I'm Fine, Really

I had several posts vaguely planned for this week, and then I had to delve into work because I’m leaving for a writing retreat on Friday.  (Yay for Dallas!  I may even get to see the Texas Book Depository!)  But some folks worry when I disappear, so I figured I’d say howdy.
So hey, I’m busy… but why not tell me something good (or eventful) that’s happened in your life lately?  Liven up my day, and the day of everyone who reads the comments.
When I eventually return, I’ll tell you why Mass Effect 3 was vaguely disappointing.  I’m sure you’ll be waiting with baited breath.

Hilarious Misadventures, Or Impending Wisdom?

When you have no common sense, your consolation prize is having amazing stories to tell.
Oh, sure, it’s fun to read about how I begged for change on the street because I was hoping to have sex with a homeless woman, or how I hid in a bathroom closet in a futile attempt to blackmail a bookstore customer…
…but this is the way my family turns rampant stupidity into something useful.  Have a self-fuelled tragedy?  Is there some way you can spin this into an amusing yarn?  Then it’s not a total loss.
But at heart, each of my hilarious tales is a tragedy if you were actually there.  I have a lot of hilarious stories, because I am not a wise man.  A wiser man would have known to clean the apartment for his girlfriend, and not let it get to hoarders-style levels.
Each of those stories is either wisdom, or it’s not.
Let’s be honest: I’ve done a staggering amount of stupid things in my life: broken hearts, wild actings out in public, broadcasting unflattering details to the world.  And if I’d had one scrap of good judgment, then I wouldn’t have done any of that.  I’d have had the sense to go, “Maybe this fight I just had with my girlfriend is trivial, and perhaps I should stay at home instead of getting riotously drunk and rampaging.”
I have zero common sense.
What I now have is tons of experience.
Some call that wisdom.  And on one level, I guess it is, because one definition of wisdom is “The sum of learning through the ages.” Which I have.  Twenty years of fucking things up has given me a pretty good sense of how I might fuck things up this time.  I have so many excruciating failures in my history that almost every major decision I made has the tang of, “…Do you really want to do this again?”
On the other hand, if wisdom is “Common sense” – the other dictionary definition – then I am lacking.  Given a truly new situation, chances are I’ll make the wrong decision.  Then come back years later and write an essay about what I learned.
This is why I have second thoughts about writing about what I’ve learned.  I consider wisdom to be innate good judgment, which I do not have.  Through that lens, I shouldn’t be writing at all.  But if one considers wisdom to be the accumulated knowledge that comes from years of constant heartache, then I’m a fuckin’ repository.
So I write.  Some days I think this is not particularly wise.  But then I think, “There’s some poor schmuck out there about to make the same mistake I did, and what if nobody warns him?”  So I write.  Not that he’ll listen, of course – I wouldn’t – but maybe after he tears everything down, he’ll remember what I said and that’ll help him to pick up the pieces a little faster.
So I’m out here.  Telling wild stories.  Occasionally getting it wrong.  Like ya do.

Lie Still, Little Bottle

I feel good these days.  My moods are more balanced, my relationships are flowing well, I’m mostly productive.
I feel so good, in fact, that I’m tempted to stop taking my Paxil. I don’t need it now, right?  I’m fixed!  Except I know what will happen.
This is weird.  This understanding that all of my competence and strength these days comes from a tiny white pill.  Oh, I could kind of function without it, if I wanted to fight off more insecure tremors, if I wanted to exhaust myself in battling lack of focus, if I wanted to fight all day.
As it is, this feels so natural that it’s hard to believe that it’s not.  And there’s that strange tug: should I be this beholden to medication?
Yes.  Yes, you should.  For now, anyway.
 
 

On The Vital, Romance-Preserving Skill Of Saying "No"

So when I discussed how I was unwilling to help Gini clean the house to her spartan standards, I got a fair amount of silence.  The few comments I did get went mostly along the lines of, “…yeah, I think that’s you.”
I think many people’s reactions could be summed up by this comment:

“This whole ‘I don’t support Gini in this because I don’t need to because it’s her hobby that I have no interest in’ strikes me as contradicting a post of yours I really liked from a few years back, where you talked about how both you and Gini sort of adjusted your housekeeping standards around each other and found a sweet spot, where you’d pick up clutter and become more aware of your environment because you knew it’d please her, and vice versa. THAT, to me, is an expression of how awesome your relationship is.”

Here’s the thing, though: This is that exact same essay, told from a slightly different point of view.
In relationships, we’re told all about how giving is love, doing stuff for your partner is love, sacrifice is love.  And that’s what our culture interprets as “romantic” – every rom-com ends with one partner giving up some aspect of his/her life to be a better match with his or her mate.  So when I say, “I’m willing to do this for Gini,” that’s pre-programmed to give you the warm fuzzies.
But while boundary-setting may not be romantic, it’s every bit as valid to a functioning relationship…. And you write that off at your peril.  We’ve all seen the horrid relationships where a guy finds the love of his life, gives up all his hobbies and outside interests and friends for her, and then she leaves because he’s not the man she used to love.
Sacrifice and giving is but one aspect of a healthy relationship.  The other is knowing when to say “Fuck that noise.”
Is it romantic for Gini to have said, “You know what, Ferrett?  I can’t reassure you of my love as often as you’d like.  Either learn to keep it to yourself, or get the fuck out.”  Of course it’s not.  Viewed through our cultural lens, it’s rather cold and clinical.  It’s the speech of the first, bad girlfriend in the movie who throws the noble hero out on his ass before he finds the true love of his life.
But the alternative was her putting up with a behavior that irritated her to the point where she’d either have to leave, or would have to compromise her own self-esteem to the point where she’d be constantly miserable.
The reason we’re together is because Gini was willing to tell me to GTFO.  And God bless her.
This so-called “sweet spot” of house cleaning is actually a constant, low-grade irritation to the both of us.  In an ideal world, Gini would prefer that she lived in a cleaner house; I would prefer to spend less time cleaning.  We tolerate it because we love each other, and that love helps make it go down… but it is a compromise.
And the compromise can only be negotiated because we have upper limits.  Gini is not willing to tolerate me reaching a certain level of sloppiness, because it would stress her out; I am unwilling to do exotic cleaning beyond a certain level, because it would stress me out.
The middle is formed from these extremes.
Is it romantic for me to say, “You know what, Gini?  This level of cleanliness is more than I’m willing to pitch in on; it’d be hours of effort that I’d hate, and the end result would have me living in a house that would be as uncluttered and personality-free as a hotel room, a sterile place that would make me feel uncomfortable in my own house.  So you can do it if you want, but I won’t pitch in.”  Of course it’s not.
But it’s vital, because otherwise I’d be so in love that I’d do anything for my sweetheart, and I’d clean and work and quietly resent the change.  Eventually, my whole personality would warp to become nothing more than an extension of Gini’s desires, because without that ability to say, “This will make me unhappy, and I know it” then I’d be shifted into co-dependency one gentle “Aw, why not?” at a time.
Saying “No” to your loved one is a wondrous power, one that should never be taken for granted.
Yeah, it might be nice if I just schmoopily did everything Gini wanted and never questioned…. But that’s not the real world.  As it is, I’ll clean a lot more than I want to.  Do not think that having boundaries means that I am an unsubtle oaf; I put in a lot of effort to make Gini happy, having adopted hundreds of unnatural habits to make her environment more livable for her.  I work hard at pleasing her.
But the fact that I love her does not remove my ability to have limits.  And exercising those limits is not wrong.
Boundary-patrolling is wondrously hot, and vital. If all you get out of our relationship is, “We do wonderful things for each other,” then you’re failing at the lessons we’re trying to teach. Part of the reason our relationship is so wonderful is that both of us know when to say, “Okay, no, that’s more than I’m willing to give, and so I’m not doing that. Let’s discuss alternatives.”
Romance springs from this loving climate.  This boundary between “This is what I am willing to give, and this is what I am not.”  That’s where the real power grows.

Because You Demanded It: The Latest News On Our Bees!

Yesterday, I asked “What do you want me to blog about?” The #1 answer by a landslide: bees. “How are your bees, Ferrett?”
The problem with bees is that they’re just not that exciting during the winter. They go dormant for months at a time; you crack the top very quickly, so as not to let out all the heat and kill them, and then nothing happens. Fortunately, I do have an official announcement:
Our bees survived!
Witness:

This was quite gratifying, seeing them all flying about, because when we went to a beekeeping conference last fall, a legendary Detroit beekeeper told us: “You’re a first-year beekeeper? Oh, yeah. They’re gonna die.” But our bees have survived, mainly by dint of us not getting in their way. We didn’t really make any special preparations, didn’t medicate the hive, just let nature take its course. And they live!
(The mild winter probably helped, admittedly. As well as us deciding not to harvest any honey so our bees would have the best chance of making it.)
Now that the weather is warming up, it’s time to start feeding our bees – and the number out there was a little terrifying. Last year, we started with a box of 10,000 bees – which seems like a lot, but isn’t. Now that hive probably has about 60,000 bees, and you can see them swarming enthusiastically. They’re starved, as witness the fact that they went through two full containers of sugar water yesterday.
They also went for my bright green Yoshi pajama pants, which apparently looked like green fields with flowers. They were quite fascinated. This was distressing, especially given that I unwisely ventured outside sans protective underwear.
In any case, this is all the bee news I have to give. There won’t be much for another month or two, but at the end of April we’ll be getting our second hive. That’s right; two boxes of bees in the back yard.
We are crazy, crazy people.