I was listening to my iPod on the way home tonight and a lyric in a song caught my ear:
When stink fades into smell..
I think this is akin to “Things look better in the morning” or “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger”. Basically, sooner or later, the things that make us gag because they stink so bad will eventually not even elicit a response from us.
Is it because we actually learn to live with the new normal, that we grow stronger and can handle things that we didn’t know we could? Do things actually get better? Or is our first reaction always exaggerated doom so there is no place to go but up? Maybe it’s some sort of combination of three. But I am always completely amazed by the things that we humans handle. Natural disasters, deaths, debilitating pain, homelessness, etc. I don’t know that I could handle those things and keep my sanity.
I remember reading or hearing once about a theory that if everyone could take their problems and label them and put them in a pile and we could all walk around and pick the pile of problems that we wanted to take on, we would all eventually come back to our own pile. Our pile somehow would look more manageable. It would feel “comfortable.” We have some level of understanding with our own problems, a feeling of familiarity and intimacy with them.
I’ve always liked this. When I’ve felt overwhelmed or down, I’ve thought, “I bet I would come right back to this pile of problems.” Now I know they probably wouldn’t stink to me either.
On another note, Matt and I have completed a beginning beekeeping class and passed the first part of the NC Certified Beekeepers test. I’m keeping a blog about being a new beekeeper (Buzzing Around in My Head), so if you are interested, come by.
I saw these fortune cookies on tumblr.com and thought they were hilarious. I may try my hand at writing some. These are all from Pleated Jeans.com.
I’ve been taking my new puppy to a friend’s house (thanks tons, Wendy!) each day, a house that is within easy driving distance from work, so that I can easily pop over at lunch and let him out during the middle of the day.
The house to the right of Wendy is a rental house and the last renters trashed the house. The landlord has hired a company to renovate the house for the next set of renters.
The guy in charge of the project is almost always outside in the yard when I am in Wendy’s yard, walking Louie the puppy. He’s a friendly guy and very chatty. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted about the condition of the house post-renters, what a bad job the previous property managers did, how upset the landlord is, how much money property managers make, how much money he makes on projects, where his parents live, how many times he’s been to court, how crazy his cat is, etc. Not even the sight of me bagging Louie’s poop discourages the pseudo-monologue.
Today, our conversation/monologue went to this place:
Guy: I’ve been married 32 years and in all those years I have never cussed my wife nor have I ever raised a hand to my wife.
me: *long pause* That’s the way it should be.
I don’t know whose background this reveals the most about (probably his) that he thought that this was an achievement worthy of mentioning to a complete stranger and that I think that this is an ante into marriage and totally not worthy of mention. For me, it would be like advertising that a car has a steering wheel — duh, it better. My husband promises not to hit me — well, no shit, that is given in this marriage. I promise not to poison any meals that I cook and hand to you. Do we have to put that in the vows?
I realize that for many, many people the reality of violence in their relationships means that my mindset is not their mindset. A spouse or boyfriend (or a wife/girlfriend) that doesn’t physically abuse them would be very different from current status. I don’t understand the dynamics between those partners, the demons that drive the abusers and the abusees, etc. I guess I should count myself lucky, but it makes it hard for me to relate to Mr. Chatty.
I found this on the internets today and I am totally going to introduce it to my daily conversation:
According to the internets, this is a Polish idiom that means “Not my problem”. Now, I’ve seen a few occasions where the internets have been wrong, so if you know anything about Polish (and I’m specifically putting a call out there to my friend, “Princess” Jenn, whose grandmother provided us a picture of Jenn’s ancestor King John Sobieski of Poland to hang in our freshman dorm room), I would appreciate validation. I would hate to be going around saying, “Not my circus, not my monkeys” when I really should be saying, “Not my circus, not my clowns”. I want to be right. Especially when you’re talking about monkeys. Or circuses. Or (especially) clowns.