Bashing me over the head

I'm sure it's because I'm upset.

Perhaps if it was a normal day I wouldn't have noticed or clicked on the link to exboyfriendjewelry.com or read the listings or felt that disappointment in my heart again.

The website is for the broken hearted. "Cash for my heartbreak", writes one person. Pawn shops and consignments are shady so you take your jewelry given to you by your ex and sell it on the website. And there are tons of wedding ring, with sad and bitter stories attached.

My Sad Heart. I'm being constantly punched in the face by stories of bad marriage, even worse relationships, as well as one site that proclaimed this - "American woman have several fundamental problems that will never go away, like anti-male bias and pre-occupation with fairness, self-centeredness, ridiculously high expectations, general mental instability and using sex as a weapon and a reward to get things." I'm not making this up. Men are out there and they hate women. And women are out there, hating men. And I am here, sad and confused.

What's the point of love anyway? If there's only sadness, lack of passion and boredom, wouldn't it be better to be alone?

I don't understand.

Brrr....

Snowing here in West Virginia.
Freezing my extremities off!
Gonna go curl up with a hot water bottle, 7 blankets and some hot chocolate until I warm up.

Room service!

Saint Rogers

I was sitting on the plane, holding back tears.

I'm not one for crying in public but this time I was afraid I was gonna completely lose it. Mr. Rogers was going to make me cry.

I had never really watched his show. I have vague recollections as a very little kid but mostly I just knew him as an old guy with a show on PBS. (and the premier badass in The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny)

I picked up a copy of "I'm Proud of You: My Friendship with Fred Rogers" by Tim Madigan before I got on the plane. I had completely forgotten to bring any reading material with me for the plane ride and I wasn't going to suffer one more Cosmo quiz or mail order catolog. It was pretty much on a whim and I thought I would probably read another one of my selections before I would crack that book. I ended up finishing it on the plane. The author is a newspaper writer who, at the time of meeting Fred, was in the middle of a life crisis. Meeting Fred Rogers for a news story would change his life in the most amazing ways. He was lost and with Fred's guidance and understanding, he found his way again.

I was a little put off at first that Fred was a Presbyterian minister. I didn't need to be preached to and I know G-d so thanks but no thanks... but I was wrong. I have been jaded by people cramming their religions down my throat that I just assume that a minister is going to do it to...Fred wasn't like that. When he said, "God loves you just the way you are.", he meant it. He always spoke of tolerance. When others would try to provoke him into bashing the non-christians or homosexuals or anyone who the fundamentalists didn't like, he would still come back with tolerance and even acceptance and at all times, love.

It wasn't an act. He really was that kind. He really cared about people. He really was interested in the people he spoke with. He was patient, thoughtful and pardon the corniness, but he was true blue. Children can spot a fake. Perhaps this is why he was so beloved. From the tiniest kid to the surliest adult, Mr. Rogers held a soft spot in most of us.

In one of my favorite stories, Fred drove to work in his older model Impala, parked in front of the studio and went in to work. When he came out, it was gone. Supposedly, tons of radio stations and TV and newspapers picked up the story. The thieves brought back the car with a note that said, "If we knew it was yours, we never would have taken it. Sorry." Now, I have not found ANY reliable source about this and being that I was still in elementary school at the time it was supposed to have occurred, I can't really tell you myself. Never the less, it's a sweet story and totally within the realms of reality.

I wish I could be like him. I wish I could be so open to mere strangers. I wish I could reach out to people and tell them, "I don't know who you are but I love you because we are all in this together. Don't be sad; you are not alone" just like he did.

Years ago, some idiot suggested that this generation of lazy, self entitled, self esteem whores who are unprepared for the real world were created by Mr. Roger's show. I want to punch that idiot in the groin. Who loved factories and visits from the workers around him more than Mr. Rogers? Who profiled the people who worked at the bottling plant or how a mail room works? What other children's show, beside Seasame Street, helped kids cope with death, divorce and illness? Mr. Roger's Neighborhood is more in the real world than almost ANY children's shows on today.

I cried because he was so understanding and selfless. I cried because when Mr. Rogers spoke to Tim, it was if he was speaking to me. And I cried because even though he never knew me, even though I barely watched his show, even though I have done so many not nice things, I knew he was proud of me too. That's just the kind of guy he was. Don't you wish he was your neighbor? I sure as hell do.

So if you happen to have a 2 hour plane ride and need something to make you cry and freak out the Portuguese woman next to you, please read this book. Or just read it, even if you don't have those circumstances. It's a good book.

Mr. Rogers is the man

• 15 reasons Mr. Rogers was best neighbor ever
• Wish he was my neighbor.

The Theater

I was a lowly little peon.

I mopped, served customers and cleaned vomit. I flushed people's toilets when they left their nastiness behind, soaked up soda with paper towels, inhaled caustic chemicals. I did a million degrading jobs in a day. And the pay was crap. It was the best job I've ever had.

No, not because of all those things, in spite of them.

Home sweet home.As a young woman, my job at the movie theater was the greatest job for so many reasons. The staff and my bosses were great. They were human beings. Even after I rose to upper management, everyone treated me with respect and care, and vise versa. (Some of the kids even came to my brother's funeral, which was so sweet and precious to me.) We worked as a team and we all loved working together. I was good at my job. Even though I despise public relations, I can do it and I'm good at it. I had the operation of all aspects of the building down pact. I knew that when I came to work, no one was better at their job than me. Even though it was just a silly part time second job, it really filled me with pride. (Much more than my previous full time office job, which I found to be so humiliating and degrading.)

But I think a huge part of my love for that simple job was the theater itself. Ever since I was a child, the movies have been a place of happiness and escape. You walk into the cool building and smell the popcorn and find your ideal seat in the high ceilinged room. Put your feet up. Drink your soda. Everything is right in the world.

Even though you were surrounded by strangers, you were safe and alone. In the dark, you could cry as you watch Satine succumb to her illness in her lovers arms, Rhett mourning after the accident or Rick drinking with tears in his eyes while listening to "As Time Goes By". You can scream inside your head, "RUN BITCH!" while Clarice is being watched through the night vision goggles or when Raymond Burr starts off for Jimmy's apartment. You can laugh your ass off as the group of black workers sing "But I get a belt out of yoooou!" to their racist, idiot bosses. You can I'm siiiiingin' and dancin'...sit in awe watching Gene Kelly singing and dancing in the rain. You can scream in shock and horror as the Joker makes the pencil disappear. And if the theater's not too full, you can quietly sing along with Bob and Bing in all the road movies. It sounds super cheesy but it is truly magic! There is no other word for it.

And when everyone had gone home, the lights were up but only a little. The quiet wasn't scary or overwhelming like it usually was for me. It was calming. And it was all there just for me. Not but us few were permitted in those I used to wish I could sleep there... And there were many times I did.

So with all that in one building, for me, it was such a privilege to work in such a place. A magic house where anything could happen up on that giant screen. I would often sneak behind that screen before the show and watch the giant figures move back and forth, the light pooling onto my face. These were stolen moments of perfection, of perfect happiness. Joy. Love.

I still go to 'my' theater. I still get that same old feeling. And I still feel so lucky to have been a part of it all. Sometimes I think that when I've had enough of this rat race, when I'm ready to slow things down to a snails pace in life, I'll go back there. What a way to live.

One down, one to go...

The holidays are hard.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are the hardest. It's like the year, with it's last gasping breath, tries to squeeze the life out of me. No, not my life. My strength. My will to keep a smile on my face. My positive outlook.

The pagans believes that it was a time of death and rebirth. The days are shorter, darker. They would celebrate the last shortest day of the year with yule. Dancing, feasting, and all around merriment. Not so much of that here in the Quadling.

If I can just make it to the 18th... then it's off off and away in my hot air balloon until the new year.

Then it's all cocktails and rainbows. Bring it on 2009!

Celebrate the holiday season with...

• One - No, Two - Deaths at WalMart