What's your preoccupation?

Lurking just under that average, everyday facade, everyone has some kind of preoccupation. For some, work is their life and they do what they love. I'd have to say comparatively few. Others have a bonafide hobby like collecting antiques or crafting. But a true preoccupation is more of a mental fixation, an undercurrent, a drive that can't be denied.

For example, my grandma knits and reads romance novels (why do all older ladies do this? a discussion for another time), but what she really loves is kibbutzing. That means chatting you up, coffee talk, friendly gossip. She'll kibbutz with family, friends, the other card-slingers in her regular games, and sometimes even with complete strangers in line or in a waiting room. She's really very social. Like it or not, she wants to be in on the conversation and it's sort of an unspoken understanding that when you see grandma, you get the talking. I happen to love it, so I don't mind.

Some people are preoccupied with finding a partner and deconstruct every conversation with a potential candidate to determine compatibility and hidden meaning. I tried to do that for a while and realized that it's a sure fire road to complete madness. Even if I try to figure people out, I was always too lazy and too obvious for seduction. I've always known pretty quickly whether I like someone or I don't and generally they've known, too. At 5 a.m. over coffee and frites at French Roast, I knew I liked my husband and he did too. That was the first date.

Others keep track of all the sports players and records and scores and historic sports moments...this one can be a hobby or a preoccupation depending on the person. Let's just say that I've known and loved both types. In fact, you could trace my nocturnal nature back to my childhood when I was busy attending Dodger home games while all the little children were fast asleep. Although I was usually pretty bleary-eyed in the morning for school, the upside for me was that I ate Carnation chocolate frozen malts with wooden spoons, Cool-a-Coo ice cream sandwiches and Dodger dogs with much more frequency than I should've been allowed.

So I was thinking about my personal preoccupation. I'm not 100% sure what it is. I do love cliches. Strunk and White's Elements of Style likes to tell us that cliches weaken good writing and that they are too pedestrian for literature. Maybe. But I still love them. (You probably guessed that reading this blog). Cliches endeared me to advertising.

I'd like to write an entire novel with nothing but cliches. That would be fun because I would get to put the vast treasury that I have stored into use. Plus, I could research and maybe find out what the hell some of them mean. One of my mother's favorites is, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." I spent a lot of time in childhood trying to understand what that meant and from whence it came. I'm still not sure, really. By the way, if anyone knows (horse enthusiast) please reply here. But I guess I can't say that cliches are my preoccupation.

I could say that I am preoccupied with being liked or loved, but truly I think that's just part of human nature. Anyone that says they don't have this need is lying or in denial. I also like to be proven right. But I think more than anything, I have a kind of ridiculous need to be recognized. I'm not the type of person who can be a silent partner or somebody's encouraging shadow. I need acknowledgment. Chalk it up to overachievement training or growing up blindingly middle class. I don't know. But I always wanted to be recognized for something and I think that's what makes me want to write stuff down. Then I can recognize myself for accomplishing something tangible.

Aah, that's better.

Difficult

I have been told many times in my life that I am difficult. Difficult to understand, difficult to like, difficult in business, difficult in social situations. Pretty much an all-around pain in the ass. To my credit, I recognize my own difficulty and I often try to force my ornery personality to pipe down. The thing is, I may be difficult, but I am also nice. Does that make sense? Let me elaborate. I am

like a cactus with spines on the outside, but cool water on the inside
a prickly pear with soft inner fruit
angry but affectionate
an overgrown lobster that sometimes gets stuck in my own claws, but I'd sacrifice my best pincer for my fellow crustaceans

You get where I'm going with this.

I hate being difficult. It's one of my tragic flaws. I always wanted to be likeable and cheerful, the kind of person to whom everyone wants to talk. Instead I was always that harmless looking, but rather, as I've been called, aloof or reserved or shy or quiet girl observing. But I'm not really any of those things. I'm cautious. I have been burned so many times in life that I have difficulty trusting. There's that difficult again.

I'm trying, though. When I meet new people, I try really hard to crack my own armor. I'm actually funny and easy-going once you get to know me. (I know, you're just rolling on the floor as we speak). Half the time what's funny is how I make a complete ass of myself by leaning on a tower of boxes and knocking them over or some other klutzy move. Sometimes I snort when I laugh but, on the scale of my stupid human tricks, I don't even get embarrassed by that one anymore.

Today, as I battled with my daughter's nursery school teacher for the second week in a row, I realized that I can't shake the difficult. But sometimes, it's better to be difficult than to let your kid get steamrolled by an overbearing matron in slanty glasses.

I guess I should apologize in advance to my daughter that Mommy is never going to be voted Mrs. Congeniality by the PTA. Hopefully one day she'll be thankful.

Gotta have honeycomb (blinds)

I'm kind of back from my little blogging hiatus. Sometimes you have to get out of your own head to pay attention to real life and prevent yourself from taking up permanent residence there. The mind is a terrible thing to live inside. When the news gets to be too much and reality seems to have bigger teeth than usual, drastic measures are necessary. So I've been been busily playing Susie Homemaker decorating the walls, looking for outrageously overpriced window shades, rearranging, etc. It's truly amazing how much time one can spend doing these things, I mean it's completely mindless and absorbing. But I figure that everyone needs to spend some time this way in life. If you get too into your own clawing frustrations, unmet aspirations or self-depracation...well, you know how it is.

So then it's back to the playground, the nursery school, the paint store and the never ending hunt for low fat, high protein fillers to satiate the fetus and high calorie, nutritous eats for the skinny toddler.

Cognitive Dissonance

The psychology textbook meaning of this term implies true mental illness. But if you break down these two words and take them at face value, it's a perfect term to describe how much we're all on the brink.

Cognitive Dissonance. I like to think of it as mental clutter. You can't think straight because there are tons of conflicting thoughts and emotions competing for airtime in your own brain. Personally, I call it insomnia. Oh, and pregnancy hormones. (I hate it when people associate a woman's behavior with her period and this is something along the same lines. BUT in this case, it is actually scientific fact that there are several hormones produced and released during pregnancy that heighten emotional awareness, protection instinct, etc.).

Anyway, back to the internal cacophony. We're all a little ADD. Seriously, I'm not kidding. It' s the nature of life today. It's a pressure cooker out there. We have to accomplish more, more, more and faster, faster, faster. So it forces us all to sacrifice concentration and enjoyment of the small things sometimes so that we can keep pace at work, at home with the Martha Stewarts of the world, at religious services, with our friends. We have to look perfect, be socially aware, be emotionally available, prove our work ethic, find the love of our life, find all the in places and clothes, etc., etc., etc.

Right now, I'm feeling disaster fatigue. I have a lot of memories of New Orleans and the images and reports of anarchy, starvation, anger, etc. bear no resemblance to those memories. I feel strange that up here, life carries on as always, not much of a change in anything. I still have plans to carry forward, things to accomplish, arrangements to make. I guess this is what happened after 9/11 when we were all shell-shocked and the rest of the country was looking through plexiglass.

Just to clear my own head of all this dissonance, here's a list of some of my most memorable moments from New Orleans, in no particular order since I haven't got the energy for any order. (Note that I said memorable, not favorite).

--Being asked in the Canal Street McDonald's by a perfect stranger, "Do you know what time it is?" and receiving the answer, "Midnight. It's Valentine's Day," accompanied by a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

--Tripping over centuries old tree roots so massive that they have broken the sidewalks.

--Seeing cadillac-sized cockroaches get up and take flight.

--Looking out the window of my private office facing Lee Circle, where the streetcars turn into the French quarter, when I interned at my first ad agency.

--Spending half my Freshman year writing innumerable love letters to my first serious boyfriend after we broke up.

--Being afraid to walk through the open, creaking front door of my Fountainbleu Avenue apartment after being robbed of everything except my portable CD player.

--Passing out on the steps of the University Center after biking several laps around Audubon Park on a 95/95 August day.

--Picking my sorry self up off the floor after several unhappy forays into dating.

--Learning to be the suitor and winning the game.

--Theater majors.

--The Top of the Mart revolving bar atop the World Trade Center in New Orleans, replete with crimson walls, floors, curtains, lights and Peggy Lee tunes.

--The noxious stench of Bourbon Street morning till night, 365 days a year.

--Fried whole turkey, artichoke stuffing, frozen drinks with 7 kinds of liquor served in a bowl-sized goblet at Copeland's.

--All access passes to Fleetwood Mac at the House of Blues as a tip for selling Rayban Wayfarers to their manager. Getting lectured about smoking by Mick Fleetwood.

--Pecan Pralines (not peecan prayleenes, pacawn prawlens).

So many more, they'll have to wait for another day...