemble it. My friend wanted to help, and my boyfriend certainly didn't. He's lived through the years where we had to do this at the actual firm party, so he's smart enough to run away. Anyway, she came over and we made cookie dough, ate dinner, played with the baby and then got to business.

I was putting cookies in the oven while she opened the package and box and heard, "Uhh, Bewize? This is broken."

"They usually are," I said absently, much more concerned about the cookies that I was baking than the stale gross gingerbread she was unwrapping.

"Some of this is sand," she said, and her tone of voice sounded genuinely upset. I shoved the cookies in the oven and went over to see what we were working with.

Crumble. Pieces. Broken fragments. A few side panels had only snapped once, but the whole thing was a total shambles.

Clearly, the gingerbread house hadn't survived transport well.

"Oh, shit." I paused, tempted to shrug and throw it all away. But, I could tell that she was really disappointed. "Let's see what we can make of the pieces," I finally suggested.

An hour later, covered in hardened frosting (which also hadn't survived transport well), we ended up with a wonky stone hinge. Of course, even that fell apart after a few minutes. Not even cement frosting and toothpicks would hold this mess up.

I snapped a picture and sent it to my office with the word SABOTAGE as the email header.

Then, we talked about the gingerbread house.

I felt a little bad for my friend. She'd cleared an evening to come and spend time and work on this project. She'd brought extra candy and decorations. She was really into the whole idea. She doesn't have family that she's close to. Me, the boyfriend, the baby - we are her de facto family, and our house is her family home.

We are her Christmas experience.

She was gutted.

I showed her the picture I'd sent to the office. She paused, then took the fondant in a package, unwrapped it, and crafted a disembodied hand with a prominently displayed middle finger.

I was so proud of her. I promptly sent that picture out as a "reply all" to myself, with a metric ton of giggles between us. She told me later she admired my balls.

Later, she asked if I'd agree to help her put together another gingerbread house for the contest she'd started at her work.

I mentally sighed, because she doesn't know - it's always like that. It never turns out like you plan. It's deceptively cheerful box, holding disappointment, things that won't go right, and icky tasting cookies and candy.

"Yep, of course!" I replied. Because, it's Christmas. Because, she's family. Because that gingerbread house is nothing, if not a metaphor for life.

I saved the fondant middle finger, though. Just because. After all, it's always good to be prepared!

Written for LJ Idol prompt: "Sucker Punch." I will link the poll if there is voting.

~~"I'm sorry I was home later than expected."~~

"Thank you for waiting for me."

****

~~"I'm sorry I was sick and useless last night."~~

"Thank you for taking care of the baby so I could get some extra sleep."

****

~~"I'm sorry I didn't get that date on the calendar like I should have."~~

"Thank you for reminding me and watching my back."

****

~~"I'm sorry I can't be there as early as you would like."~~

"Thank you for starting later so I can join in the fun."

****

~~"I'm sorry I was sick and useless last night."~~

"Thank you for taking care of the baby so I could get some extra sleep."

****

~~"I'm sorry I'm too worn down to cook."~~

"Thank you for going out to dinner with me tonight and letting me have an extra break."

****

~~"I'm sorry I was so grumpy yesterday."~~

"Thank you for being so loving and caring for me when I was so out of sorts."

****

~~"I'm sorry I forgot to RSVP to the party."~~

"Thank you for making space for us at the last minute."

******

I'm sorry for a lot of things, but "sorry" focuses on the negative in so many places and it leads me to dwell and ruminate and navel-gaze. Thank you allows me to celebrate someone else's generosity and kindness and compassion to me.

I'm working on saying sorry less (but still when needed!) and thank you far more often (even more than needed!).

Life goals and ambitions.

Maybe "Thank you" will be my "word" for 2019.

My phone rang and I glanced at it out of habit. My boss’s name scrawled across the caller ID. I picked up immediately, but casually. I’d just emailed him the answer to a question he’d asked me about 10 minutes before and figured that’s what he wanted to talk about.

“Can you come to my office?”

”Sure.”

“Come to my office.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, growled through the phone line at me and I simultaneously rolled my eyes and steeled myself. My 25-year-old self knew that whatever was going to happen in the boss’s office had more to do with the fact that he was a fucking lunatic than with whatever transgression I’d supposedly made.

Deep in my belly, though, I felt the panic start to ooze out, slick and oily, tainting my good mood and the sushi I’d just eaten for lunch.

Deep breaths.

“Hey,” I said, forcing myself to be casual. Fake it until you make it. This was the strategy I’d agreed to try with my therapist. Panic on the inside, but smile and remember that it almost certainly wasn’t me. Act confident.

I’d taken a minute before coming down the hall to breathe in -2-3-4, hold-2-3-4-5-6-7-8, breathe out-2-3-4. Strike the Wonder Woman pose. Look up and away. Look around. Nothing harmful happening here and now.

”Sit down.”

I slid into the chair, notebook and pen optimistically in my hand, like this was a legitimate meeting, and not a roasting by a sociopath. He just stared at me and I braced myself. I would not break first.

I.
Will.
Not.
Break.
First.

”Close the door.”

Decades rushed past my ears in the pounding of my heart beat, and I stood back up and stepped back far enough to shut the door. My fingers were clumsy and I had to push it twice. The hand holding the pen and notebook were shaking and I gripped the objects tighter, like a talisman to keep the panic attack at bay.

He kept rubbing his hand over his mouth, and while I was so incredibly proud in retrospect that my outside visage remained calm, my inside quailed, waffling and flailing and gnashing teeth. You’re about to get fired, you fuck up. My inner voice was far more gleeful than it had a right to be, considering that if I starved, it did, too.

“It’s like this…” he said.

”Mmm.”

“Mmm,” is such an innocuous sound. Was something tasty? Was I even listening? Did I agree with the statement just made? Anyone home, Bewize?

I blinked and looked at the lunatic in front of me with care. If I didn’t react with just the right amount of sorrow, he’d snap and yell at me. “I can see why that’s upsetting,” I lied. “I should have sent you a response when I read the email.” Of course, no response was required. It wasn’t a question, a request, or even an order. It was an FYI.

Now it was a CYA.

”Mmm.”

“So, do you think you can handle this new work?” I was already nodding, autopilot having kicked on in defense, but I took the controls back. Breathe out-2-3-4.

“Absolutely. I’ve got this.”

“Great.”

“One can choose to go back toward safety or forward toward growth.
Growth must be chosen again and again; fear must be overcome again and again.” —Abraham Maslow

I’m not sure why my boyfriend called me this afternoon to check on me. That’s not his usual style, but he’s been doing it more lately. (I love it. It makes me feel so cared about.) “How’s it going?” he asked, probably not ready for the onslaught of panicky, giddy, excited, fearful emotions that slid out of my throat and sprayed through the phone.

When he’d put the pieces together, and it had clicked that this was a victory – a panic attack ridden to the non-terrifying end, I could hear his pride.

“Good job,” he said.

I smiled.

”Practice and time,” my therapist had said. “That’s how you get past this type of PTSD. Practice being in similar situations. Times when they don’t end with thrown books, raised voices, shouted insults and thinly veiled threats.”

“I’m so afraid.” I was crying, barely able to finish my thought aloud. “What if I make the same choices and end up that miserable again? I used to pray that I’d be in a car accident on my way to work, so I wouldn’t have to go.”

“No.” She was adamant. “You’ll never be in the same situation again. You’ve done it once. You’ve learned.”

Sometimes, I think I have.

**********

My first boss was a singularly unhinged individual, prone to violence in word and action. I quit a few months after the incident alluded to in this piece. On this particular day, he’d thrown a book at me and called me a fucking idiot. I had stood up for myself at the time, picking up the book and slamming it on his desk with a snarled, “We learned in kindergarten not to throw things at people.” He’d laughed, instantly forgetting his rage at me for not responding to an email that needed no response. He’d liked my “moxie.”

It has taken me more than 10 years to work past some of the fear responses I get when similar triggers happen. “Come into my office,” is a phrase that honestly makes me immediately want to run away, complete with upset stomach and ringing in the ears. It was how he began so many of his tirades that it is forever linked to the stuff of nightmares in my conscious brain.

Anyway, these are both true stories. One happened in 2005. One happened this afternoon. Eight years of therapy later, and I’ve accepted that I may never be free of the memories of the trauma, but I am certainly recovering much faster when triggered and no longer require immediate pharmaceutical assistance.

It’s strange and hard to admit that this is PTSD and it certainly feels presumptuous. But, as the Facebook meme I read yesterday says, “Someone who drowns in 7 feet of water is just as dead as someone who drowns in 20 feet of water. Stop comparing traumas. … This isn’t a competition, we all deserve support and recovery.”

So, if you see yourself reflected in this writing, just know you’re not alone and it’s okay to struggle to let go of some of the worst parts of the past. We don’t all just move on and forget. Sometimes, the past rodeos leave scars, even after the broken bones have healed.

But also know, you don’t have to live locked in fear forever. Find yourself a key.

Godspeed.

Written for LJ Idol prompt: "Not My First Rodeo." I will link the poll if there is voting.

You left me long before you left me.

You left when you couldn't cope with the stress of being a parent. You left when you chose to indulge in your illegalities instead of bedtime stories and tickle fights. You left when you decided it wasn't worth coming home before we were all in bed.

You left when you quit your job and became "self-employed" as a barely making ends meet unable to provide for his family riding your wife's paycheck slacker. Worse, you took her away from me, too, for so many hours a day.

You left when you chose your lowlife friends over your family. You left when you quit going to church and getting out of bed in the mornings was an obligation you couldn't meet. You left when you stopped helping with homework, because the siren song of your obsession called you from the dark recesses of the basement.

You left when you started sleeping on the sofa instead of in your room with your wife. You left when you would move to the room when the rest of us awoke and started our day. You left when you stopped wanting to eat meals with us.

You left when you didn't care if you actually got visitation. You left when having us for the weekend took too much effort. You left when you couldn't be bothered to help us pay for our normal teenage lives, band and sports and car insurance.

You left us.

Worst, you never accepted responsibility. "She left me!" You told me this one day, unprompted. "I want you to know, she left me!"

I was 13, but I knew it was a desperate lie that you told yourself so you could believe that your life wasn't your fault. I just nodded, already wise to the futility of arguing with someone who had left his life behind.

Your terms, or nothing. That was how you remained in my life. I called. I came to visit. I made the effort - every effort, all effort. I went to therapy to learn to cope with being abandoned; I went to therapy to learn to cope with the memories of the Awful Times before she left you - the fights, the sounds of slaps, the holes in the walls, the screaming accusations, the smell of something disgusting wafting up from the basement when you stormed out, the rafters and windows stills shaking at the impact of your anger.

Then I left. College. Law School. Another city. Another state. Another life.

I called, still. I visited, still. I made the efforts, still. I doubled-down in therapy, because I was so afraid I'd be with someone like you.

I loved you, still. So much. And I hated you still, too.

Then you left everything but your body. I came home, to the hospital, where you looked so different and yet, still the same. You were there, looking at me, talking to me, but you didn't know me. You didn't know where you were, ranting at me and begging me to help you get out of jail. You didn't know that you had daughters. You didn't know anything.

Even though I thought my heart was immune to you, you broke it again. For two years, you were only in your own body sometimes. Sometimes you knew me, sometimes you didn't. Sometimes you knew you, sometimes you didn't.

When the call came from hospice that you were leaving for good, I didn't come home. I had nothing left to say. You'd met your grandson, but you didn't know him. You'd hugged me goodbye, and I think you meant it.

At the end, it grew desperate. You wanted so badly to be at home and I did everything I could to keep you there. I was grateful when I got the call that you'd finally left your body for good.

You left us.

But, truthfully, I don't remember a time before that happened.

I still love you.

I miss you. (That is the stupidest thing I've said my entire life.)

Good-bye, Daddy.

This entry was written for therealljidol 04: "Ghosting." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

Did you ever see the Disney cartoon where Donald Duck went to Mathematics Land, which looked a lot like Disney's version of Wonderland? That cartoon really impressed me as a child, but not the bits about math or science. No, I was struck and forever branded with the image of the brain being a storage room. In the cartoon, Donald had to "clean out" his brain to make room for more important things (like math), but the cartoon image showed brooms and dustpans magically going to work.

Viola.

I have forever thought of the brain as that storage room (only more updated and modern now, like from Inside Out, of course).

All of this lead up should help explain why there is a file in my brain called "The Unread Riot Acts." Simply put, it's the storage space for where all of my unspoken outrage goes. I literally will picture binding it up, like a book, and putting it on that shelf - rather than speaking my outrage aloud into existence in the world.

For example, let's take dinner last night. The boyfriend, baby and I took a really good friend out to dinner. We went to a new restaurant with good reviews to receive probably the worst service I've had anywhere in a while.

The server kept vanishing - and the restaurant wasn't that full. She wasn't in the weeds - she was just not on top of her game. The food took a long time to come out. The plates the food was served on were extremely hot - probably to disguise the lukewarm food.

So, picture it. Three adults in a booth. A baby in a highchair at the end of the booth. The server kept setting EVERYTHING in front of the baby. Now, if you have children (or have been a server), you know this is a poor choice. Everything - and I mean EVERYTHING - is immediately grabbed, groped, crunched and eventually hurled to the floor.

The three adults keep moving things out of his reach, but this server just kept setting things down there, oblivious.

By the time my food came out (which was second to last, because it made perfect sense to feed the baby last), there was no space left on the table to hide another hot plate. The server marched over, hot plate firmly grasped in oven mitts and prepared to set it on the only clear space left - right in front of the baby.

Now, she was present and (theoretically) cognizant of the discussions we'd had about the two previous hot plates She witnessed our scramble to keep the baby from putting his hands on them.

So, I said - and I was speaking mildly - "You cannot set a hot plate like that in front of the baby."

She looks at me and said, with some attitude, I will add. "Well - where do you suggest I put it?"

Just like that - BOOM - the Riot Script was written.

I had suggestions of where she could put that plate, y'all. I had SO. MANY. SUGGESTIONS.

I also had commentary on her service, her attitude, the speed of service and a few other choice observations.

I am not normally reticent to share my suggestions or observations. That's not my speed. But... we were celebrating and I didn't want to make a scene. So, I took a deep breath and said...

NOTHING.

I just stared at this girl until she suggested setting the hot plate on an empty table behind us. I nodded my head, pursed my lips a bit, and said, "That seems like a wise choice."

I am not sure how she interpreted that interaction. I am sure that the manager was the one who served our table for the rest of our meal. I am sure that my friend across the table was amused at my superior show of self control. I am sure that, as I sat there and mentally wrapped up the Riot Act for the shelf in the brain, I suddenly knew what I was going to write for Idol.

I suspect that this naive (idiotic), young (moronic), unobservant (clueless) server (nitwit) felt the icy breath of her demise on her neck. I suspect she realized that she nearly experienced what I call a "Come to Jesus Moment." I suspect that she couldn't quite settle the shake in her knees and thus, had to be excused from serving us for the remainder of our meal.

I also reinforced my own belief that sometimes, an unread Riot Act is as effective - or even more so - than one that is read aloud.

So now, the shelf has one more bound act sitting, gathering dust. It's next to the Unread Riot Act of "Explain how 'I'll do it Tuesday' means Friday," and "If you're late to the doctor, we cancel you and charge you; but if you sit here an hour, you just have to eat it." It's stacked on top of "Amazon promised you'd have this package tomorrow, but they lied," and "So what if you asked for no meat, that bacon is just a garnish."

If we're lucky, the shelf will remain untouched and un-added to for a while. At least the remainder of the day. If we're lucky.

But, who among us is that lucky?

This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Tsundoku." According to Google: Tsundoku (Japanese: 積ん読) is acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

Voting is up for the second week of LJ Idol. 2 bottom vote getters will be eliminated.

If you're so inclined, you can vote for my entry here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1002642.html

My entry: "Carved in Stone" - https://bewize.dreamwidth.org/666344.html

I have never seen Mount Rushmore, except in photographs and film. While I wouldn't necessarily refuse to go if it was convenient, it's not some place that would feature high on my dream vacation destinations. I'm tired of going to see "Old White Man History," white-washed and devoid of the richness and significance the Mountain held for those who came before Charles E. Rushmore and his guide, William Challis named it without thought. (“What’s the name of that mountain?” Rushmore allegedly asked. Challis is said to have replied, “It’s never had one...till now...we’ll call the damn thing Rushmore.”)

Danish-American sculptor Gutzon Borglum is much more interesting to me than Rushmore and Challis. Borglum had the wild and crazy dream to carve a mountain. Consulting only his son, supposedly, Borglum decided to choose subject material that would stir the nation and picked four presidents, hoping to capture certain characteristics of each man and literally carve them into stone:

George Washington, chosen because he fought to create something new and better than what had existed before; Thomas Jefferson, chosen to represent growth and inherent values; Theodore Roosevelt, chosen to represent conservation; and, lastly, Abraham Lincoln, chosen to represent perseverance.

I am no artist. I can't draw a stick figure to save my life and I wouldn't know which end of a chisel to use. But, when it comes to moving mountains, each of us has our own experiences to draw from and while our final product won't be carved into mountains, for many of us it will be carved in a final stone, summed up in a pithy epithet.

Here lies Bewize. too bad she died; she was a keeper.

At least, that's what I hope my figurative headstone would say. Forgetting the fact that I have chosen cremation, headstones come with a certain pressure to have a final word. Since we don't get to necessarily supervise the carving, we have to rely on others to make sure it's embodying our best selves.

Bewize the Daughter. Bewize the Mom. Bewize the Sister. Bewize the Friend. Bewize the Lawyer. Bewize the Entertainer. Bewize the Author. Bewize the Lover. Bewize the Student. Bewize the Band Nerd. Bewize the Cat-Owned.

These are all faces that you'll see carved into me, if you look at the right angles, with the perfect squint to your eyes. I wear them proudly - and so many more.

But, the faces of my life that I want to see (figuratively speaking, but I'm not above being a ghost) are the one that capture the values most important to me.

Bewize, chosen to represent Honor. She did her best to keep her promises and worked hard to be worthy of your respect.

Bewize, chosen to represent Integrity. She was true to herself and honest, sometimes brutally so, but she worked her whole life to learn how to speak Compassionate Honesty, Kind Honesty, and Caring Honesty more than the too oft-revered Brutal cousin.

Bewize, chosen to represent Loyalty. She would move mountains for the people she considered hers. She would stand with you, even when you couldn't stand anymore.

Bewize, chosen to represent Nurturing. She showed others how to move mountains on their own.

These are my ideals, not my reality, alas. I'm all too human, all too flawed. But, that's okay. I've got the rest of my life ahead of me, and I'm armed with dynamite, jackhammers, and determination.

What values will someone carve into stone to represent you someday?

This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Mount Rushmore." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

I have no idea how to post the links. I don't do DW very well!

But, if you're so inclined, you can vote for my entry here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html

My entry: "What comes after the end?" - https://bewize.dreamwidth.org/665605.html

This has been a difficult year.

Turmoil. That's the name of the game.

Beginning. Middle. End.

A sick father. A dying father. A dead father.

An infant. A baby. A one year old.

Post-partum depression. Relationship turmoil. Emotional disconnect.

A friend. A liar. A heartache.

This is how my year is gone. Beginning. Middle. End.

Of course, it's not over yet. I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting the good fight.

But, y'all. I'm tired. And sometimes, I cannot help but wonder if I'm fighting battles because it's important to win them, or if I'm fighting them, because that's all I know to do.

Sometime in the past months, I've gotten... numb? Calm? Resigned? Resolved?

I don't know what it is. I don't know what it means. I do know that the fear I had is gone, though.

I see things more clearly now. The fog is lifting and the great unknowable future looks less foreboding.

This year has been fire. I've lost many things that were important to me. My people. Some of my freedom. Friends that I valued. Pieces of inner-peace. Certainty that my relationship would hold firm. These things have burned away in the ashes of this year.

I spoke to a friend about this recently and she commented, "I know you must be so upset... but you don't sound upset."

That's what I found in the fire. The truth. And the truth is, I'm not upset. I'm not feeling like I've lost; or at least, I didn't lose more than I gained.

Underneath everything else, I found myself again. The ME that is actually ME. The Me that stares down the Future and feels nothing but a firm and unshakable belief that I'll weather those storms, best those demons, and land firmly (if not gracefully) on my feet.

I spent ages trying to figure out what came after "the end," because I wanted a pithy title to this post. I googled. I asked the Facebooks. I got lots of great suggestions: postscript, epilogue, coda, aftermath.

But, in re-reading my post, I realized the answer all on my own.

"What comes after the end"?

"A new beginning."

This entry was written for therealljidol 01.01: ""It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

I am signing up for this season's Literary Prize Fight! Hopefully, it will be fun. :)

Today is the last day of voting and it's close.

My entry on the Open Topic, which I am affectionately calling my version of public therapy, "The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth" can be found here: here.

If you enjoyed it, then I ask you to take a moment and vote at the poll. You can find me

bewize in the SECOND group.

VOTE HERE

Ahhh, Friday. It has that weekend sort of feeling to it already and I can’t wait until the day concludes and I can officially kick of the weekend. I have plans, even. I’m going out with a bunch of friends to celebrate Chinese New Year.

I’m pausing now in anticipation of the comment that I have most often received in response to this pronouncement – “I didn’t know you were Chinese!”

It’s said with a grin, perhaps even a smirk, and a pointed look at my very white, very Irish features. Note that I didn’t say very “American” features.

I realize that I am about to tread on treacherous ground, but that’s never stopped me before, so here I go. I’m American and I’m white. The two are not mutually exclusive, but nor are they synonyms. I’m distinctly not Chinese, though – there is no denying that, not that I would; not that I would expect anyone to deny their heritage or pretend to be something other than what they are.

The interwebs of late have been filled with thoughtful meta about race in general, race in America in particular, the difference between race and culture, appreciation for diversity and the dangers of cultural appropriation and I’ve read a lot of it with various degrees of agreement, discomfort and annoyance.

I’m white. I’m American. I’m going out to celebrate Chinese New Year.

The group of friends going with me includes other white people – Protestant, Catholic and Jewish, black people – with and without African heritage (because it turns out that people who are from the West Indies do not appreciate being called African American), Mexicans, Peruvians, Indians, Bengalis, Lebanese and a host of assorted mixed race folks who quite openly revel in their mixed-raceness.

Oh, and yes, even Chinese people.

For the past five years, we’ve all gotten together to descend on our favorite Chinese restaurant in the city, where we’ve long known the owner and his entire (extended) family. We laugh and joke and carry on. We tell stories. We drink. We eat an absolutely ridiculous amount of food, most of which is not offered on the menu, but is prepared by our chef and his mother from their retinue of favorite dishes for the occasion.

We discuss topics ranging from trash TV (bring on the next season of The Real Housewives of Atlanta) to traditional Chinese food and medicine. We tell stories of our travels, ranging from the fact that the restaurant owner sneaks Viagra with him when he goes back to China, to the fact that one of our youngest attendees spent a semester in Ireland and will be spending a semester in Argentina. We talk jobs, we talk families, we talk current events, we just basically talk a lot.

We even talk food. We compare and contrast our favorite foods (quite a few fans of Indian food!) and the differences between cultural cuisines. Several members in our group own restaurants and most of us have waited tables, so large parts of the discussion center around the differences in the types of crowds that visit steakhouses versus those that visit Chinese restaurants.

As for the holiday itself, Mr. Jou, our host, has described it a festival to celebrate family and friends. The restaurant is decked out in lanterns and we conclude our meal with shots of alcohol set alight (rather than firecrackers, which he used as a child). We toast to each other, to the future, to the end of another winter, to friendship and to good fortune. We revel long past the close of business (last year we didn’t conclude until 4 a.m.) and then we all go our separate ways and back to our lives.

I’ve done some reading about “traditional” Chinese New Year, because I was curious as to how the celebration originated. I don’t pretend that it has the same cultural significance to me that it does to someone who is Chinese, or has Chinese heritage. How could it? I’m not Chinese.

But I’m also not blind, nor oblivious. There are very large immigrant populations from all over the world in the city that I call home. I can travel down one highway and see Little Korea, Little China, Little Viet Nam, Little Mexico and Little India all within a few miles. I see these cultures and I grow curious. I want to visit the shops and eat in the restaurants. I wear jewelry and clothes that I buy from these shops, despite the fact that they are certainly not part of my heritage.

I don’t speak the language. I don’t understand the depth of the history. I don’t always know exactly where the home-town of the shopkeeper is. And yet, I don’t consider my participation to be cultural appropriation, either.

The United States used to be described as a melting pot. I am aware that that term has come under intense – and justified – scrutiny of late. No one wants to be forced to leave behind their cultural identity and take on someone else’s. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but assimilation is the worst sort of insult.

I struggle sometimes to know where the line is – and when I read posts from people on the internet expressing their frustration at (usually and almost always specifically stated ‘white’) interlopers, I get uncomfortable, because I don’t want to be accused of “appropriation.”

Still, this is the city where I live – this is my city. These are my neighbors. These are my friends. Being involved with them doesn’t feel like appropriation. It feels like community.

Is it worse to attend Chinese New Year celebrations as a white person, or stay home with disinterest? What if you’re Japanese? Or Indian? Or Mexican? Or Peruvian? Or black? Or racially Chinese, but culturally southern? Or bi-racial?

I’m going to make mistakes, because I’m human. I’m going to be oblivious to social cues, because I’m sometimes oblivious. I’m going to hurt the feelings of someone from a different race than mine, because I only know how to be white. I’m trying, and whether that counts for something or not, it’s the truth.

I don’t know where the line is between cultural appreciation and cultural assimilation, or when I can legitimately say that something that is traditionally a part of someone else’s culture has become an important and anticipated part of my own life. I may throw the question out tonight at dinner between the spring rolls and the baby octopus and see what answers I get.

There are a lot of things I don’t know and I’m probably “doing it wrong,” but I do know one thing - I’ll be damned if I miss out on this year’s Chinese New Year celebration.

This entry was written for Topic 12: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

I wrote this before I realized this week's post wasn't mandatory. I like it, so I'm posting it here, and will likely post to the community because - yes, I am a masochist. LOL.

ATTENTION READERS!!!

THIS IS A POST FROM THE FUTURE. SPECIFICALLY, THIS IS A POST FROM NEW YEAR’S EVE ONE YEAR FROM NOW. TOMORROW BEGINS 2012.

As you can clearly tell by this very post, we have invented (but not yet perfected) time travel. I have come back to warn you about a few… shall we say… relevant facts to your future.

1. 2011 isn’t all that different from 2010. Except for the tiny little blackhole incident that happens on March 15. Beware the Ides, folks. Shakespeare knew his stuff.
2. To fix the tiny little blackhole incident that happens on March 15, some genius decided to invent antimatter. Yeah, so NOT the best plan anyone has ever had. It’s going to make for a really rough April.
3. But you’ll survive! ~~Most likely…~~ And May really isn’t so bad. Really. Of course, Bettle-flu isn’t so terrible compared to the zombies of June, so maybe that’s relative.
4. June goes much better for people who have flame-throwers. I’m just saying…
5. Look at the good news! If you make it to August, you’re in good shape and you’ve mastered the art of self-defense, so the teeny little alien invasion is more like a hiccup.
6. Oh, and if you get to November, I hope you stockpiled bottled water.
7. December in the bunker was nice. Kind of festive, really. My fervent wish that more people had packed deodorant, notwithstanding.

2012 looms a bit ominous. I blame the Aztecs. Buncha bitches, really. But it will be what it will be.

Don’t bother making New Year’s Resolutions for 2011, though. I mean financial responsibility goes out the window when all the Swiss banks get sucked into the black hole. And April… well, let’s just say that the guy who told everyone to wear sunscreen wasn’t lying.

Beetle-flu has been named the most successful dietary aid in the history of mankind, and if you’ve got a few extra pounds by that time, well… you’re one of the lucky ones. Exercise becomes an ironic term for “learning how to run for your life successfully” and, trust me, your hobbies will increase exponentially to include reading survival guides, weapons manuals, home-farming aids and a variety of other “How To” books.

Drinking more water? Well, that one you may actually want to consider. But don’t worry about making more friends! You’ll meet so many new people in December that you’ll long for the days when you could spend an evening by yourself. But, festive. Really. (Bring deodorant.)

Of course, the imperfected method of time-travel that we have likely means that the very act of posting this will inexorably change the future – and before you ask yourself how that could be a bad thing – let me just say, we could have lost in August. And we’re not talking about cute E.T. types of aliens. You’ll wish probes were the worst things on the agenda.

Awww, hell. Sunscreen and bottled water. Oh, and flamethrowers. Put those on your New Year’s Resolutions and you’ll be doing pretty damn good. If you put deodorant on your list, look me up in Bunker 7862 in underground ATL in December. I make a mean rat stew. You’ll love it. Haute cuisine ain’t got nothing on me!

If I could give you one piece of advice, as the end of 2010 approaches and the New Year is about to begin it’s this – tell your loved ones you love them. A lot. As often as you can. Make it uncomfortable, even.

And buy yourself a goddamned flame thrower!

Best of luck,

Bewize

This entry was written for Topic (Week Break): New Year at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week per the norm. Everyone should check out all the good entries (if anyone else is as nuts as I am)!

( Life goes on. And on. And on. If you're lucky. )

This entry was written for Topic 6: Not of Your World at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

Have you ever heard of a man named Sullivan Ballou?

I hadn’t until this week, when through a series of random occurrences, I went looking for a song by Audra Mae called Sullivan’s Letter. I found first the text of his letter to his wife Sally. Sullivan was a major in the United States Army, who spent the night before his unit marched to the first Battle of Bull Run, where he and 93 of his men perished, writing a letter to his wife Sally and saying goodbye.

Now, 150 years later, the man named Sullivan Ballou has entered popular culture, not through the fact that he was an orphan who put himself through several prestigious schools, nor for the fact that he was a politician, nor even for the fact that he was a respected attorney and military judge. His two children have faded into the mists of time and most people probably do not know or care about him at all. But his words, oh, his words. They seized me by the heart and shook me to my unromantic core.

Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

When was the last time I wrote to the people I loved and really spilled my heart on the page like that?

The answer is simple – I never have.

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

Life is short, shorter than we even can imagine. I would not guess that many of us reach the end of our journey with gratitude, and for too many of us, we reach the end with a sense of surprise.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break.

How many of us wish that we had such words to cradle us in our grief? Yet, how many of us make ourselves vulnerable enough to speak them?

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

I do not know is Sarah ever felt Sullivan’s breath on her cheek, or if she could feel his presence watching over her and their two sons, but I can imagine the strength she took from his words. I can imagine the crinkled paper of the letter after she had unfolded it from its hidden place in her home and read the words for the thousandth time.

It makes the casual and indifferent farewells of daily life pale in comparison. I try and make sure that the people I love know that I love them, but I rarely let them know what they mean to me.

When I left home this morning, my roommate interrupted my stressful thoughts about the thousand and one things that I had to do today to say, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

It may not be a letter that will memorialize her though time, but it made my day a great deal better. So, I will make myself a promise, a vow of sorts, to be better about telling people that they are not an afterthought. I will tell them that I love them. I will tell them that I care.

And if tomorrow proves to be the day that I depart for the Great Unknown, I will try the ones that I love with the certainty that somewhere, if possible, I am still loving them.

This entry was written for Topic 5: Afterthought at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

"I always dream of a pen that would be a syringe."

— Jacques Derrida

( What are you? )

This entry was written for Topic 2: Deconstruction at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

I'm exhausted. WTF?

Today was all right. I had a meeting, got paid, did some work, had another meeting, got a contract on a new med mal case, scheduled two new client meetings for tomorrow and still managed to get home early(ish).

Cramps suck, though. Sorry if that's TMI.

We had Texas Roadhouse for dinner, but I didn't feel great, M is sick, V is coughing and P wanted to go to work, so we didn't exactly linger, and I've been home since doing yet more work. I did have a rib though, and I've got left over ribs to eat at some point this week.

My mom told me to take some money and buy myself a new outfit. I said I wanted to pay off debt more, but she told me to shut up and listen to my mother. *lol* With an order like that, I think maybe I'll take her advice. I could use some new clothes, actually. I don't think I've bought myself new clothes (other than running clothes) since early summer, and then it was 2 dresses from Target.

Anyone want to go shopping?

I've got plans for tomorrow evening that I am looking forward to, although I can already feel the week slipping away from me. I need to remember to pack clothes to change into after work. Maybe I can sneak in a run first, too? We'll see, but running in Decatur would be awesome. All the Christmas decorations are up.

I helped Santa out this year and bought M a red wagon (Radio Flyer, of course!), which arrived today. It's very cool and all reminiscent of my own childhood. V was all emotional that I did it, but of course I did it. I would get that kid the moon if he asked me to.

He finally learned to say "Rach" and it's adorable. Half the time, he still calls me "mamamama" though. V is mommy or mombie (rhymes with zombie). I think he's finally realizing that all women aren't a derivation of "mom".

I ate a tiny snickers bar. It was tasty.

Did I mention that cramps suck?

Thanks to everyone who voted for me in LJ Idol. I'm pleased to have made it to a second week. The new topic is Deconstruction. Any suggestions?

And on that note, I'm going to bed. Where the heating pad currently lives.

There is a moment in a baseball game when the people in the stands fall silent and lean forward on their seats with anticipation. The players focus narrow to one man, the pitcher, as his entire focus is on one other man, the batter.

For a second, they stare at each other, taking each other's measure, a mental battle of wills of who wants it the most. Then, the pitcher narrows his eyes, the batter breathes out slowly, and the real game begins.

( Play Ball )

This entry was written for Topic 1: Winding Up at

therealljidol. I assume voting will take place later this week. Everyone should check out all the good entries!

Congratulations! You've acquired access to your very own Bewize. Allow me to share a few things that I think will make the experience more fun and less stressful for all parties. Anyone who has had access to a Bewize in the past, feel free to make suggestions in the comments.

1. The first thing to know about a Bewize is that they tend to be very private. You'll find mostly locked journal entries, because Bewizes tend to have jobs that require some amounts of privacy (like, for example, lawyering). That said, Bewizes are generally happy to add friends, as long as friends don't come across as creepy, stalkery types who like to cause trouble. Bewize needs no help causing trouble.

2. Bewizes work a great deal. In fact, Bewizes are work-a-holics. Currently, reports suggest that Bewizes have upwards of 2 jobs at any given time (lawyering, contract lawyering, freelance writing, a variety of random jobs will all be likely). Bewizes are also entrepreneurs and as anyone with their own business knows, it's never a 9-5 deal. Bewizes take on work at the expense of nearly everything else.

3. Because of Bewizes' work habits, Bewizes occasionally suffer health problems. Most recently, Bewizes are reported as being susceptible to the "chest plague" and/or asthma. Luckily, most health problems can be controlled with medication.

4. Bewizes have obsessive personalities and tend to ramble about whatever it is that has caught their attention. Current trends suggest that diet and exercise are high on the list, as well as the usual like friends, family and work.

5. Bewizes are great at existing in drama. This is a good thing, because Bewizes have nearly magical powers at attracting it, even though most of it isn't their fault. No really, it usually is not their fault. Bewizes have been known to randomly meet and befriend famous people and randomly get sued. Both are equally likely to happen.

6. Bewizes are social creatures and enjoy going out with friends. Bewizes are unlikely to be in serious relationships, though on occasion they may dabble. Bewizes may live with a variety of roommates, including toddler godsons. Bewizes may be hard to track down for this reason.

7. Bewizes have a love/hate relationship with technology. A Bewize will never be far from her phone, but she will likely not answer it. Bewizes can be obsessive about the internet.

8. Bewizes can be depended on to take 90% of things in stride. Upset Bewizes are less likely than pissed off Bewizes. Pissed off Bewizes should be approached with extreme caution. Pissed off Bewizes should never be taunted to "be honest about what she really thinks." In fact, pissed off Bewizes should never be taunted. Really, neither should a calm Bewize.

9. Bewizes are opinionated. No really, a Bewize will likely have an opinion about everything. If she chooses not to share it, it's because she likely thinks it will cause drama (see above about Bewize needing no help to find drama). If pushed, a Bewize will nearly always tell you what it thinks.

10. Bewizes are known to switch emotions fairly quickly, and even an angry Bewize can be calmed down. Bewizes are tremendously loyal, but if you push a Bewize too far, you're probably never going to get one back.

In short, Bewizes are an adventure. :)

Good luck with yours!

This entry was written for Topic 0: Introductions at

therealljidol. Given that I've written several of these in the past, I figured I'd go for a tongue in cheek introduction, but I think that the "rules" here are a fairly accurate description of myself. If you disagree, see rule 8, but feel free to let me know! Reality checks are good for people.

I'm signing up to do this crazy little thing again. I'll crosspost my posts here in case anyone wants to read them, but I am thinking of just linking them to keep any/all responses in one place. If I do that, would it cause anyone to not read?

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February 2023

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Entries tagged with lj idol

LJ Idol: The first gingerbread bite

I'm sorry... er, thank you!

LJ Idol: Stick and Stones...

LJI: The opposite of love isn't hate; it is indifference.

LJI: The Unread Riot Acts of Bewize

LJI Voting: Week Two

LJI: Carved in Stone

LJI Voting: Week One

LJI: What comes after "the end"?

LJI on DW!

LJ Idol 16: Voting

LJ Idol 12: My Kaleidoscope

LJ Idol (Week Break) - This Ain't Dear Abby

LJ Idol 6: Life, in All It's Disgusting Glory

LJ Idol 05: Words in the Winds of Time

LJ Idol 2: Oh, my God! That pen is a syringe!

Time Change is Kicking My Ass

LJ Idol 1: Do you hear the crowd? They're cheering for you.

LJ Idol 0: The Care and Handling of Bewize

The Real LJ Idol

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February 2023

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