Sarcomical

A Universal Truth...

We walked by a few pet stores one day strolling around the West Village during our trip in October, and if one thing is true everywhere (no matter how much you detest them being in the place), it is this:  walking past a puppy nose pressed against a window without stopping is nearly impossible. This fellow didn't look like he was in an especially sunny mood when we passed him, but as I turned around to snap a photo of the street scene behind us, I caught a moment that made me smile.

All Hallows Rarity at the SarcomiHaus

We typically don't pay a lot of attention to Halloween here in the SarcomiHaus. Sure, it's nice to see the neighborhood children dressed up when they come knocking on the door, but as a standard Mr. S. and I barely otherwise acknowledge the holiday. For some reason, this year I had an impulse to stop into the Halloween superstore driving by it a few days prior. I was thinking it might be fun to get Mr. S. a wig or mask since he would be walking around with his brother and two of our nieces to trick-or-treat.

Well, what began as a quick errand resulted in me wandering aisles of smelly plastic and giant hats, placing a disoriented call to my mother discussing the merits of foam viking armor versus pirate patches, and in the end I had a wig for each of us with only a vague idea about how it was all going to come together with clothes we had in our closets. After all, I personally haven't dressed in any costume for Halloween since I was 18 or 19 years old, and I think the same can be said for Mr. S as well. The results were, well...

This venture into the world of dress-up managed to terrorize our 13-year old cat. He scurried and crouched and hid stubbornly under the bed and refused to come out until we looked like ourselves again. He completely had no idea who we were. Of course, the dogs didn't realize anything at all was out of the ordinary - BIG GIGANTIC DERRR SHOCKER. (Please ignore disgusting skanky firehose dog toy in the photo below.) I whipped off that wig and dug into a pile of makeup remover wipes within 5 minutes of the end of the treat-dispersing. (And yes, that IS a George Foreman grill behind me, yo. Grilled cheese melts away stiletto boot pain, my friends. Also, Boot Hate is probably the cause of the look on my face.)

 

One Way or the Other...

*psst - i am currently culling over 500 photos from our week in new york city and getting ready to tell you all about my trip in the place i would like to marry or at least have some babies with. until then...

Here's what I've noticed.

There are a number of similarities between the way I behave when I've had a tumbler of coffee too late in the day and the way someone behaves (not me - NOT ME, of course, oh my silly pet hahaHAAA I don't do that...ahem) when "they" have imbibed a bit more than a wee glass of wine. How so, do you ask? (THAT'S RIGHT, YOU'RE ASKING; YOU KNOW IT, DON'T DENY IT.) Well. Allow me to count the ways:

1. I talk a little faster (yes. faster.)
2. I want to call or email every single person I know.
3. I believe everything I'm thinking is rather brilliant and write down little notes all over so that I don't forget to expound upon the most creative thoughts ever thought by a human the next day. In either case, I wake typically only to find cryptic and disjointed messages, such as "kick in the butt along with other factors", "Jimmy - speed it up", "cynic. perceptive. true." and "balloons so the boxes float". (These are of course examples, heh-heh, of, you know, POSSIBLE things I would write down, uhh...purely hypothetical and not just gathered from a stack of post-its in my desk drawer..nooo way.)
4. I chat up my dogs a lot. No, A LOT.
5. I concentrate intensely with great physical might to ensure I appear completely in charge of my faculties, i.e. "no, no, I'm not hyper/tipsy, I'm totally calm/sober you see, because caffeine/wine doesn't really affect me and LOOK how deliberate all of my movements and thoughts are, no jitters/slurring!"
6. I make very unfortunate food choices (as in, YES I think I need that burrito the size of my foot, please).
7. I'm pretty sure I can feel my body vibrating a little.
8. I begin to lose my fear of singing in public. Or, at the very least, want to do it quite loudly while alone.
9. I find myself giggling. It can become annoying.
10. I start to consider both HSN and QVC unironic and even slightly soothing television viewing choices.

It's all about timing...

Last week driving back home from a trip I was compelled to pull over and take a photo of this overwhelmingly grand sky just before the colors disappeared. As I just prepared to post it, I realized that if I hadn't stopped for the couple of minutes to stand next to my car along a cornfield-adjacent highway, I would not have hit that cream kitty that jetted in front of me and only me on the very busy interstate an hour later one exit from my house (the first time I have ever hit an animal - EVER), and consequently would not have gone into a bizarre internal hysteria which made it necessary for me to hold my breath to stifle the heaving and sobbing over the next 10 minutes so I could see past my teary eyeballs and get home without wreaking MORE death and destruction and return to the four pets in my house, who had to put up with me successively crying into their furry heads after I came in, especially the cat who was brazenly laying on the kitchenette table staring straight at me damningly when I walked in.

For once, I didn't shoo him off. Effing sky.

Vintage Sarcomical: I Have No Control

*Enjoy this Vintage Sarcomical post from the original blog. I'll occasionally put up some of my old favorites here for your SUPER COLOSSAL ENJOYMENT (usually on the weekends). This one even still makes ME laugh, and was originally published October 20, 2004.
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Did I ever tell you I was briefly addicted to The Sims? Briefly as in about 2 weeks. Then I just couldn't take it anymore.

I'm sure most of you know what that game is all about. You get to control what these little computer people do, like when they shower, eat, watch t.v., socialize, sleep, etc. Then they're supposed to automatically start to maintain themselves as you go along. You get a certain amount of money, then have to get your people to find jobs so they can make money to buy more amenities. Otherwise, they start out in a hut with nothing in it.

These little people are bitchy. I don't know if I just wasn't doing it right, but here are some problems I kept running into:

1. My people never wanted to look for jobs. If I could get them to find one at first, it was a crappy one where they carpooled in a shitty car every morning. Every time I commanded them to go look in the paper for a new job they would go to the paper and a.) look at it b.) look at me c.) scowl d.) shake their heads no way. Then a little message box appeared that said "I am too depressed to look for a job now." What the hell???
   
2. Because they never had any money, they didn't have the nicest furniture. And when I told them to sleep, they'd look at me like "you've gotta be kidding me, lady", then cross their arms and say "uh-uh, UH-UH!". I guess the little pricks were too good for their bed. So they'd throw themselves on the floor, or collapse outside on the lawn. Whatever.
   
3. They NEVER cleaned up after themselves. No matter how many times I told them to do the dishes, the little jerks let the dishes pile on the floor, or wherever they happened to be, and flies gathered. I mean, it doesn't take a genius, right? Why couldn't they pick up their shit?
   
4. Their showers and toilets always leaked onto the floor. I even tried to splurge on nice facilities. I don't know what they were doing in there, but there was ranky water everywhere. And then they'd stop showering altogether, which led to...
   
5. ...They smelled. At least I think that's why the husband and wife never wanted to sit together. One would try to get all cozy on the couch, and the other would look at them in disgust and start saying something that I can only imagine was cussing and general verbal abuse. Because the other one would cry.
   
6. None of the neighbors wanted to socialize with my people after the first day or two. Probably because of the smelling and the swearing. The only thing they could do after a while was go into town and play slots at the casino. Because GOD FORBID that one of the lazy asses would get up and get a JOB for money.
   
7. And inevitably, no matter how many different things I tried, they always did what ended up pissing me off the most. They started peeing themselves. On the floor, in the yard, anywhere they felt like it. I don't know if this is because their toilets were never working or if they had become mentally unstable, but I was powerless against their urge to take a piss everywhere BUT the bathroom.
   
8. A few times one of the spouses died. I think once it was because she got so unhappy she stopped eating. And if you've ever played, you've seen what happens. A dark figure in a cloak with a scythe comes to take them away. Hello? EWW.

*At least I didn't do what my husband did. One of his ladies burned to death while she was cooking dinner.

I believe this will become one of my life lessons...

I've finally been able to pick back up with a personal project I've wanted to undertake for a while now - photodocumenting the disadvantaged in Indianapolis and the surrounding areas and the vast (amazingly, surprisingly, and largely unnoticed by the wider population) mass of non-profit organizations that serve them. I am especially touched by the children in these circumstances, and though each time I visit a new place I have to overcome a flutter of fear of walking into an unknown environment and worrying I won't be able to do the situation justice with my images, this is something I am determined to follow through with, wherever it leads. The following are just a few images from my latest trip to an after-school program downtown; I'll post more of this story on my photo blog soon.

 

Fuzzy

"There is nothing worse than a brilliant image of a fuzzy concept."  -Ansel Adams

It's become clear to me over the past two weeks or so that I've approached an unavoidable crest of decisive moments in a few areas of my life. It's not that I find this daunting; I actually am grateful for the will to even make determinations in light of the fact that my soul had been laying low and soft for a long time, zipping up inside of itself just enough to allow me to function on auto-play, get through days without experiencing any loss or disappointment or bare-naked vulnerability. Yes, I've been often tucked away on the other side of the wall over the past year and a half, and have peered out from the mouse hole during the last few months to observe the action bustling about in this bright room, and I want to do more than warm my face in the sunshine and then scurry back to the hideout.

One thing I'm most happy to see re-emerge is my intention to allow myself to feel the fear of journeys I've wanted to embark on for a long while. I'd convinced myself that I didn't care what I was doing or where I was going in my life, because things had spun so out of my own control that my defense mechanism flipped into hypersonic mode and told me to go numb. Numb. I can't stress strongly enough how destructive the state of numbness is to a person's spirit. Sometimes, the brain doesn't know what else to do with information or circumstances that are too intense to bear; it's a part of our chemistry. But left to burrow and nest unattended, it will smolder the soul in a cloud so black and so acrid that it will choke out even the desire to emerge from it.

Freeing myself has largely been a task I have borne alone. I don't have a large social circle from which to draw support and there is no family member I have the type of relationship with currently that lends itself to that sort of sharing. Mr. Sarcomical has at times tried his best to be supportive, but his own personal struggles and a schedule that has taken him frequently on the road often has limited what he can provide in terms of accountability and active encouragement. Sometimes when both spouses are working through individual difficulties, it's like two people treading water. You have to start kicking your own feet or you'll both just be going nowhere and running out of breath.

I am kicking as hard as I can.

I am going to dive back into some parts of LIVING I've all but abandoned - experimental cooking, getting messy and making objects with my hands, writing every day, having a sleep schedule FRIENDLY TO HUMANS, etc. I'm going to rely on a lot of physical exercise to be my antidepressant drug; it's something I've come to realize is unavoidable for me at this point. But hey, bonus! NICE ASS, which I think I can live with. I have to let go of the guilt of feeling so far a disappointment to anyone who ever nurtured my intelligence or talents. I have a personality which naturally hesitates at hint of failure, smack talks itself out of going after a frighteningly wonderful opportunity. The cyclical thinking which allows someone to stay stuck in Numb is ridiculously simple for me to slip into. But if I can each day do ONE thing that excites me even a little bit, or take ONE step in the direction of something I intend to be, I can be confident that my soul will be able to breathe easy. Emerging from Numb is an incredibly difficult process, but I don't need to worry about making it all look perfect.

I can be a fuzzy image of a brilliant concept.

Punch Out the Slasher

I was born into a heritage of women who look perpetually young for their age. These fortunate genes appear to have cleverly and deceptively delayed the appearance of aging parallel to my years for quite some time. For instance, in college I felt downright juvenile. At 23-24, I was often asked when applying for part-time jobs if I had graduated yet from high school. When I interviewed for more serious jobs at 27-28, I was given the Eye of Skepticism by older women who assumed I was there freshly out of college. I was carded for an R-rated movie as recently as last year (okay, while that is true, even I find that ridiculous). All of this is to say that yes, though it has on occasion been annoying, I have always known that as a lady, I would be a bloody fool to have a problem with looking younger than I am.

AHA, but you see, I am now 33. THIRTY-THREE. You can run, but you can not hide, sucker. Up until this past year I have never given a second thought to gravity, or joints, or noticed anything changing on my face aside from the bags that take over my reflection on certain mornings like two gray, flat butt cheeks under my eyes.

Suddenly, I am realizing just how much my laziness has begun to catch up with me, much as the killer in those slasher movies who appears in the medicine cabinet mirror behind the infuriatingly stupid woman who takes a steamy bath in the dark, empty two-story Victorian after her next door neighbor and all of her friends have been murdered, and then gets out, loosely drapes her towel around her chest and leaves the water running while she's reaching into the cabinet to put her toothbrush away, ensuring that she will have ZERO chance to hear said slasher coming up the stairs and then she shuts it and BAM! Cue the eee!-eee!-eee! music and HIS MENACING REFLECTION IS BEHIND HER.

My once naturally (and maddeningly to others) narrow limbs and flab-free stomach have been slightly losing ground under my lackadaisical care. I have only just recently (and merely a few times before that) even bothered to dedicate myself to any workout because I know that I can ALMOST be as lazy as I want if I just eat right and don't mind turning a blind eye toward the state of my ass.

I have never quite managed to maintain a truly steady facial routine, partly because I skip around with products quite a bit, and I admit I have more often that I'd like to divulge gone to bed without washing my face at all. I am now seeing some lines here and there that actually dare to linger a few seconds after a facial expression no longer requires their services, and I am becoming increasingly disturbed by the crease I notice in my neck after a few hours spent mindnumbingly bent over my keyboard. WHAT THE HELL?

I have back "issues" (even worse than I did as a tense young person who had deplorably sluggish posture) and as such I occasionally find myself getting up from a seated position and walking in a bent, staggering shape for a moment which TO MY HORROR I recognize as the exact stance I have seen my mother-in-law hobble along in during holiday gatherings after a long day. LO, I AM ELDERLY!

I'm beginning to hit the realization that if I don't crack down, and crack down HARD, the best I will ever have looked in my life is about 3-5 years behind me, and oh my God that is not even remotely acceptable. Not only will I have already looked my best, but I will have already felt my best, and I have to tell you I imagined the best feeling better than I have yet experienced, so I am at Critical Hour Code Orange here. While I am by no means a ragged mess, I am not setting myself up to be the hottest grandma at the pool, or perhaps something that sounds less gross than that, but you get my point.

Now...excuse me, I have to go bench press a refrigerator or run to Canada after I apply an oxygenating facial mask.

Magnetic Serenity

Dear Jennifer from Whole Foods,

A little over a week ago, I came into the store to replenish my stock of deliciousness from the magic wall of snack bins, which usually has a tendency to make me very giddy. This day, however, I was feeling mentally and emotionally sandpapered in a way that could not be soothed by large plastic scoopers and giant tubs of strawberry/raspberry granola or carob spirulina energy blocks. No, not even the sweet faces on the animal cookies could provide any comfort.

I just remember feeling low and somewhat removed from myself. I was tired, a little sad and a lot overwhelmed. I'm sure I must have looked serious when I came up to your register, because I know at times when I'm feeling perfectly pleasant I have a naturally down-turny mouth, even when I SWEAR I think I'm smiling a little. But on this day, I felt admittedly droopy, and I was gearing up to begin the Service Person/Detached Customer with Averted Eyes Interaction, UNTIL...

You started talking to me. Okay, at first I admittedly resisted and mumbled a bit, something like "uh-hmm, yeah..." in reply to your request if I'd found everything I needed, because as is the tendency when someone with my temperament gets caught in their headspace, I sort of wanted to remain the hermit crab wallowing in its sad wee shell. But then I looked up at the moment you asked if I was having a good day, and you said it as gently and sincerely as possibly anyone has ever said it to me and you locked into my gaze as if you were really trying to find a response in my eyes that I was okay. So profound was the sensation of your goodwill and genuinely peaceful smile that it knocked me a little off guard.

I have to be honest; I am usually the type of person who detests - DETESTS - mindless chit-chat with a stranger, mostly because I am very sensitive to tone and picking up people's vibes, and the moment I sense superficiality or ingenuity a switch flips in my brain and I get very turned off and want to get out of there. But, as you continued to ask me about my peace t-shirt (holy wow, I am starting to sound very hippy-dippy in this post, aren't I?) and told me about the pigeons you used to feed when you lived in Montana, and how there was one white one who would always show up with the rest of them and we began to wonder out loud if doves are basically white pigeons, I was drawn to your grounded calm, your magnetic serenity. It was something I rarely come across but am always drawn to. During our brief exchange I was struck by the positive energy you had shone into my life at just the moment I needed it. I came out of that place much lighter and breathing freer. Thank you so much for that.

Jennifer, cashier at Whole Foods and rare soul...I think if I see you again I am going to ask if you want to meet one afternoon for coffee.

Until then,

Melissa from A House Not Far Away

Life's Little Lessons: "Cute" is all in your head.

Here's what I've learned:

You will never accurately estimate how cute you are in a given day. This can be easily proven with a sneaky and/or ambush photograph taken of you by some jerk (let's call them, Your Husband...or Your Nerdy Co-Worker Who Can't Keep His Hands Off His iPhone,...or A Toddler High On Pixie Stix) who doesn't have the decency to give you a respectable lead time for preparing your angles and whatnot before snapping away.

Once you see this photo (and you WILL see it, because the aforementioned jerk ALWAYS wants to show off his work immediately and to anyone within a quarter mile), you will either be pleasantly surprised by a perfect curl or glowing skin...or deeply horrified by your miserly posture, sickly pallor, wonky eye, random bulging area, gigantic squirrel cheeks, shockingly flat hair, phantom zit, etc., etc., etc.

No matter which way that glorious wind blows, your own estimation of your cuteness will never - not in the slightest - be remotely correct.