Social Media? Huh?

# Demented and Sad...but Social

Social. Media. Social + Media. Social Media. The term is so ingrained in our brains, that we don't even think about the reality of those two words put together. Is there really anything "social" about social media?

 

 

I guess it depends on how you define "social" to begin with. If your definition is somewhat lax and tends to sway more towards any interaction with any other person as social, then I guess the term "Social Media" makes sense to you. Well, mostly anyway. You can't really explain away watching all of those cat videos, can you?

 

 

If your definition of social is a little more strict and tends towards a physical interaction between two or more people, then the term probably doesn't make sense to you. Well, mostly anyway. You can't really explain when you go out to a gathering and offer nothing to the conversation or stand in a corner, and speak to no one.

 

Obviously I don't need to disclose that I am a social media user. I'm a Facebook regular, an Instagram follower, a LinkedIn subscriber, and a Google + beginner. I never got in to Twitter, though. The only reason you're even reading this is because it was posted on some social media outlet. Or you're my Mom, and I gave you the direct link.

 

 

 

We all sit behind our computers or phones commenting on random status', uploading pictures, checking in to different establishments, or (if we're the highbrow social media user), updating our resumes and work profiles. Mostly, though, we spy. We spy and judge. We spy, judge and compare lives.

 

Now, I personally don't considering it spying if I "happen" to find something that someone put up on a social media site. If you didn't want it to be found, read and reviewed, you would never have put it out on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr + or the multitude of other sites that are out there. Can you really say someone is encroaching on your privacy when you have given up your right to that specific incident you posted, without making your profile private? It's the equivalent of putting a box of open donuts in your Company lunch room and then being shocked that someone dared to eat them. Think of all of the information that you've put out on social media as the donut, and everyone else are your hungry co-workers.

 

 

There was a time, not that long ago, when being social meant actually getting off of your ass and doing something. With other, you know, live people. It wasn't considered social to play video games all day. It wasn't considered social to watch TV all day. It wasn't considered social to read all day. These are all forms of media. Why are those not considered social media, but online sites are? Is it because you are "talking (typing)" to someone that actually exists? Someone you know or used to know? Hmm. If that's the case, then the simple act of writing an email to someone is social media. Or "live chatting" with an online help desk. I think you'd be hard pressed for someone to take you seriously, though, if you told your friend that you consider the 1-800 FLOWERS live chat feature to be social media.
 

So, I'm back to the misnomer that is the term "social media". It's just not all that social. As a matter of fact, it quickly makes people anti-social, in more ways than one. A few being:

• Many people have their noses stuck in their phones checking social media when they're actually, you know, being social

 

• People make shit up. Period. While this can happen in actual social situations, your audience is magnified hugely when you say that you're jetting off to Tahiti for the weekend, stopping off in Greenland on the way back. Please, show some self-control. Some humility. With that said...

 

• I've seen people get very upset about how so many of their friends seem to have such an amazing life -based on everything that they post on Facebook. People actually are trying to live up to the falseness of "friends". Friends they haven't seen in years and years. Friends that are posting about their fictional lives. The time taken having this conversation causes me, myself and I to be anti-social.

As I mentioned, I am an avid social media user. I'm certainly not trying to knock it. Social media has allowed people to reconnect with long lost friends and classmates. It's reunited families. It's made us laugh and brought social awareness to some issues that might otherwise not have been brought to light. A lot of the time, you get breaking news quicker via social media than you do through typical news outlets. I think social media serves a purpose. I just think we have to be aware that social media doesn't replace unique human interaction. I think we all need to come to terms with it a bit more, before we're all Skyping Thanksgiving dinner to our families instead of driving to see them.

 

 

So, is social media actually social? Times have changed very quickly, so maybe our definition of social needs to adapt as well. When Mom used to say "Why don't you go out and make some friends", now I guess her child can answer "Ma, I have 688 friends on Facebook." God, I feel old as dirt.
 

I'm drawn to the classic line from John Hughes' unforgettable movie "The Breakfast Club". When questioning Brian about his choice of academic clubs, John Bender responds as follows, "So it's sorta social, demented and sad, but social. Right?"
 

 

 

I guess that pretty much sums it up, right? BTW, please be sure to post, share, and/or like this. LOL
 

 

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Tales of a Mother/Daughter Vacation

Girls Not Gone Wild in the Least

In previous posts, I've discussed some of the less than finer trips my Family took when I was a child.  Today, I'd like to discuss my first "real" vacation adventure, where chaos still ensued.  As the saying goes, you can take the family out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the family.

 

The first time I ever was on an airplane was when I was 16 years old.  My Mom and I decided we were going to take a mother/daughter trip to Cancun, Mexico, leaving my Father and brother in the dust.  A 6 day/7 night all-inclusive resort vacation.  Cancun was a sensible choice in a few ways, it was a huge tourist town, it wasn't a long flight ride, and didn't require a passport.  It was an insensible choice in two ways:  We decided to go in August and we had no idea what the hell we were doing.
 

As all Family vacations began, we woke at the crack of dawn and my Dad drove my mother and I to Newark International Airport.  We were wrecks.  My mother had never flown before either, and we both really didn't know what to expect.  It's an important fact to note, that the ladies in the family don't exactly handle stress as well as we should.  For example, Mom panics and talks incessantly and I feel nauseous, vomit and require silence.  Ahhh!  Let the adventure begin!

 

We boarded the plane for what we were certain was impending doom, and found our seats.  My mother chatted the entire length of the plane, while we loaded our carry-ons in the overhead bins, and as we took our seats.  She chatted while I clung to the air-sick bag.  She chatted while I held my head in my hands.  She chatted while I reasoned with myself not to make a run for the Exit door.  I remember looking at my Mom, in my nauseated state, and asking her to please put a cork in it.  I'm sure it wasn't said that nicely, and I'm sure there was a significant amount of eye rolling going on.  It didn't matter.  I dealt with my stress one way, she another.  Never the twain shall meet.

 

Fully boarded, the "escape" exits sealed off, we started our taxiing to the runway. It was at this time that the prescribed medication my Mom had taken at the gate began to take effect.  Now, my Mom is a very thin woman.  Tall and lanky, she's kind of like Olive Oil on a diet.  We took off and she was still chatting, but her ability to articulate was...well...slipping.  I had asked her earlier if I could take 1/2 of her medication because I was freaking out and she emphatically replied "Absolutely NOT!".  As she began to suck her thumb and cuddle up to the stranger's shoulder though, I surmised I might have found my "in".  Mom was gorked, she and I will freely admit.  I took advantage of this when I asked a second time if I could take 1/2.  She looked at me with watery eyes and a slightly droopy smile on her face and said "Suuuure!".  Wasting no time, I took a 1/2 and we both woke up when we landed.  I believe my Mom also found a phone number scrawled on a piece of paper in her lap - belonging to the man whom she had cuddled up to - but she'll never admit it.

 

 

Exiting the airplane we were greeted with arrows directing us to baggage claim.  We then waited on the strangest line I've ever stood in.  Back in the day, Cancun "customs" was a traffic light.  Each passenger would go up and press the button on the traffic signal, if the light flashed "Green", you went past the officials, luggage in tow and found a taxi.  If the light flashed "Red", you stopped and had the officials go through each of your bags.  The finest form of counter-terrorism I've ever seen before of since.  My Mom pushed me forward, saying I had better luck.  We got a green light, and searched for the Hotel Shuttle.

 

As complete travel novices, we had no idea that Cancun was the center of all things alcoholic.  We boarded the shuttle and were handed beers, which my Mother promptly took out of our hands and gave back.  We took our seats and were just in awe.  I remember thinking, "I'm coming back here for Spring Break", and then "This might not be the place to go with your Mom."

 

The shuttle dropped us off at the Hotel, we checked in and took stock of our situation.  OK.  We're here.  What do we do now?  We had booked an all-inclusive resort, so meals and drinks weren't going to be a problem.  But outside of eating and drinking, what to do, what to do?  Being New Jersey women, we obviously headed to the mall.  El Flamingo Plaza.

 

The El Flamingo was a  short walk away for the hotel and was on the opposite side of the street.  While the hotel was on the ocean, the El Flamingo was on the lagoon.  Little did we know that we would be spending countless hours at the El Flamingo.  We were novice travellers and kept our circle very small.

 

During the days we stayed by one of the many pools, visited the mall and went to (what turned out to be) our greatest saving grace, the "Chac Mool Deli". The Chac Mool was the only place we could find that was reasonably air conditioned, had the coolest drinks (as nothing was actually cold) and carried grape juice for when the ever present "Mexican Nausea" resurfaced.
 

Some of the highlights/lowlights of the trip included:

• Booking a trip to the Mayan Ruins - We decided we were going to take a bus tour to the Mayan ruins to get some culture.  Unfortunately, about 10 minutes en route, I thought I was going to toss my cookies, and my Mom went up to the tour guide and said we needed to get off the bus.  He said we couldn't stop.  She said he could.  He said we wouldn't get our money back.  She said she didn't care.  The bus pulled over and we stepped off, without the least bit of embarrassment.  We were walking back to the hotel when my mother said, "Do not turn around."  So I, of course, turned around.  Stretching the entire length of the lagoon walkway, the biggest lizard-ish looking thing was sunning itself in the place we had just passed.  I'm still convinced it was a dragon.

• Chicken Fingers, Please - On one of our many jaunts to the El Flamingo, my Mom and I went to a fast food chicken joint.  Mom, trying to "blend in" to Cancun culture, scoured her brain to find the Spanish word for "Chicken Fingers".  As she hemmed and hawed and wiggled her digits in front of the exasperated cashier, he finally said "You'd like Chicken Fingers?"  Dejected, she said yes, and a medium mashed potatoes with gravy.  Back at our hotel room, we realized that we had no utensils, so we ate the mashed potatoes with the Pepto-Bismol measuring cap that we had bought at....Yes.  The Chac Mool Deli.

• Burning Legs and Emotional Meltdowns - Laying out by the pool one day, we looked down at my Mom's stick figure legs and saw that she was burning.  Quick thinking ladies that we were, we raced out of the sun, as if she was going to burst in to flames at any second.  We returned to our room, where the bag of ice we had placed in the second sink had already melted, and the sad remains of the Grape Juice label swam dejectedly.  It was at this point that we turned on the movie "Point Break", ate more mashed potatoes with the Pepto Bismol cup, and cried that we wanted to go home, while Patrick Swayze found his perfect storm.

By day 5, we were ready to go.  Resorting to eating fast food out of medicinal caps didn't help matters, either.  Our return flight back was delayed for hours, and we received more information from Dad in New Jersey, than we did from the actual airport.

We were so happy to be going home, that no prescription medications were even necessary for the airplane ride back.  We had learned a lot on this trip, and we were happy we took it, but we were like fish out of water.  We did agree, however, that this beat the bus tour to Cape Cod/Martha's Vineyard, where our backseat neighbors were an older married couple.  A trip where the wife pointed out every sign and bridge from NJ to MA.  Do you know how many signs and bridges there are on that route?  8 million.  That's how many. 

My Mom and I have taken a few other trips since that fateful Cancun escapade.  We've learned how to travel together, and we've learned how to travel better.  Nothing will ever beat the first trip to Cancun, though. A true tale of girls not gone wild in the least.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

How I Survived My Childhood Vacations

Sit Down America!  And Other Stories From the Open Road.

As summer is beginning to wind down in New Jersey - or if you hold the same belief as my Mom, summer is already over - I'll share another tale of childhood summer vacations.  Or, as I like to call them, "The Cheapskates Guide to Putting Your Family in Eternal Danger".

Growing up, we did not have a plethora of extra income to take "fancy" vacations.  I'll put fancy in quotes because my Mom, Brother and I define "fancy" in a whole different way than my Dad.  Easily put, my father considers garlic mashed potatoes as "fancy".  Enough said.

Since (regardless of where we were headed), we knew we would be driving somewhere along the east coast of the US, our choices were somewhat limited.  We have travelled by car from Maine to the southernmost point in the continental US - Key West - several times over. We've seen a lot of different things and learned a lot of things about ourselves as a family unit.  It's amazing that decades later, we still communicate with each other of our own free will.  If you've ever read, watched or listened to anything Jean Shepherd (a la "A Christmas Story"), you'll know exactly how our vacations should have been narrated.

I'll set the stage for the 4 travelling companions:  Shoved together by fate, love and that dicey word:  FAMILY

My Mom -  Travelling co-lead, Mom was the map reader and the provider of boxed lunches.  I remember with glee my mom placing  sandwiches consisting of turkey and cranberry sauce into the cooler for a particular trip.  Hating cranberry sauce, I turned my pre-teen nose up at the concoction.  She explained that the cranberry sauce would help to keep the sandwich moist.  She was certainly ahead of her time, as this is now a sandwich you can buy in cafes.  Most importantly, Mom was the provider of relief.  When my brother and my bladders were about to burst, she would insist my father stop for a bathroom break - eliciting sighs, moans and gripes from the Old Man.  Mom held steadfast to the belief that if she left with 2 children, she would return from the vacation with 2 children.  In body at least, their sanity would be up for grabs.  Mom was a non-sleeper.

My Dad -  The travelling lead.  The man who would wake his family at 4:00am to "get a jump on the traffic" and barrel down major interstates (either with or without a trailer in tow and with or without one-two dogs), having pre-identified markers in his mind that he MUST hit before stopping.  Insensitive to the pleas from his family for food, water or bathroom breaks, he was a man on a mission.  Stopping only for gas and when his eyelids could stay open no longer, he parked the brood in a Welcome Station or reststop  along a highway and slept in the car - gear shift firmly wedged in back or armpit.  My Mom and I would usually take this opportunity to scavenge for food at the vending machines, use the restroom as if we could  get credit for future needs, and wander aimlessly about.  In the dark.  Alone.  With strangers.  Sounds safe, in retrospect.  Dad was a sleeper.

My Brother - Lead Minion.  First born spawn and almost 3 years older than me.  My brother had little to no role in the family travelling circus.  He would be woken up at 4am like the rest of us, help pack the car, and then take his residence in the backseat behind my Dad.  He would then fall asleep and wake up when we arrived at our destination.  Regardless of where this destination was.  To say the least, my brother was a sleeper.

Me - Co-lead Minion.   Server of food from pre-packed cooler and questioner of "things".  Things, such as:  Why can't we go to Disney World?  Why can't we stop at South-of-the-Border?  Why are you giving me that look, Dad?  Having an overwhelming fear of running out of gas and/or being lost, I was lucky I wasn't strapped to the roof at certain points.  If my parents (particularly my Dad) wanted to bust my chops, he would declare that we had less than a quarter of a tank of gas left, and the map was incorrect.  I was a non-sleeper. 

*It's important to note that the sleepers vs. non-sleepers roles remain accurate to this day.  Vacations just highlighted this quirk in each of us.

With the players set, we can move on to a slideshow of the memories/scars that have remained from years of family vacations.

Sit Down America - This is my dear brother's term.  And I must say, a hugely accurate one.  Along with my fear of being lost and running out of gasoline, I also had a fear of having to use the bathroom and not being able to.  This doesn't take Freud to figure out.  My Dad would never freaking stop on the open road, so when a bathroom was in proximity, I used it.  Several times.  If I didn't use it, I felt it necessary to know where it was.   I would ask the "restaurant" employees where the ladies room was. (Restaurant being defined as: McDonald's.  Wendy's being high class.).   On return from using the facility during one random trip, my brother snarkily asked if I was writing a book, ranking all bathroom facilities on the east coast of the US, since I found it necessary to inspect every one.  He suggested I title it "Sit Down, America!".  Rat bastard.  It's still a damn good title.

Waiting for the Folks to Return - Once we were at our motel of choice (see also:  cheapest), my parents would go out to pick up some food, leaving my brother and I to inspect the drained pool, or to wander the estate grounds.  Mostly we argued and tried not to touch the walls.  On one particular night during one paticular trip, my parents were gone for what seemed hours.  My brother and I started to get concerned and to question what would become of us.  What if something horrible happened to our parents?  No one knew to find us at the Notel Motel!   Once it was figured out, we would obviously be adopted by my Aunt, but what about our dogs?  What about our house?  What about our friends?  How would we even get out of wherever the hell we were?  By the time our parents arrived back at the pad, we were both furious and hugely relieved.  We questioned them like parents waiting for their kids to return from breaking curfew.    *Might be the reason I don't have kids.  Just a guess.

The Nighttime Walk, or "How My Brother and I Almost Died" - During one vacation, we arrived late at a campground and had to set up in the dark*.   Now, I can't remember if this was the camper that had the bathroom in it or was the trailer that did not.  Either way, BOTH my brother and I had to find the communal bathrooms/showers to use it's services.  We set out in the dark, armed only with a fading flashlight and our wits.  Which were fading also.  We looked for the wooden arrows nailed to trees identifying the pathway to the bathrooms and finally found it.  Unforunately, we did not take note of our campsite number or how we actually GOT to the bathroom itself.  After doing our deeds and meeting up, we were stumped.  We headed out in the direction we thought was correct, but turned out to be completely wrong.  We travelled in circles, always ending up back at the restrooms.  By this time, our flashlight had completely died, as had our hopes, dreams and desires.  In it's place was once again fear, and the understanding that our life would be spent wandering the woods of the campground.  Like ghosts from the bathroom.  As in movies we started to panic, and made the wise choice to run.  'Cause if you don't know where the hell you are, running is always the best option.  Holding my brother's hand and following his lead, we ran and ran.  Ran straight into a picnic table.  Ran straight into a thorn bush.  Ran right into a pine tree.  We finally found our camper, with it's welcoming light and familiar car.  We ran inside, sweaty, bloody, bruised and frightened.  My brother and I told our parents our harrowing tale, our escape from near-death, our instinct to stay alive.  My parent broke out into hysterical laughter.  Rat bastards.

 

• * Regardless of when the camper was set up, my father's ability to curse still amazes me.  He would let out a stream of swears so incredible that we would just sit and stare in awe

In retrospect, these were some of the best times of my life.  These are the memories that LIFE is made of.  Even though we haven't gone on a family vacation in over 20 years, I still look fondly on those times and appreciate every moment of them.  Because of these trips, I developed my humor.  I learned to see the quirky side of life.  I learned to find an ally in my brother, admiration for my Dad and unending love, respect and sympathy for my Mom.  I am who I am because of these trips.  For better of for worse.

So, I leave you with these philosophical words of wisdom:  When in doubt, when in fear, when you don't know the direction, Sit Down America!  The answer shall come to you.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

Jackass Snowflakes

You're a Unique Snowflake, Just Like That Jackass Over There

 

 

Over the past decade or more, I've begun to notice this shift with society. At least American society. OK...at least Northern New Jersey American Society. Since I can't speak for the rest of the Universe, I'll keep it narrowed to my little corner of the world.

This shift I'm speaking of is the insistence that every child knows just what a unique and special little flower they are. This is accomplished by not having "winning" vs. "losing" teams and ensuring everyone receives a trophy of some sort. Regardless of talent. Regardless of prowess. Regardless of ability. We, as a society must make sure that little "Poo-Poo's" feelings aren't destroyed by any lack of acknowledgment or reward - thus saving ourselves from future guilt that said child might lay on us if they, say, have an inferiority complex, or determine that the reason why they suck at life as an adult is because they never got that Lacrosse trophy for coming in 8th place.

   

 

My issue isn't with the kids. If they're raised to believe that everything they touch is golden, then you can't blame them. I believe the parents are trying to raise confident and well-adjusted kids - remembering what it felt like to be picked last at sports and group activities - they are trying to spare their children that humiliation. The problem is that "humiliation" is what makes us "human". That humiliation makes us grounded and well-adjusted.

At some point (at many, many points) in our lives, we are going to experience humiliation. We are going to experience devastation and loss. Childhood "devastations" give us a thicker skin to deal with these bigger issues later in life. Allowing a child to experience the agony of defeat, grants him or her the ability to appreciate what it is to earn something by working for it. It allows him or her the ability to learn how to accept defeat, and to accept it gracefully. It forms "humility".
 

While I've seen a huge shift in the last decade or so, that doesn't mean that a few haven't always been around since the dawn of time. I'm sure there were some Cavewoman Mother's who thought that her hairy little beast's fire-making skills, Mammoth-slaying prowess, or stick-man cave drawings were just "Beyond Compare" (Please take note: My entire knowledge of Caveman history pretty much comes from the "Ice Age" movies). Carried in to adulthood, kids who were told they can do wrong and are "so special, so unique, so unlike-everyone-else" are effing bears to deal with.
 

Which brings me to my actual point. Yes. Everyone has something that makes them unique. Even if that's only their fingerprints and DNA. Being unique, however, doesn't necessarily equate to a good thing. Jeffrey Dahmer was pretty damn unique, for instance. As was Caligula.

 

 

As an adult woman who actually was told "No" on many occasions by my parents, and was picked last more often than not in school sports, I feel I can offer a pretty clear viewpoint on this topic. You can spot the adult version of "Mommy's Special Little (fill in the blank)" a mile away. You see them in meetings, you see them checking out at grocery stores, and there seems to be a large conference of them at any airport across the U.S.A. at any given point. Those "special little somebodies" who feel that they are entitled to do "X". Not only are they entitled, but you should already know this, you...you...you.... PEON!

 

Let's provide an example, shall we? All of us in NJ/NY that went through Super Storm Sandy and were on gas rationing can appreciate this. After the storm that devastated so much of the Jersey Shore and wreaked havoc at every place Sandy passed by, there were certain areas with gas shortages. First, it was due to days and days without electricity. Then it was because the trucks couldn't get to the fuel that was at the ports in Jersey. This combination caused many stations to be out of gas for weeks - at least by me. Those that did have gas required you to wait hours and hours in line to get your tank filled.
 

It's life. It happens. It sucked, but we were all in the same boat. Well, everyone except those "Unique Butterflies". Picture it: What would happen is you would wait in lines ranging from 3-5 hours at a time, and Mr./Ms/Mrs. Special would roll up to the front of the line and actually try to cut in. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? I don't care if you're a woman or a man, you must have some pair of balls to pull that move. Especially in New Jersey. 'Cause Jerseyians take no shit.

 

These entitled people felt that they had the authority...no, not the authority...the GOD GIVEN RIGHT to cut off hundreds of people who had waited since before dawn. Just because. Just because they were special. They were THEM. Don't you know who THEY are? They are above you. They deserve everything that is out there, whether they earned the right to receive it or not. They are SPECIAL. Someone hand these arrogant asses a binkie and tell them to wake up. You lose as an adult. I'm sorry you have to learn this lesson so late in life.

Now, I've never gotten into a physical altercation in my life. However, it would have turned into a serious smack-down had the police not been there to wave the entitled buffoon away. I could see a mob forming in front of me and in my rear-view mirror as soon as the car made the attempt to slip in front. " News Story at 11" was narrowly avoided.

People do have quirky, personal traits that make them THEM. If everyone is unique, though, doesn't that make everyone equal? If everyone is unique, doesn't that mean no one is special. Joe might have a talent for painting, and Sally might be a great skier, but (at the base level) unique + unique cancels each other out. It's just what you choose to see as a valuable and admirable trait.

Regardless of talents or ability, everyone can be a unique snowflake, just like that jackass over there.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

I Got Dreams to Remember

Dreams...The Stuff Nightmares are Made Of

 

Since I can recall, I've always had trouble sleeping.  Maybe not sleeping, so much, as what occurs WHEN I sleep.  I'm speaking about those intangible images that dance behind your eyes when you've entered the REM stage of sleep.  Some people call them dreams, I call them the Evil Doers of Slumber.  The term hasn't quite caught on yet, but give it time.  Give it time.

Now, there's few things more tedious than listening to someone tell you their dreams in great detail.  It's equivalent to watching a wedding video for the 20th time, or seeing every picture ever taken of someone's glorious vacation.  Personally, I enjoy hearing other people's dreams (on occasion), because it provides me a glimpse into what normal nighttime behavior is for many.  While many dreams are wacky and so personal to the dreamer themselves, that an outsider can't begin to unravel what all of the symbolism means, I find it refreshing to hear that someone had a dream about -say - skydiving and their parachute not opening, or a masked intruder in the house that cannot be located.  These types of dreams are dreams in my world.  These are pleasant and happy little bunnies sliding down rainbows into buckets of marshmallows. 

 

 

Sleeping has always been an interesting concept for me.  When I was a little girl, I used to sleep walk somewhat frequently.  Imagine my poor Mother waking up, feeling eyes upon her at 2:00am, to find her very blond daughter standing at the foot of her bed - the kitchen nightlight illuminating her from behind so she appeared as if a specter - just STARING at her.  She'd very gingerly ask if I was OK, and I would respond Yes.  She'd ask if I needed anything, and I'd say No.  She suggested that maybe I should go back to bed, and I would say OK, and head back upstairs.  No ill will, no malevolence.  Very peaceful, very accommodating.  And very much scaring the shit out of my poor Mom.

 

As a child, I seemed to definitely target my Mom, but my brother also received my nighttime visits on occasion.  He quickly got wise though**.   My childhood bedroom also held the entrance-way to a long-narrow attic.  This attic scared the creeping BeJeezus out of me.  One night, while taking a stroll as a sleepwalker, I opened the attic door and tripped down the two small steps at the entrance way.  Well.  This woke me up right quick.  It took me time to realize where I even was, but when I DID, I started screaming for my brother, whose room was across the hall from mine.  Screaming bloody murder, is more like it.  Do you think he came to help his little sister?  Hell no.  To this day, I KNOW he heard me, 'cause he gets that little "glimmer" in his eye when I retell the story.   The Rat Bastard.

•  ** After my apparition appeared a few times to him in the middle of the night, he just closed the door and kept on sleeping.  Apparently doors were portals my sleepwalking self could noth pass through.  Except the attic door, it seems.  In fairness, my brother has been known to sleep through anything and everything.  But I still know he heard.  The Rat Bastard. 

Back then, I was having dreams that seemed - shall we say - abnormal for a young child.  Dreams of mummies luring us in and then decapitating my family, and visions of riding Ferris Wheels' that were more like a game of Russian Roulette. (In this particular dream - you had to ride the Ferris Wheel until everyone else had died.  The trick was, when the carriages reached the ground, you were underwater.  And that's when the  Ferris Wheel stopped to let people on and unload the dead.  Who ever could hold their breath for the longest - won.)

 

 

Getting older hasn't quieted down my nighttime visions much.  Before I moved in 2010, actually before I even knew I WOULD be moving, I had a dream that moving vans were trying to find my apartment.  They called, I gave directions, but they kept seeming to go in circles.  I told them I'd wait outside for them in order to flag them down.  Normal enough dream for anybody.  Except for the fact that the next day I woke up, I found wet sneakers in my entrance way and my front door unlocked.  It appears as if I had actually gone out in the rain to flag down the "movers".  After that occurred, I no longer wondered why my neighbors avoided me or gave me an usual glare when I'd pass.  If this is an event that I can remember, what did I do that I can't recall?!  Not that I care. They were a bunch of weirdoes anyway.  Sleepwalking and waiting for imaginary movers was the most normal thing that ever occurred at that complex.  Trust me.

In a way, I can say that I am lucky.  I remember a lot of my dreams and they spark a creative imagination.  Like Otis Redding so beautifully sang, "I Got Dreams to Remember".   In another way, I would kind of like to be comatose for a good 6-8 hours without fear that the Evil Doers of Slumber are on their way.

 

One thing is for sure, Disney will never be calling me to come up with a special slogan for one of their many campaigns.  I don't think "Dreams...The Stuff Nightmares are Made Of" will be a huge hit with the under 6 crowd.

 

 

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

Back in the Summer of '85

Nature Walk From Hell

I've already written a bit about some family vacations in a previous post - "Vacation Lampooned" - if you haven't already had the opportunity to peruse this piece of utter goodness, I highly suggest you do.  "Vacation Lampooned" is not required reading for today's class, however.

Seeing as we have just ended a New Jersey Official Heat Wave - defined in NJ as 3 or more consecutive days of temperatures at or above 90°F - I figured it was a good time to revisit a specific Summer Vacation Trip taken by my family when I was a kid.  The term vacation, for the purposes of this blog, can be understood as follows:

• Long ass car rides to an East Cost destination, seemingly picked at random, for the purpose of "enjoying" oneself.  Sleeping arrangements for these vacations were either in (a) Sub-par Motels Rooms that I still blame for my skin condition,  or (b) A camper that slept 4. 

• Vacations also took place primarily in a car.  Meaning that there was no "end" destination.  You drove in the car to the state in which you were visiting, and you stayed in the car until you returned back to NJ.  The Motel/RV really was for sleeping purposes only.  See Also:  Family Trip to the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.  I am part of the only family that I am aware of that would drive in to see the Rockefeller Tree, yet never actually LEAVE the car to SEE the tree.  We just kept turning right to catch glimpses at every break in the block.

The latest 2013 heat wave has brought back a flood of memories from my childhood.  My family and I are usually in fits of tearful laughter during the Holiday's discussing some of the less-than-finer points of our family vacations over the years.  I'll preface this with a statement that is obvious.  I love my childhood.  I adore these memories.  They were sometimes awful to go through, but DAMN do they bring back the biggest laughs and smiles as an adult.

Death March 1985.  Location:  Virginia Beach, VA - (Although we are still uncertain it wasn't a vortex of some sort).    It started out innocently enough.  A family of four dragged by their mother to experience yet another nature walk on the hottest day of the year on Earth.  To see more birds, more plants, more exotic wonders of the Mid-Atlantic State of Virginia.  My brother and I were still too young to protest.  I was 10 and he was just turning 13.  We were at the mercy of our parental units.  We entered the Wildlife Area and were faced with a map, showing all of the different trails that were available to hike, along with the length and difficulty level.  We decided on a more gentle to mild one - meaning there were no hills to climb, but the walk was pretty long.  Long.  Long?  Long?!  What felt like 9 hours in to the trail, with no water left, we were pretty much sure that we would only be found if some actual nature survivalist discovered our skeletons.  We were certain that we could be identified by our dental records, but were considering constructing our last will and testament out of rock and broken sticks. 

After we came across a snake that stretched the entire width of the hiking trail (probably poisonous and probably aggressive), we decided to send Dad out in front to see how much further was actually left in this trek.  If it was much further, we were going to have to fashion a flag out of my brothers French Foreign Legion hat and knee socks and my purple tassel shirt that read "Sassy".  Thinking of it today, I'm not quite sure who would have responded to that type of flag, other than the "What Not To Wear" crew.

Regardless, we were tired, hot, thirsty and hungry.  This was not the gentle to mild hike we had first set out on when we were young.  Oh no.  We had learned quite a few things along this seemingly man made path.  One of which was that the man who made this path was obviously a lunatic.  Another revelation was never to listen to Mom's suggestions of a nature hike ever again.  And finally, the most important lesson of all was:  Don't send Dad out as a scout, 'cause he ain't coming back anytime soon.

As I mentioned, we were tired, thirsty and hot.  Dad went onward to find a path out of this Tarzan-like Jungle to save his family. He was to go forth in to the wilderness armed only with his wits and come back with Intel.  So we waited.  And waited.  And waited. When it appeared that the Earth had swallowed him whole and we were going to have to not only get out of this by our own means, but also find the local Police Department to report a missing person.  We ventured on, a family -1. 


We walked and walked in oppressive heat.  The only thing that remained unharmed out of the 3 remaining family members, was my brother's neck, as he was still wearing the very stylish Foreign Legion Hat.  My mother and I were just hot ass messes, stumbling around and scanning the ground for reptiles.  And/or gates to hell.

We finally found my father walking towards us, and he told us that the welcome station was only a little ways up.  Based on the map and the hike we chose, we made a very large semi-circle around the Welcome Station.  We were finally nearing our journey's end!  As I recall, the 4 of us broke out in to tears at that moment, knowing circling helicopters and cadaver dogs were not going to be necessary. We didn't think to question at that time why my father seemed so refreshed and cool.

As we neared the Welcome Station, the makeshift path turned into a wooden-planked walkway with railings.  We could see civilization in the near distance.  We opened glass doors and felt an immediate "whoosh" of air-conditioned loveliness envelope us.  After any nature walk at this Wildlife Conservancy, you are escorted into a small room with carpeted theatre seating, to watch a history of Virginia Wildlife, and how the Conservancy was formed.  The video took maybe 25 minutes.  In our heat-exhausted state, my mother sent my still-hatted brother out to the main desk to ask if they could please replay the video. 

I will always love my brother for having that video replayed.  Even in his fancy hat and knee high socks, he did the family good....Just so we could sit, relax and be cool.  I'm sure they thought that our family was a bunch of wackos, but they had no idea what we had just overcome on our Nature Walk From Hell.

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo

Humans, Theories, and Bears! Oh My!

I Gotta Be Me.  But Who the Heck IS That?

In April 2006, I had been out of work for probably 7 months, and had finally received a call to interview with a large Corporation.  Well, not actually interview per se, more like interview for the opportunity to be interviewed.  I consider it the interview equivalent to annual fees being placed on some credit cards:  You have the luxury of paying a yearly fee in order to spend money you are already spending. And then pay for it.   In this case, I had the luxury of being pre-screened twice:  First your resume had to make it past the software that weeds out the "unwanteds", and then you had to make it to the "annual-fee portion" of the interview process. 

This process was inauspiciously titled a "Human Resources Behavioral Interview".    My mind immediately went to Björk's "Human Behavior" video, where a giant stuffed bear was seen tromping through the woods while being hunted, and "Goldilocks" sang in an Icelandic lilt at what was (I assume) the Bear's home.  This video pretty much summed up my interview itself, actually.  It was completely nonsensical. It was a series of hypothetical and unanswerable "what if" questions that were meant to determine whether you were a)  of Sound Mind, b ) had  Good Reasoning Skills, c) could Multi-Task and d) were not a Bear.  I failed on all 4 counts. 

 

 

 

 

This leads me to my thoughts of late.  Human Behavior.  Humans:  Who exactly am I?  Am I the person who works in Corporate America and shops the Business Casual section - working towards a career promotion?  Am I the person who writes a blog and thinks my thoughts and writes my woes?  A reader, a writer, an incessant note-taker? Am I the sister who annoys her brother?  The daughter who is independent? The friend who is semi-elusive?  Am I all of these things?  None of things?  If I were to take a non-career related Behavioral Test, would it show that I'm not suited to, well....being Me?

 

I know, logically, that I am all of these things and more.  But have you ever thought about who you ARE, in a deeper way?  What is your driving force?  What is the soul to your being?  What is your legacy?  What do you want to be thought of, not only remembered as when you die, but what do you want to be thought of NOW?  Who would YOU say you are, definitively?  What would you like others to say you are, certainly?

 

I remember taking Sociology in High School and College and learning about the "Looking Glass Concept" - the idea that you are shaped by what you think  others think about you.  While the study was initially conducted with children and teenagers, others in the genre have also studied the effects on a wider scale.  And with older individuals.  I don't think it matters who you are. I think you care what people think of you, always to some extent.  Everyone conforms to a certain degree.  Everyone gives an answer they think someone wants to hear.   Everyone dresses up a little bit more for a wedding or a funeral.  People prepare a little bit more for something they really, really want.  And that's human behavior.  Ain't nothing remotely wrong with that.  My reevaluation comes in when you are only doing things that you are expected to do, and can't even remember what it is you wanted to do in the first place.

 

This goes with my entire journey of self-discovery.  I need to develop something that helps me believe that I am HERE and that I am making a positive difference.  Even if in a small, almost insignificant way.  But a difference that is tangible. 

 

For myself, working in Corporate America has been a double edged sword.  I have been able to buy a home, buy a new car, not worry about bills, and be very self-sufficient, all by myself, on a single-income.  The downside comes in with the "clinging-on-to-the-bottom-rung" of middle management and feeling less than useless.  Feeling despondent and pointless.

 

Since I won't (and don't need to) be quitting my job anytime soon, I am inching towards fulfilling my (hopeful) destiny in a few different ways.  Firstly, I've obviously started blogging.  Secondly, I have decided to do one good deed a day.  It can be big or small, acknowledged or anonymous.  Just SOMETHING.  Thirdly, I am working very hard to break out of my hermit shell - by visiting people more often and calling friends that I have let go.  This third one is the toughest one, by far.  Finally, I'm trying to learn that it's OK to be me, as long as you're OK BEING you.  I can be an animal loving, non-bug killing woman of the forest, and also a bitch behind the wheels with a pirate mouth at asshole drivers.  As long as I'm OK with that, then I'm good.

 

Can you reinvent yourself at 38?  Can people really change?  My top answer is:  No.  But my second answer is:  Only if you really, really want to. So, I gotta be Me.  But who the heck IS that?!

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxo