I have spent many years traveling on a graduate student’s budget. Travel was – and is – my preferred way of handling the Christmas holidays, which would rank second after the week-that-shall-not-be-named (aka this one) on my list of least favorite times of the year, except for the fact that my travel tradition actually makes it one of my favorites. (At least, in those years when I can afford to travel.)
Traveling for mental health is my way of flipping the script on what would otherwise be a traumatic time of year, but given that I spent years making an income as a graduate student that didn’t quite leave me destitute – but also didn’t qualify as “comfortable” either – I never got used to the luxury of rental cars. I have never rented a car in any city that had viable public transit. I’ve had my fair share of ridiculous moments trying to navigate unfamiliar transit as a result, but I can’t at this point imagine ever renting a car in a transit city after so long getting by without one. Why pay eighty bucks for parking when I can pay ten dollars for a day transit pass?
I certainly can’t imagine renting one in my own city. I never learned to drive here. We had a car when we first moved, but the lack of street parking, the prospect of “parallel parking” if we ever did find parking, the feet of snow dumped on cars in the winter, and the extortionary private garage parking fees required to avoid dealing with any of the former quickly led to us giving it up. Even for the brief period that had a vehicle, we never drove to any popular tourist locations.
My Partner’s grandparents were traveling with childhood friends who had moved to another Southern state as part of an annual get-together tradition, and their stop in our city was one among several on the East Coast. (I continue to be amazed that there are people in this world who have maintained friendships for more decades than I have been alive, but this, like young marriage, seems to be the norm in the South.) Their hotel was outside the city because hotel costs are possibly the only thing more disproportionate than parking (or rent) in our city. They asked us to show them around, and we (naively) assumed they meant by subway. However, they were not comfortable using public transit, even with locals to personally shepherd them from Point A to Point B. They seemed convinced that the subway would be unsafe, dirty, and unreliable.
ADHD is known for “all or none” thinking, which also translates to “out of sight/out of mind.” It’s basically the reason our infamous desk piles are productive for us. If we put something away in a “safe spot,” we’re guaranteed never to look at it again!
The right amount of color in an organization scheme is similarly distinctive, but, if I color coded everything in my Passion Planner by its due date, as the true bullet journal fanatics will, then nothing would ever be urgent because everything was. In the end, I have two highlight colors only: blue for “due by end of the week,” yellow for “due by the first couple of days of the new week.”
Thanks to histrionicbutterfly of Life As Me, I was reminded of an obvious fact I had still managed to completely overlook: this kind of out-of-sight/out-of-mind” and “all-or-none” thinking can occasionally be neuroprotective. The easiest way to avoid difficulties from two masks falling off when trying to wear them simultaneously is to only ever wear one at a time in the first place! I sent my Partner off to entertain the grandparents-in-law and “revised” my call time extra early. Between not having to put on my “dealing with family is still scary” mask at all and the fact I am still photosensitive and can’t actually make out the audience behind the stage lights even when I want to, it felt like performing normally. I was happy with how the show turned out.
The only thing I was disappointed by in the show was that we didn’t get to play a game called Lyrics Only, which is exactly what it sounds like. Performers must run an entire scene speaking only in lyrics from songs as their answers. I love word games in Improv generally, but I am usually less fond of that one – not because I’m terrible at it in absolute terms, but because I’m terrible at it in relative terms. The audience connects best with lyrics from popular songs, and my musical tastes run a few generations too old for my audience (and me, by my age alone.) The audience usually can tell they are lyrics but don’t quite know the songs to truly appreciate them because they can’t mentally sing along. However, since I usually have the lyrical stylings of someone’s grandmother, I was hoping that I’d get to trot out this “relative” strength the one time I had honest-to-goodness relatives of appropriate age to appreciate in the audience. Alas, it was not to be.
But, overall, things went well. However, “going well” still meant far more “peopling” than I am used to. I’ll write more next week, but for this week I claim the “peopled out” privilege. I also haven’t forgotten that this week remains the week of the b-word that shall not be named and also the one-year anniversary of the most recent reason why that date continues to live in infamy. I did seriously look into taking the advice of another blogger, Vixxy Rose of Crazy Little Things and renting a rage room to “celebrate” that fact, but it seems that the idea is too popular for its own good. The one that would be nearest to me is closed for the next few months while it remodels to accommodate the “unexpectedly high demand!” (Though, when it reopens, it will, I note, let me pay extra to smash some unwanted mementos of my own to my own custom playlist for a little extra. I briefly wondered what soundtrack could ever accompany the 9th Circle of Hell, then realized I had already unintentionally created one in the form of my Zombie Apocalypse playlist from last year.)
Since I can’t go apocalyptic on any remaining evidence of the last year, I guess I’ll fall back on another old standby for this week for when I want to be an introvert for a week but still post something remain balanced during a frustrating anniversary. I’ll respond to a blog award! This week’s episode is graciously provided by justsaltwriter.
Because I’ve got lyrics (or rather, the lack of the chance to enjoy them on either stage or smash) on the brain and also because the ADHD brain – in addition to being all-or-none – has a tendency to take a very generous interpretation of what qualifies as necessary and sufficient for appropriate storytelling, I’m going to answer all of the questions in the form of Lyrics Only. Why? Because a ) it’s my birthday blog award and b) I have expended more spoons than recently than usual trying to rein in my tangential ADHD storytelling tendencies to play tour guide in a way that doesn’t literally bounce between three centuries of colonial American history within five minutes – with a dash of subway sociology thrown in for good measure. I’m letting my tangential flag fly here in recompense.
Movie theaters have become events in and of themselves. One that opened near us recently has a full restaurant inside of it where patrons can eat at traditional tables before the movie – or order their carnitas nachos to be served at tables inside the theater while they recline in their heated leather seats. The theater also boasts gourmet versions of standard guilty pleasure treats made with all natural, non-high-fructose-corn-syrup ingredients like white raspberry slushies and cheddar and caramel popcorn.
And – although they offer treats with more FODMAP-friendly ingredients that make me less likely to need them in a hurry (if you know what I mean) – they additionally offer bathrooms with marble stylings and individual sinks each equipped with their own personal accoutrements and air dryers so I’m not missing even more of the movie than necessary getting stuck waiting in a line when I’m hoping to rush back to my seat after an inevitable potty break during the three-hour-long Avengers: Endgame.
All of this luxury comes with a price tag roughly 20% higher than a standard 3D theater without these little extras. My Partner and I only see a handful of movies in a theater each year. We figure for those movies we judge worthy of a night out, we might as well make it a true experience. (Also, those bathrooms. Seriously. That alone is worth 20% more to any spoonie with GI issues as part and parcel of their diagnosis…)
Unfortunately, the first time we saw a movie in our new elaborate dine-in theater, the experience was missing one detail that further explains why, in the end, it hasn’t only been the price tag that has limited the number of films we’ve seen in a theater each year. Closed Captioning.
“Oh, Then, I guess I heard you correctly the first time. I was just kind of hoping I was wrong…”
“Surprise! We are here to support you!”
*Slams door in faces*
Things to know about rejection sensitivity in ADHD: 1) We’re sensitive to both real and perceived rejection. For instance, we’re sensitive to rejection even if it’s explicitly been established that the insults are a part of a comedy bit. 2) We’re also entirely capable – and probably most adept out of anyone – of triggering our own RSD spirals. Since I also have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, I’m pretty sure I can claim I am adept enough at self-sabotage I could literally shoot myself in the foot with both arms tied behind my back (and maybe both feet, too, while we’re at it!)
Don’t believe me? I was once in a scene wherein the first actor entered the scene with arms outstretched to indicate he was a wall poster in an office building. Since effective scene painting is all about symmetry, I then had to keep my arms stretched out at my side when I also came out to play a poster. We were “demotivational posters,” so while other players acting as office workers read sweet affirmations about kittens hanging in there on our imaginary pages, we were secretly mocking them and sharing their darkest secrets. We’d whisper in their ears and make them think that their officemates were the ones insulting them. Finally, the humans in the scene got wise to us and started whispering insults back at us, making us turn against each other in our poster posse. One of the insults whispered at my poster was that it smelled stale.
This was directed at the poster itself, but I was at that moment standing there with both my arms out at my side while in real life someone was technically sniffing me. On the one hand, individual improv scenes only last around 1-2 minutes per scene on average, so even though I wasn’t in the most comfortable position for a spoonie, I hadn’t really been hanging out there long enough to be sweating in a gross way yet. Or, you know, so I told myself. On the other hand, we were about halfway through the set. Rejection Sensitivity meant I still felt anxious for the rest of the set until I could dash off to a bathroom and sniff under my armpits. Just in case the last insult had been directed at me, not the poster I was portraying.
Things to know about my birthday: Nothing at all, preferably. It’s very demotivating all on its own, and I’m quite comfortable pretending it doesn’t exist. Frankly, I’d be ok with excising the entire month of May from the calendar, just to be thorough.
But, that’s not the family I had, and, well, that’s a relief sometimes, like when I do want to perform in public. One of the few upsides to a family that doesn’t care that is that I have never had to worry about my RSD tendency to panic spiral whenever people I know are watching me at improv. My Partner doesn’t trigger that kind of spiral (*cough cough* anymore, at least most of the time), and nobody else has ever watched me. I am incredibly socially awkward around small groups, feel that way about my own teammates watching me, and can trigger my own RSD spirals about my performance (or just about anything else!) But, I am pretty much okay with big faceless audience masses who don’t know me personally – and never will – watching me. If Lavender sucks on stage but nobody ever actually knew her name, then it isn’t a permanent indication of her worth, or some such. The primary trigger of any of my current performance rejection spirals is thus me. And, I can (with a dash of “clinical strength” deodorant just in case I get sniffed on stage again) mostly manage my own demotivation.
Things to know about my in-laws: 1) They don’t know any of the things above about me.
Content Warning: Massive, huge spoilers ahead for the most recent episode of HBO’s Game of Throne (Season 8, Episode 3’s The Long Night) below. Don’t read this post if you haven’t watched the episode and actually care about being spoiled. This isn’t an actual blog post with any meaning beyond enjoying speculating about the HBO series. There is no deeper message, so feel free to not read this if you don’t care about the series or would like to avoid spoilers. This post is just me sharing some random thoughts because I don’t participate in the Twitter or any other Game of Thrones fan communities, but I still feel like weighing in on the internet debate about last night’s episode.
Let me say upfront that I am totally cool with the whole idea of Azor Ahai/The Prince(ss) Who Was Promised prophecy just being malarkey. I am not a super fan of fate and destiny myself, as it skirts into dangerous “people deserve the good/bad things that happen to them somehow” territory. Also, I’ve been through some rough stuff in my own backstory, but I’m still waiting for any special Mary Sue powers (or at least a slot on the Avengers) to be offered up in recompense. As long as they fail to show up, I will continue my longstanding practice of being annoyed with fantasy in general whenever “prophecies” are used as an easy way out and effectively spoil the plot of a book by being written so overtly that a clever reader can see the ending coming a mile away.
The thing I loved most about A Song of Ice and Fire when I first read it way back when was that it set up prophecies as murky, unreliable things that also become fantastic catalysts for characters to make stupid (and in the Game of Thrones HBO adaptation with Shireen also full-scale evil) choices because a magic power vaguely hinted it was ok. I am actually ok with a gaggle of original (Daenerys), extra crispy (Jon, after both being resurrected by the Lord of Light and dodging icy fire with no official confirmation he inherited Targaryen fire-proofiness in the series last night from Viserion) and a few remaining potentially “secret sauce” (Tyrion, anyone, or maybe Varys, because why the heck not?) Targaryens revealing that good (in)breeding does not make for good tactics.
The D&D player in me also appreciates the destructive potential of a well-executed sneak attack roll and that – since nobody thought to roll arcana on those visions the Children showed Dany and Jon last season about the making of the Night King – it took that other D&D writing team in HBO’s post-show clarification to confirm the reason(s) Dany’s Dragonfire did diddly squat. a) The Night King wasn’t actually in the Godswood, where he had originally been made, at the time and b) It wasn’t dragon fire that made him in the first place, but a sacrifice by Valyrian steel and Dragonglass. It makes a sort of D&D (in both meanings) sense that it would take Valyrian steel in a Godswood to unmake him.
So, why was Arya not hidden in the Godswood the whole time, wearing the face of a generic Ironborn soldier for good effect, from the beginning? Because all the characters got so wrapped up in tropes and what they believed they were due to the point that they forgot about what was until it was almost too late. They didn’t leverage all their resources because that isn’t how epic fantasy works. I also like to envision that Melisandre’s near inability to light that fortification was the result of her rather teed off Lord of Light trying to beat it into her head to stop forcing the world to fit prophecy and shape prophecy to fit the world. Thus, when she later sees a trained assassin crying over another Lord of Light she finally pulls her own head out of her arse and thinks, “Oh, ok, that could work” and actually spins one of her own prophecies (reordering the list of eye colors and strategically emphasizing the blue) to retcon Arya into the hero she wanted once she finally saw her in action.
Thus, despite everything I am about to write, I actually appreciate the idea that, where prophecy failed, years of old-school training saved the day. I like the idea that Azor Ahai was an old-school GRRM Red Herring – or at least a D&D one – and that slavish adherence to it almost doomed everyone while a literal perfect assassin wasted her talents first on a wall and then in a library for 78 minutes.
But, I also enjoy puzzle games. Characters may not spend enough time algorithmically warping prophecies to fully exploit them, but it’s a kind of narrative puzzle game. I like puzzle games. And, since the Internet seems befuddled about how Arya could be Azor Ahai because she doesn’t fit some seemingly quite literal components of that prophecy, I feel the need to dramatically demonstrate how literally any prophecy can be made to fit literally any character in a series if desired. People get remarkably myopic about these things. And, I like messing around with the implications of words.
Thus – not because I actually want Arya to have been a prophesied anything, but just because I enjoy linguistic loopholes and the principle that prophecies, like data, can be tortured until they confess anything – here’s my take on how Arya really could have been foreshadowed as The Princess Who Was Promised all along. Simply because I have read multiple analyses of last night’s episode and so far everyone seems to agree that Arya can’t be Azor Ahai, and the prophecy can thus only either have been a Red Herring or in some way still include the Targaryens. I like playing Devil’s Advocate.
Per the internet’s round-up, the criteria for rebirth as Azor Ahai are as follows:
Being Born After a Long Summer: This Arya fulfills directly. She – like all the Stark children including one who named his Direwolf Summer – was born in the last very long summer.
Drawing Fire from a Burning Sword: Beric Dondarrion and his flaming sword perished saving Arya, and she noticeably grieved for him. Arya seemed lost for a moment after she was forced to literally run from her foes and be saved by someone else. Then, another fire priestess (aka Mel) gave her a pep talk about shutting blue eyes forever. Between the two of them, the Servants of Light effectively put the fire, er spark, back into Arya’s eyes that she could win. Thus, in her “dread hour,” she drew inner fire from a burning sword and the deeds of a couple of flaming idiots servants of light.
Coming from Rhaella/Aerys’s Bloodline: Rhaella was the name of the Mad King’s wife. But, another Rhaella was also a granddaughter of Aegon the Conqueror in Fire and Blood, the Targaryen history and ASoIF prequel. That Rhaella was the twin sister of Aerea, who was the spunkiest of spunky princesses almost three hundred years before badass Arya was even born. Aerea even tried to claim Balerion the Black Dread and visited the East. Aerea’s story didn’t end happily, but her personality in childhood shared some similarities with Arya’s. Her name is also similar to Arya’s phonetically. And, it was rumored that Aerea and Rhaella were, at one point, switched at birth to keep them safe. Thus, the “Aerea” of famed headstrongness might actually have been Rhaella. Maybe this one was meant to be more of a similarity in metaphorical qualities than in literal bloodline.
Born (or Reborn) in Salt and Smoke: Arya’s path to training was literally forged by paying passage across the salty sea to Essos to train at the House of Black and White with a coin and a phrase in High Valyrian. Her path was metaphorically forged by witnessing the Red Wedding, where Catelyn asked the bread and salt of guest rights and was still murdered alongside Rob Stark and his wife and unborn child. In the books, Catelyn is thrown into the Trident instead of cremated on it in a grotesque mockery of her native Tully funeral customs. Arya also retains – or maybe re-learns – some of her capacity to turn from pure revenge and remain human from the Hound, who himself was born into who he is by fire, and Arya herself was certainly around plenty of fire and smoke as Winterfell itself fell.
Born under a Bleeding Star: The single most transformative event of all of Game of Thrones was Ned’s beheading and display on the walls of the Red Keep. He was the expected, traditional fantasy “star” – the noble, honorable king who sacrificed himself for the realm. He was also GRRM’s epitome of why the just ruler will never survive to rule a harsh land like Westeros. Arya watched him die, and she hardened her heart and created her list to avenge the shining star of a man who had fathered her and taught her honor – and who, in a just world, would have ultimately become the King (and star of the series).
Draws Lightbringer from the Heart of the One they Loved Most: As one obvious solution, Arya got the catspaw dagger from Bran. It had a ruby hilt. But, more metaphorically, Arya sacrificed avenging Winterfell and her own self to train as a Faceless Man. But, ultimately, she drew Needle from under a stone bridge and reclaimed the family she loved. Needle wasn’t what she used to kill the Night King, but the act of drawing Needle and returning to Westeros marked the conclusion of her “sacrifice” of herself and her taking up her weapons as an adult hero.
Wakes Dragons from Stone: Jon gave Needle to Arya. And, Arya drew Needle from under the stones of a bridge by the canals to reclaim herself. Jon encouraged her sword training, and Jon actually believed in the books that Arya was the one married to Ramsay at Winterfell. Jon has always influenced Arya’s decisions – and Arya Jon’s decisions. It is possible that, at least in the books, “Arya” will literally be the cause of its version of the Battle of the Bastards and Jon’s eventual awakening as a Dragon later. In the HBO series, Arya is still one of the few who matters to Jon as much as Dany at this point. Arya reminds Jon in the Godswood that he is still a Stark. Yes, we now know that he is also a Dragon. But, he’s a Stark because of Lyanna just as much as he is a Dragon because of Rhaegar. And, it is notable that Jon told Dany the truth about his parentage while kneeling in reverence before the stone statue of Lyanna Stark in Winterfell’s crypt. So, maybe Arya will wake the Stark in him alongside the Dragon in the last three episodes when his conflicting loyalties much be tested…
Some people are aware of everything, including their clothes, to the point that they can instantly pick out their generic solid-colored raincoat from among all others. There may be many like it, but that one is theirs.
My Partner is one of these people. He’s acutely aware of color shades and such minute (to me) details, even as he simultaneously sports a minimalist wardrobe of 5-7 pairs of solid-colored slacks and shirts that fit him comfortably that he buys in coordinating shades and wears repeatedly. He always recommends I go similarly minimalist, but I still fear the ever-present career double standard for women. Drawing overt attention by dressing outside the feminine norm feels too exposed and risky. It’s not as under the radar, unfortunately, for neurodiverse women to fully embrace comfort and simplicity over fashion, even if my diminishing numbers of spoons from various diagnoses have gradually pushed me in that direction out of necessity. Guides to minimalist female wardrobes still talk about wearing a small number of items in so many ways that it looks like a month’s worth of unique outfits. This implies that having a month’s worth of unique outfits is the norm. At that point, it seems easier to just own a full month’s worth than to add daily mental gymnastics to combine a much smaller number of pieces to look like more into my morning routine. Committing to the laundry to stretch fifteen items of clothing or some such into a month’s worth is also pretty daunting in and of itself.
I wish that I could buy a small set of slacks and shirts and just wear them repeatedly instead of having to Rube Goldberg them. The idea of a uniform as my “personal brand” is incredibly appealing. But – though I haven’t fully embraced the uniform idea – I have a few all-or-none clothing awareness items that matter to me. I am clueless about fashion, but I have meaningful criteria that help tamp down that panicky, overwhelmed ADHD choice paralysis whenever I have to go shopping. For instance, I picked out a new spring raincoat coat recently. The inner lining had to not feel “sticky” when the plastic touched my skin. I hate the sensation of sticky above all other sensations. It had to have pockets – which too many women’s clothing items don’t – and those pockets had to zip closed or anything I put in them would inevitably fall out and be forgotten. It had to be sufficiently waterproof that – if and when I inevitably left my umbrella somewhere – it could do a decent job without any umbrella adjunct, yet it also had to be lightweight enough to fold up and live permanently in my bag without hurting my EDS joints until needed. It also had to be a simple, solid color, because anything brash and “stylish” can’t be worn until it wears out without drawing attention. I’ve had these criteria for coats for years, so, by this point, I have learned to look first at North Face and Columbia Sportswear and only seek further if they don’t have anything suitable. The winter coat that I have had for almost a decade and probably could pick out from a lineup is by one of them. (I’d have to go look in my closet to remember which, though, so maybe that still says something!)*
I went to a conference last week that was close enough to commute by train and return after one overnight. The northeast has been receiving a lot of rain lately – enough that I remembered and needed both the raincoat stuffed in my bag and an umbrella just to be safe – and conference goers were universally soaked by the time they checked in at the front door. The conference did not, however, have a formal coat check. It only had a self-check rack with a sign stating not to leave anything valuable since it wasn’t manned.
I normally keep my coat and other items with me in such instances. If I see a line for a coat check at the end of the day, it will remind me of the little slip in my pocket and the fact that my coat is at the check as well. I won’t notice a self-check that people walk up to in ones and twos. Without even a coat-check sticker prominently stuck to – or used as a bookmark – on my conference program to remind me, there’s too much of a chance I’ll leave without my gear if the weather changes while I’m inside. (I’ve also lost enough conference programs during the program itself, because I have a gift, that the end-of-day line for a manned check is still a necessary backup reminder.) But, there was little I could do this time. I was soaked like the others, and I assume they’d have found it rude if I dripped on my neighbors in the cramped auditorium seating.
I thought I was incredibly proactive in handling my conundrum. My umbrella was a generic shade of dark navy, and my coat was too new to be confident I’d recognize it. So, I made sure to discretely snap a picture of the rack orientation of my coat and to loop my umbrella over the same hangar. Nobody else seemed to be doing this, presumably because this would allow their umbrella to drip onto the inside of their raincoat. They used the available shelf to stow their umbrellas. I thus figured I had plenty of memory aids to identify that coat I could remember so many specific minor details about but that I still wasn’t confident I could pick out of a lineup.
It probably would have worked, too. I waited long enough for the coats to dry then returned over lunch – before the rush of people at the end of the day – to retrieve my coat and umbrella before I could a) forget about them entirely or b) be thoroughly embarrassed by being caught staring intently at my visual aids to locate my stuff.
The coat rack looked nothing like it had in the morning. Some “helpful” person had straightened it up in the meantime. Every. Single. Umbrella – including mine by default – was neatly stacked onto the rack. Every umbrella looked exactly the same. There was no grey raincoat at the end I’d originally hung it. There were, however, four total grey raincoats in my size from North Face that had their trademark dry weave lining, zippered pockets, etc. I first discreetly rifled the pockets of all of them in case business cards, chapsticks, maxi pads or any others of the dribs and drabs that tend to accumulate in the pockets of women with ADHD could act as tell-tale markers. The pockets were all empty. My own coat was still too new for me to have had time to mindlessly collect.
The coats differed in their shade of grey, however, when I looked at them in the light. Thank goodness. The umbrella was much harder to identify until I finally remembered my current one had a push-button mechanism to launch it. Only one of the many identical-to-my-eyes dark navy specimens had an automatic feature. I found my stuff without being caught looking as lost as I felt, folded my coat up and stowed my items in my bag. At the end of the day, I put them on and got a lift to the station.
My Partner looked me over when I got home and said he liked my “replacement coat” for the one I’d lost on my trip better than my original. The “lighter shade of grey looked good with my hair.” FML. If my Partner could instantly tell it was a different coat, I guess I’m not as perceptive as even I thought I was. I trust his attention to detail. If he says it’s a different coat, it is a different coat…
How in the world do I attempt to call the organizers of a past conference and explain that I walked off with a similar – but apparently not nearly as similar as I thought – coat and didn’t realize it until someone else noticed? Is there even a mechanism to report lost and found, or was their blanket warning not to leave any items we couldn’t afford to lose on the coat rack tacit admission that my “borrowed” coat will remain my coat from now on? Is there any hope that the owner of that coat also can’t tell the difference and is even right now blissfully wearing mine, equivalently unaware of our switch?
I guess it’s time to start writing my name in my outerwear and assuming anyone examining my coats closely enough to see it would, like me, be grateful in the moment for any clear visual signal that the coat they are examining is not theirs.
For whatever it’s worth, though, my Partner-who-notices-everything did confirm that I successfully returned the same umbrella that I left with. I may be an unintentional coat thief, but I’m not an umbrella thief as well. That may be the fashion equivalent of shooting the sheriff, but not shooting the deputy, but I’ll take what I can get…
*P.S. – my winter coat is actually by Merrell. My Partner has one from Columbia. But, after asking him, my Partner at least confirmed my previous rain jacket was by Columbia and I was correct in my memory that the jacket that I unintentionally swapped really was by North Face. I had the brand of the real coat right, if not the color. And yes, for anyone wondering, I do force my Partner to come shopping with me. He’s much better at this than I am, even though he himself only ever wears slacks and shirts.
Need a recap of anything I’m talking about in any post? Check out the Glossary of Terms.
I used to think my boss’s term for work-life imbalance was something he made up. I don’t know why I thought this, other than that he always said it so confidently and without attribution. I’d never have had the confidence to pass off a saying that often without crediting the original source, so I just assumed. Thus, I figured I could never share it on my blog because it would be too personally identifying. I don’t know why I never just googled it. If I had, I’d have established long ago that the term isn’t something he came up with. He cribbed it from a Forbes article – or possibly Berkeley’s MBA program – and just takes it to illogical extremes.
Why should I have assumed, given that he liberally borrows his own employee’s work at conferences without remorse, that he’d somehow do otherwise with awful aphorisms? (Of course, the way he adds on that we should all be so grateful for our “fulfilling” job that we are willing to work many nights and weekends to hit our growth goals even as he screams at us might be considered ‘original!’)
There are two kinds of people who live permanently only in the “now” or the “not now.” Time blind ADHDers – and bully bosses. How does one tell the two apart? Well, in my experience, folks with ADHD will inevitably blame themselves for any missed deadlines or forgotten important project components – usually to the rejective sensitive extreme – while self-absorbed bosses will simply assign major deliverables with less than twenty-four hour notice to employees whenever they suddenly realize that they actually need something for a conference that they could have requested weeks ago if they cared at all about the “life” part of “work-life integration.”
This is an important baseline state of reality to establish for new readers who might otherwise question how my Partner and I, specifically, ended up being the second and third of (hopefully only) three residents of a large urban city stuck explaining the intricacies of Pokemon Go to a drunk “friend” supposedly hiding from his “ex-girlfriend” at our table at Shake Shack while thousands of gaming confederates across the country caught their Bagon unaccosted during Community Day.
Since that drunk “friend” specifically requested “cover” while he snuck away to the nearest subway entrance, our experience thus represents the sixth valid trial of my subway sociology experiment. My original hypothesis was that the line I take to improv is statistically “weirder” than nearby lines. My current tally of blog-worthy baffles runs 4:2 in favor of the line in question. Suggestive, but not at all statistically significant, especially when properly controlling for my own frequency of line ridership.
My Partner, however, wishes for me to note that I have potentially overlooked two additional hypotheses worthy of testing: a) my irony magnet superpowers extend to subways and b) there are statistically higher rates of oddball experiences on all subway lines (as well as in general) whenever I am nearby. He pointed out that my having previously mentioned hydration drinks being advertised on public transit as hangover remedies without actually describing any real-life interactions with their target audience could be construed as daring the universe to offer me up a live specimen. Irony. Magnet. (He also suggested, after he had finally forced our “friend” out into the wilds again, that I should refrain in the future from being the one to nab seats for the two of us even in a crowded fast food joint well over its listed capacity of 131 people. The risk of my irony powers kicking in is just too high whenever I’m talking to strangers for even a minute…)
I am no longer sure I’d call anything George R.R. Martin writes “good.” He burned some bridges with this leal reader with Winds of Winter. I finished a real-life Ph.D. with ADHD in less time than it has taken GRRM to write one book. I’m more than fine with HBO scripting the only conclusion to a Song of Ice and Fire to ever see the light of day. At least it means that there will be a conclusion. There is, however, still something disheartening about getting most of the way through the book GRRM wrote instead and realizing he only covered the firsthalf of 300 years of Targaryen history. Fire and Blood: 300 Years Before Game of Thrones (a Targaryen History) is an epic monument to paid procrastination and GRMM still couldn’t even finish it? Really?
That is…disappointing. Especially given the fact I am listening to the prequel on audiobook, and it is 26 hours long! I’ve been encouraged by my neuro-ophthalmologist to rest my eyes when I don’t need them for work because their ability to focus together continues to decline. Thanks, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Listening to GRRM’s words instead of reading them makes certain quirks of his writing almost painfully apparent. (I wonder if his editors were equally burned by this point and so desperate to ship anything new of his that they only gave Fire and Blood a minimal once-over?)
Three-quarters in, I’m not sure from a literary standpoint whether Fire and Blood is actually well-written. It overuses words. Like, seriously overuses them. Like “overuses them so much that it has become a game for my Partner and me to take a non-alcoholic drink every time he uses the word ‘leal.'” (GRMM is obsessed with loyalty, but our ‘drinking’ game has to be non-alcoholic because I’m pretty sure we’d both die if we tried to use alcohol during the playing of The Leal Deal. GRRM has singlehandedly ensured that even this girl who is dysautonomic has consumed many more than her recommended liters of water daily this week.) It also has an annoying habit of setting up mysteries that are never resolved. “What was in that letter” will never be known to readers. I’m fairly sure GRRM knew what was in the letter – it’s his imagination after all – so would it have killed him to tell us? What does playing coy accomplish in a one-off?
I am not sure, for these reasons, whether what I’m currently reading is actually good. I am sure, however, that admitting I’m reading it is, at least, not embarrassing. That is not true of many of the other books I have read over the years.
“#whoknewTwitterwasoccassionallyuseful? Not me, at least not until today…”
I do not take the full – or even the half – advantage of social media that a blogger is supposed to, so I can’t actually add my contribution to the #AbledsAreWeird Twitterstorm on Twitter itself. I can say I have been laughing myself silly over that hashtag today. For any spoonie who hasn’t seen it, I highly advise you to check it out when you need a break from the world today.
Since I am not twitterpated by the idea of adding yet another form of social media for my poor ADHD brain to have to manage in general, I’ll add the contribution I would have tweeted if I bothered to maintain a Twitter presence for my blog here instead. (But, though I’m only posting here, seriously go check out the actual hashtag on Twitter too!) I will, though, at least conform to Twitter rules and keep my contribution to 280 characters:
Improv actor share:”Doc 1st thought symptoms were chronic, but thank God my infection was acute. How could I live w/pain forever? Life wouldn’t be worth living!”
Lav(next up w/visible cane):”I guess my share is I’m chronically ill & life is worth living? Kthanxbai”#AbledsAreWeird
Yes, that’s a true story, and from very recently. No, I have no idea what, if anything, I should do about it. The person who made the comment was just a student in a class with me. That class is now over. In principle, I won’t see them again? (I mean, it’s not like I’m going to choose to perform in an indie troupe with someone who’d speak like that when I’d previously shared that I occasionally require accommodations for the physical parts of improv because of my chronic illnesses and they still thought that was an appropriate way to phrase a weekly highlight…)
But, the instructor, who is a regular and very serious theater performer, also did not seem to get that there was anything amiss about that comment. This speaks to the broader complete cluelessness about spoonie sensitivity that the hashtag also makes apparent. There’s clearly a need for more awareness among the theater crowd about a) why a spoonie’s life is worth living, even with their chronic illnesses and b) why if an abled performer doesn’t happen to agree, they should still keep their big fat mouths shut about it since at least 1 in 4 of their audience members will also be living with some form of chronic physical or mental illness.
The theater has been encouraging “tough conversations” around diversity and women’s issues in the theater recently. So, it seems like it might be an appropriate time to point out that many performers – and audience members – are also members part of the largest minority group in America. It is just as critical to have “tough conversations” around how to speak about disability as it is to discuss how to speak about race, class, culture, religion and sexual orientation. I am getting really sick of even so-called Progressives managing to include just about every possible form of inclusiveness except disability in their sensitivity training. I’m also not really high enough up in the theater to know where to start to change the narrative, unfortunately…
Need a recap of anything I’m talking about in any post? Check out the Glossary of Terms.