Why do I care?

Most people who I'm close to (and a few that I'm not) are pretty well aware of my political views. Why? Because I can't seem to shut up about them. Whenever somebody in Washington does something idiotic, I seem to go a little crazy. I've probably written a letter to my congressional representatives once a week for the last six months (Tim Ryan always replies, too. He probably thinks I'm a stalker.), and during the lead-up and beginning months of the Iraq war Bush apparently felt I'd exceeded my quota for presidential letters (I started getting responses from one of his senior assistants instead). If there's a progressive rally or march within 50 miles, I'm bugging somebody to come along with me. I can't watch "Scarborough Country" because I'm too tempted to throw something at the TV. If I'm home or visiting my father and somebody feels the need to watch "The O'Reilly Factor," I literally have to leave the house.

Today I'm sitting at my desk stewing over Karl Rove's latest comments, which provide further proof that he's an idiot. I'm so pissed off about it that I can't even focus on my work. It's pathetic, how much misguided passion I pour into political issues when I can't even get my own life in order. So it's gotten me thinking, what's the point? Wouldn't I'd be happy if I were completely apathetic? I mean, is Bush (or Ryan, or Powell, or whoever I've written to lately) going to do a single thing any differently just because I've spewed my bleeding-heart rhetoric into a letter that he never reads? There are millions of Americans who don't give a flip about politics, and they probably sleep a lot better than I do. Why put so much energy into keeping up with something that seems so pointless?

But I know I'll never change. I pay too much attention to what's happening around me, and I can't dismiss the facts--my sister struggling to live without affordable health insurance; Ed's health failing and the hopelessness of thousands of ALS, Alzheimer's, and Parkinson's Disease sufferers who will continue to exist without the possibility of a cure because our government doesn't support stem-cell research; the orange-grey cloud of pollution that hangs over Houston; the ghost towns all over Ohio and the Midwest that have all but shut down thanks to outsourcing, unemployment, and the Walmart-ization of American commerce. I want to sigh and think, oh well, we're all on our own in this country, and we have to do the best we can. But I can't do it! I can't be okay with knowing that the resources exist to completely eliminate world poverty, and yet it's like pulling teeth to get the G8 to forgive the debt in some of the world's poorest countries.

I hate how self-righteous I probably sound, because it's not like I have any real answers. Like I said, I can't even manage the complications of my own relationships, let alone the massive debacles of world affairs. In the tradition of all great gen-X-ers, I blame my parents for my unreasonable zeal. They made me follow this rule from the time I was old enough to bitch out loud: "never complain unless you're willing to take action." It stuck, curse them. I'd love to be apathetic. Really, I would. But I can't do it. Bleh.

Just a few things

Okay, so to start off, I've replaced my blog profile picture and brought back the one with the beer. I admit it, I made a change, and it just didn't go over. The thing with the blog pic is that it's important to me that it's not a terribly recognizable shot. Granted, I've given WAY too many friends this URL so a lot of people know the peacegrrl behind the blog, but I don't want random folks--say, some moron I went to high school with, or a resident--to stumble upon this site and use the information about failed affairs, my personal vulnerabilities, etc. (that I so carelessly thrust out into the public domain) to ruin me. The beer pic is a favorite of mine, but unfortunately I made an error in judgement and put it up on my facebook page (facebook is this interesting quasi-blog thing all the college kids are doing, and I got shamefully sucked into it) without giving it a second thought. Unfortunately, those above me thought that a person in my professional position might be sending off the wrong message by publicizing a picture of myself gleefully indulging in a mug of Dundee's Honey Brown (my fave, by the way). And then I got to thinking, wow, maybe the beer picture is making me look like some sad party girl alcoholic. Therefore, fearful that the combination of the beer pic and some of the stupid shit I ramble about would send an unmistakable "lush" vibe, I decided to replace it with what will hereafter be referred to as the napkin shot. Taken in context, it's a pretty funny picture (not knowing that j-dog was taking a picture, I was asking a friend if I had anything in my teeth), and it meets the "fairly unrecognizable" prerequisite. But taken out of context, I just look like a moron hiding behind a napkin. Nobody likes the napkin shot. Two people have described it as "kinda wierd,"and today I returned to my computer and checked my IM messages recieved while away, only to find an note from The Guy that said very simply, "I really hate your new blogspot photo." Well, that did it. Is the napkin shot really the image I want imbedded in the minds of my reading public? And what if The Guy completely forgets what I look like, and all he has for reference is a tiny mug of me making a strange expression next to a napkin? I'm vain, and the bottom line is that I look good in the beer pic, so it's back up, and there it will stay.

On to the next thing. I'm reading a new book, and it's the wittiest, painfully dead-on reflection of gen-X pop culture that I've ever read. The book is Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto , by Chuck Klosterman. I definitely don't agree with everything in it (especially Klosterman's views on country music, John Cusack, and Coldplay), but most of the time the author is almost disturbingly (and definitely embarassingly) dead on. Most regular readers of this blog know that I am in the midst of the search for my soul mate; I'm convinced that a guy who reads this book and finds it half as amusing and observant as I do is probably a contender for the title. Just thought I'd throw that out there.

I still, still don't have cable, and I'm running out of creative things to do. The fourth season of Six Feet Under isn't on DVD yet. I'm so bored that I've started looking forward to working out and taking two-mile walks around campus. I have the NPR afternoon schedules of both the local and San Antonio affiliates memorized, and I caught myself humming along to the damn theme music of "All Things Considered" yesterday. This is not normal! Give me back my Law and Order and Talk Sex and my A Different World reruns! Maybe this is God's way of ensuring that I come out of this summer with a great tan, a smaller ass, and a more informed worldview. I just need to see the higher purpose.

There are other irritations, like the fact that it looks like The Boy and I aren't going to be able to orchestrate getting together anytime before September. Are the fates working against us? I'm trying not to dwell. Really, when I think about my short little life, this is one of the better summers. I've survived joblessness, an evil boss from hell, parental splitups, and pitiful boyfriend-dating-friend sagas in Junes and Julys past. Lack of cable and a fledgling quasi-relationship? This isn't so bad. I will persevere.

An old story

I knew a guy once, I guess I still know sort of know him, who liked Tequiza--you know, that tequila-and-lime flavored beer that Anheuser-Busch puts out. He liked Tequiza, and Corona, and Dos Aquis. This guy was one piece of work. Tall, and so good looking that it was almost surreal. He was the Cool Dude. The one who talked to everybody, even the unpopular folks. Who could do anything. Win anyone over. The Cool Dude knew more about music than me, which is pretty impressive. And when he would talk to you, you really felt like the only person in the entire world. He'd fix you with these beautiful eyes, his tall, tanned body towering over you, and you felt empowered and protected and fascinating, as though whatever you were saying had meaning only he could understand.
Obviously, like everyone else--men and women alike--I was in awe of the CD. We shared a love for the beach and deep John Mayer lyrics, a common hatred of our jobs, and, one night, a bottle of tequila and an impromptu "I know more songs than you do" singing match in the hot tub at a beach resort that probably almost got us thrown out of the place. I was way, way too smart to actually fall for him, though. Guys like the CD end up with beautiful blonde women, girls who are as amazing to look at as they are. It's just the way of things. The Cool Dude took over a room the instant he walked into it, bringing light into the absolute dullest of situations. An ordinary girl just couldn't hold her own next to him. So it would be absolute folly for me, a girl about as ordinary as they come (in looks, anyway) to even waste the energy.
But of course I shared the common infatuation with him...and then, eventually, became enamored with the idea that he needed saving. He had a broken heart--some girl had all but done him in. The more time I spent with the CD, absorbing his dynamic personality and his jokes that always made the right people laugh, the more I felt this enormously sad emptiness coming out of him. He was surrounded by people at work, at home, and his cell phone rang constantly. And yet he was so unhappy. Once you got used to the glaring light that he gave off, you could see it in his eyes. And you could read it in the way he drank (all the time, and he could put it away like no one I've ever met), the way he talked a mile a minute, the way he clung to people. Everyone always assumed that people were clinging to him, but I don't think that's the whole truth. I think he filled every space in his life with people, hoping maybe they'd fill the hole that girl had left. I knew something about that kind of emptiness. It got to be too hard to hang out with him, this gorgeous guy who I really just wanted to comfort in some small way. One night we both had an obscene amount of alcohol at the bar down the street, and I guess all that shared sadness and empathy backed up on me. We got back to his place and he threw up, while I sat and sobbed ( I have a terrible habit of doing that in lieu of the classic vomiting routine when I've had too much to drink) and said God knows what. For all I know I confessed my undying devotion to him. It was never the same between us after that night.

It wasn't hard for us to grow apart--his life is full of people, and I was just one more, and not one that he felt any responsibility to keep up with. And it cuts both ways; I never really bother to stay in touch. But I think about him when I'm feeling too ordinary or inadequate or ugly or whatever. I remember that emptiness, that sadness that he carried around. Someone like that--so perfect to look at, so adored, and so utterly fucked up. It's a humanizing reminder that nobody's perfect. I guess he's on my mind tonight because I'm drinking a bottle of Tequiza (don't make fun of me) and feeling cranky and confused about love and The Boy and my place in the world. I wonder what he's up to these days.

Tedium

I haven't posted in a while. This seems a little odd to me--work is slow, I'm taking a break from classes, and I have free time all over the place, so one would think I'd be blogging like crazy. But the truth is that I just haven't felt very inspired. My life is in the midst of a sort of stalemate at the moment. People are out of town--doing summer vacation stuff, or at new jobs, or just relishing the freedom of eight weeks away from the campus. I didn't opt to bail for the summer. It's partly because I wanted to work and save some extra money, and partly because I didn't want to face the misery of Texas in the summer, but that's not all of it. I know that a big reason I stuck around up here was to avoid the stress of home--illness, the maze of boxes that our house has become as everyone gets ready to move to Houston next month, my aunt's never-ending monologues, and the constant worry and overcrowding that always comes with a visit home. My family and I are connected by a steel-strong web of love and support, but I know that I don't have to be home to be a part of that. And yet here I am, moping about being up here while everybody is elsewhere.

I swear, a lot of this comes from the fact that I don' t have TV or men to use as a numbing salve against boredom and too much thinking. Every summer my life slows down almost to a standstill, and I get by pretty easily because it's Six Feet Under time, or I'm lusting after or dating somebody. Last summer I had plenty of diversions to keep me busy--packing for the migration to Ohio, being mad at The Boy, having fun with The Guy. This summer I don't have a short-lived infatuation to obsess over or a broken heart to rehabilitate. In the absence of conflict, I just feel restless. There's no sexual tension, no rage, no big work crisis or illicit affair to worry about. Does that say something about human nature? In all those damn theatre classes I took in college (before I got wise and switched to an English major) we went on and on about how "conflict" is the center of any good scene. Somebody has to want something from somebody else, or it doesn't work. And look at me now--I'm getting along with everybody, and I just feel like shit!

Father's Day is probably a part of it. I hate it. I haven't done Father's Day in six years. My stepdad is gone, and my real father is a good guy, but I don't have that father-daughter thing with him. He wasn't a part of my life until I was already 20 and the hard growing-up stuff was over. I think I subconciously think of him as an uncle or something. And our politics and values clash so badly that they're a huge sinkhole in an already delicate relationship. Every mid-June I feel guilty because I don't send a card, but I just can't do it. It would feel contrived and artificial and wrong. And maybe it would bring him some sense of deep satisfaction, but I don't know that I've decided he deserves that from me. Am I being hateful and selfish? Probably.

Geez, look at me overanalyzing everything. Forgive this morose post. Thank God summer only lasts for two months, and then I can get back to good old-fashioned work-related bitching.

What exactly do people without cable do?

So yes, I like to be smug and talk about the decline of modern television and how it's all crap, with a few notable exceptions. But let's face it--the idiot box is just about always on. I'm not even watching it half the time. I just like the noise. It serves as a nice, steady connection with the outside world. And there's always The Daily Show and reruns of The West Wing, plus the fact that TNT shows The Breakfast Club just about every weekend. So the last few weeks have not been good. My cable is broken. Some vital piece of fiber-optic technology has become defective, and thus been shipped off to the manufacturer for repair. No one seems to know when it will be back on. I held out hope while I was away in Texas that maybe I'd return to the bliss of sixty-five channels, but alas, it was not to be. Ordinarily I'd escape, go out and shop or read at Borders or hang out with my friends, but I'm sick with this disgusting cough, my second case of bronchitis in the last six months, and I feel too shitty to go anywhere. This sucks! I tried to be optimistic by using the experience as an excuse to catch up on my video-watching, but after five hours of Six Feet Under, along with a few shots of cough medicine, I'm starting to feel way too morose. I long for a few hours of good channel surfing. I'm not ashamed of my dependence on my TV! I grew up in the generation of Family Ties and The Cosby Show, for crying out loud! I need the stuff like I need AIR!

Enough. I haven't posted in two weeks, and there's plenty more interesting to talk about than my lack of media sustenance. So for those of you who've been holding your breath...yes, The Boy did show up on my doorstep as promised. Contrary to all of my disbelief and pessimism. He does, indeed, seem to be pretty different compared with the the person I said goodbye to last summer. And he seems intent on starting over, or making things right, or something like that. I want to believe that it's possible, and at the same time I know how jaded I am after all the games and bullshit. So all I can do is hang out and see what happens, take it as it comes, and try not to worry so much about it. I got some answers, and I think they were the ones I was hoping for. That's a start.

Blah...love, I tell you, what a mess. With all of the walls we put up, and the lies we tell, and games we play, it's amazing that two people are ever able to plow through all of that and really, truly love each other. I give props to all of the people in my life who've managed to find each other and are making it work every day--including the vixen, Alicia, my sister, and Mama Peacegrrl--she and Ed tied the knot on June first. You guys inspire me to believe that it's okay to open up, and to put away the cynicism and actually trust another person with my heart. And mom most of all, who constantly reminds me in word and deed that amazing things happen to those who are patient and believe that miracles actually happen.

That's enough sap for a Saturday night, don't you think? I'll be back in a few days, with some more recaps and an update on the Scarves for ALS project (somebody HELP, we need a better NAME!) In the meantime, everybody cross your fingers that the cable gods decide to smile upon me...
Peace out!