During my latest bout with insomnia last night, I watched a re-run of the always brilliant "Chappelle's Show." He had a skit called: "When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong." It was hilarious, of course, but it got me to thinking. When should I keep it real?
My girlfriends and I talked about this at our latest gab fest (aka monthly Pokeno/Bunko game). How women don't keep it real with their friends. You know, like when you go out to dinner with your gal pal, she orders a dinner salad, takes one bite, and announces, "I'm stuffed." You just know she goes home and dives face first into the Fritos with an ice-cream chaser. Wouldn't we be closer friends if told said gal pal: "Girrrrl, I know you are not full. Now get down on some cheese fries before we snarf up our super burgers." Quick aside: my Pokeno/Bunko friends are some of the real-est people I know -- we all love our second and third helpings and our kids are not perfect.
So, in the name of establishing my realness, I'll start. My kids are not the smartest, most beautiful, most athletic, most well behaved girls on the planet. They mess up. They bug the crap out of me at times. I yell at them when I'm tired and bitterly regret it later. I am not the perfect wife, mother, daughter, employee. I nearly went bonkers when the girls were newborns, and breastfeeding (even though I stuck it out for a long time -- 6-yr-old was 18 mos. old before she weaned herself) was like a Bataan death march. My favorite activity is watching TV on my DVR. I'm too impatient for the commercials. I can curse like a sailor and have heard my kids say those same words with my exact inflection. My house looks pretty clean at all times, but please don't look in my drawers or my closet. It's a mess in there. I adore corn nuts, funyuns, and any other white trash food that is sold at your local Quik Stop. If you peeve me, I'll tell you right then to your face. It's difficult for me to accept a compliment. I love crass, funny movies that generally appeal to post-adolescent boys. I'm moody. I like shortcuts -- in driving and in life. I need too much sleep and get cranky if I don't get enough. I don't wash my bras after each wear. The hubs, however, is pretty awesome. Truly. No lie. No artifice. He's a blessing to us three girls in the house.
So, in general, being real does not scare me. It's where I live. Where my realness and reality collide tends to be when I am confronted with a jerk. It happened recently with a family member actually yelling at the 9-year-old about her behavior. Believe me, any sort of chastisement to 9-yr-old was not warranted in that situation. Do I keep it real and rip family member a new one? Or do I let the hubs take care of family member and get 9-yr-old away from jerk? I yanked 9-yr-old out of the way and let hubs deal with it. Family member came over later to half heartedly apologize to the hubs, but I'm not sure I can forgive. Family member didn't see 9-yr-old's silent tears. Should I now keep it real and tell family member not sure I can forgive? Or should I just seethe quietly as I have done in the past with this and other family members? If this was my Hughey/Holley family, I could easily say "back off" and it wouldn't happen again. But this other family is masterful in the art of passive/aggressive communication.
We get to spend a "glorious" week with this family member next month. Not sure I can stop my realness from erupting all over family member. And, as Dave Chappelle pointed out, if you establish your realness, the other person may show you that he/she can keep it real-er. Not sure I want to deal with that.
Any thoughts would be welcome. I'm at a loss about what to do. Note: not going on "glorious" trip next month is not an option. Doesn't matter why, it just really isn't. Dear reader, this will not be my last journey down the keeping-it-real road. Generally, keeping it real and society at large are not a good combo. I'm sure my realness will come up again.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
CRRAAACK!
My cheapness knows no bounds. My neck has been killing me for almost a year. I know it's because my pillow is not the right kind of pillow for side-sleeper me, but who wants to spend $100 on a durn pillow? Anywho. . .it got to the point that I couldn't turn my neck when I was driving. Surprisingly, that's a safety hazard. So I figured I needed to do something. I had gotten massages for it, which were great, but the pain would just return the next day. I took the plunge and called a chiropractor.
He's something else about me: I am skeptical about some types of medical professionals and what they can actually do for you. Maybe it's a result of seeing too many med mal cases. Not to say that there aren't some great doctors out there, but I digress. Chiropractors have always made me think "snake-oil salesmen," but when you're in as much pain as I was, you swallow your pride and step into your nearest stip mall for an "adjustment." I swore, however, that if he tried to give me vitamin "supplements" (although I wouldn't turn down some Vitamin V) or balance my chakras, I was out of there.
He was very nice and told me he could fix me in about 5 sessions. Score one for the doc--I hate it when they tell you that you need a complete 2-year course of treatment or until your insurance runs out. Then he says: Have you ever had an adjustment before? Me: Well, no but I've had massages. Doc: Heh, heh. This is a little different. So I'm on my stomach on some sort of medieval table that has a slit for my face (fully clothed--another point for the doc). He takes my chin in one paw, presses down on my neck with the other, and yanks my neck to the side until I can see the heels of my feet. The sound, my goodness, the sound! It was like CRRAAACK. The bad thing is that I squealed like a little girl at the top of my lungs. You know: Eeeeeeeek! The doc: Wow, we've got a screamer here.
I have NEVER screamed, yelled, or begged for mercy at any type of doctor (including when I had my daughters). I moan, I utter a dignified "ouch," but I NEVER yell. But this was the most shocking and most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Nobody's body should make this sound. I said to the doc: Please don't paralyze me because I need my legs for later. The doc: Heh, heh. Then he proceeded to CRRAAAACK it again. He kept doing it until my spine begged for mercy (me too) and he couldn't get it to crack anymore. I limped out of there, took four Advil, and went to sleep. Yes, on my crap pillow.
The great thing is, though, my neck feels great. I've had another adjustment, and will get another one after vacay. I totally dread it, but I can actually turn my neck without uttering a dignified "ouch." After my second adjustment, I had a horrible day. I mean, a low-down, dirty-rotten day. My main concern was not the instigator of said rotten day, but that it was making my newly acquired, easy-to-swivel neck tense up. Who knew turning your neck without pain was such a luxury?
I am now on the hunt for the perfect side-sleeper pillow. I shall force myself to pay more than $30 for it if it means I won't have to hear CRRAAACK or how girlie my squeal is.
He's something else about me: I am skeptical about some types of medical professionals and what they can actually do for you. Maybe it's a result of seeing too many med mal cases. Not to say that there aren't some great doctors out there, but I digress. Chiropractors have always made me think "snake-oil salesmen," but when you're in as much pain as I was, you swallow your pride and step into your nearest stip mall for an "adjustment." I swore, however, that if he tried to give me vitamin "supplements" (although I wouldn't turn down some Vitamin V) or balance my chakras, I was out of there.
He was very nice and told me he could fix me in about 5 sessions. Score one for the doc--I hate it when they tell you that you need a complete 2-year course of treatment or until your insurance runs out. Then he says: Have you ever had an adjustment before? Me: Well, no but I've had massages. Doc: Heh, heh. This is a little different. So I'm on my stomach on some sort of medieval table that has a slit for my face (fully clothed--another point for the doc). He takes my chin in one paw, presses down on my neck with the other, and yanks my neck to the side until I can see the heels of my feet. The sound, my goodness, the sound! It was like CRRAAACK. The bad thing is that I squealed like a little girl at the top of my lungs. You know: Eeeeeeeek! The doc: Wow, we've got a screamer here.
I have NEVER screamed, yelled, or begged for mercy at any type of doctor (including when I had my daughters). I moan, I utter a dignified "ouch," but I NEVER yell. But this was the most shocking and most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Nobody's body should make this sound. I said to the doc: Please don't paralyze me because I need my legs for later. The doc: Heh, heh. Then he proceeded to CRRAAAACK it again. He kept doing it until my spine begged for mercy (me too) and he couldn't get it to crack anymore. I limped out of there, took four Advil, and went to sleep. Yes, on my crap pillow.
The great thing is, though, my neck feels great. I've had another adjustment, and will get another one after vacay. I totally dread it, but I can actually turn my neck without uttering a dignified "ouch." After my second adjustment, I had a horrible day. I mean, a low-down, dirty-rotten day. My main concern was not the instigator of said rotten day, but that it was making my newly acquired, easy-to-swivel neck tense up. Who knew turning your neck without pain was such a luxury?
I am now on the hunt for the perfect side-sleeper pillow. I shall force myself to pay more than $30 for it if it means I won't have to hear CRRAAACK or how girlie my squeal is.
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