And it’s good to be alive, to laugh and love and thrive.
And it’s good to be alive, to laugh and love and thrive.
You walk into the little room feeling like a slave to your own body, you walk out from the little room feeling like the Queen of every freaking thing including your body.
The monthlies, as you all know come every single month. For those of us who are (1) females (2) not yet menopause:d and (3) for those of us who are regular.
Last month, I wrote about the hurting boobs. This month, I will do constipation.
A different freaking “PMS symptom” everything single month.
The whole week before the menses, you pee, like a zillion times every day, and in the middle of the night too. Nothing else happens in that little room. Well, sometimes, a bean drops with a splash, small like goat droppings, the happiness is overwhelming when that splash catches your ear.
You eat beans,
no, not the splashing beans above, Heinz Chili for example, plums, greens in all shapes and forms, yogurt, berries. Everything that the “doctors” created by experience recommend. Nothing. Exactly nothing.
You sleep badly. You have a headache. You are close to annoyance all the time and it has nothing to do with too little sex.
You know the bloody-week is coming so you are not too worried about the causes & consequences of constipation, but you still wonder “why the hell does nothing come?”
You are eating like a pregnant elephant horse during this week. “where is all the food going?!” you ponder
And on D-day, you wake up pressed, and there is a little pain in the underbelly, some bloody goings on and you really have to go! You take People magazine, Time, The weekend edition, Popeye, that book your boyfriend bought you for your birthday, your phone to check Instagram
jaa, I am projecting again etc.
This may take a while. You have been here before.
You walk in there in a hurry.
You lock the door so no-one can open that door by mistake. Not on this day. This hallelujah day. This glorious blessed day.
You set yourself up properly and begin the ritual you know so well. The screams and moans can be heard by neighbors & passersby.
Who cares though?!
“ooohhhhh crap!” you shout. “My lawd!”, “Yeeees”, “come on then!”
It is like watching a match that is both going as you want and yet not. It hurts a little bit but it is better than the opposite.
And there is a song about this crapping experience
pun intended. Who Knew?! I should have that blasting in the little room next time this is the “symptom”.
Let it go! Let it go! Let it go! Let it go!
I don’t believe I can take much more
Let it go
Got a pain down inside
Won’t be denied
Yeah, every time I try
I can’t be satisfied
Let it go!
Let it, let it go!
This pain down inside
Just won’t let me be satisfied
Let it go!
Feel, ah, I-I feel alright
Yes-ah, I’m beginning to feel alright now
Yeah, yeah, I tell ya, everything’s gonna be alright
Some things die slowly. A criticism, a denial, an accusation, eyes that don’t really look at you, a listener that isn’t really ever listening, a mocking voice, or tone, a body language signal that dismisses you one more time.
Just one too much and it is dead.
One day you are in your happy place, haven’t cried for 23 hours, are looking at the future; dreaming of those pretty well behaved
better behaved than your friend’s at the least children you haven’t had yet; the Florida vacation he promised 5 years ago & confirmed as a plan again last evening; renovating that beautiful house with the view that you have together been dreaming about.
The next minute
or 24hours later you are parking your bags thinking “why didn’t I see this before!!? how stupid am I?!”
For Tessie, that moment came when she found herself in the walk-in closet, bedside (reading) lamp in hand, she, yes she, smashing it on the shelf in the walk-in. Walk-in closet door closed.
She thought “when did I un-plug the lamp?”
He said “your anger issues are ruining our relationship. Why do you get so angry? I never get angry! shouldn’t we see a psychologist, separately or together?”
she thought “I could hit him with this! why am I so angry?”
She calmly said “stay away from me.”
Tessie wondered when she became this angry un-balanced exploding person that could smash her beloved lamp and think of smashing a person. Before him, her listed strengths included “calm in a storm”, “organized”, “kind”, “smart”, responsible”, “a ray of sunshine”, “fun”, “ambitious & goal oriented” etc. Her ex, who later became her current husband of 6 years used to tell her that nothing could neutralize a situation better or quicker than her smile or a quiet thought out question or word from her.
In less than 3 years she had become “a bad tempered storm of rage”, “disorganized”, “unkind & selfish”, “smart only in some ways and not really that smart in lots & lots of other ways”, “irresponsible”, “cold & un-available”, “inconsiderate”, “too ambitious & manipulative” etc
The next morning, she packed, called a friend and moved.
When he called, 2 weeks later to say “I miss you”, she could sincerely say “Maybe I miss you too, but don’t call me anymore.”
Real love has to be able to call after a day and ask “are you feeling better? Are you OK? are you still angry? I am sorry for hurting
annoying you, pissing you off, touching you sensitive buttons, you”.
Real love should be able to say “Please don’t leave. Let us speak about this. I don’t want to loose you”. Preferably say it and mean it before bags are packed, friends are called, insults are exchanged, the moving help has arrived, the moving has taken place and most friends & family have been informed of the move.
Real love would never be able to wait 2 weeks.
I work with data. A table, a column, an attribute, metadata. How everything is connected to each other. Objects. Classes. Attributes. Primary Keys. Foreign Keys. Surrogate Keys. Dependencies.
One of my ultimate favorite people is Hans Rosling. Hans’ talk about The World’s population growth totally changed how I think about and look at the future. I now know to be hopeful and to look a little deeper before I go bonkers bananas in fear.
If a customer buys this product, would they really buy this other product? Quite similar but different?
I work with transforming one piece of data into information, combining pieces of information to create intelligence that becomes a basis for a decision. An action. This customer number, does it belong to a real person? Does this real person shop in the mornings or in the mornings? Do they like red or blue?
My mind runs wild with it sometimes. That old lady, customer number xxxxx, and the address yyyy, that calls Customer Service every Wednesday afternoon, does she live alone? Is she OK?
I would like to move on to combining and utilizing more data to solve more of the world’s challenges. To help. To solve. To open doors. To close doors. To reach out.
I believe that intelligence based on information, unaltered, non-manipulated, non-populist information is almost always the only way to understand the world. The only way to judge the world. The only way to be fair and demand fairness for others that otherwise wouldn’t have a chance.
When you meet that old woman in Libya many years after the war, ask her about her life before you write it for her. Let her tell it several times. Over time. Let her grandchildren tell about her. Several grandchildren. Several times. Several angles of the same event.
Go read about it. Newspaper clips. Books written by survivors. Photographs taken by daring Libyan journalist who dare.
Create a database. An excel sheet. A note book. Research. Compare the answers from each person you have spoken to. All that is said in the newspapers. What the photographs show and represent.
Like when you buy that chocolate bar and place it on the dining table.staring at you. Mocking you. Calling your name while you sleep. Whispering how good it tastes.
“I will not eat the whole of that in one go!” You tell yourself before you go bananas bonkers on the chocolate bar in the middle of the night when no one is watching..
Or when you watch the angels, feel guilty because you are a feminist
jaa, I am totally projecting! and swear to stop objectifying women. Until next year because you are totally hooked.
So, I watched the Met gala and had all these awful wonderful exhilarating depressing feels.
Should I get a new pair of sandals? You know, like Rihanna’s?
Should I get a new gala dress? For that gala I am invited to in 2031 when I am rich & famous?
As if that would ever happen to me who cannot save if life depended on it.
Should I or should I?
So I went shopping today. For whatever.
While I shopped, I wrote this in my phone:
Shouldn’t shopping effing make me temporarily happy?
You were sad, deeply miserable, before I had a chance to hurt a fly,
You were angry, constantly pissed, before I had the ability to create anger,
You were rolling down the stairs, down the hill, bumping your poor head before my hands could push a barrow,
You were weeping, heartbreaking sobs, disturbing wails, before I broke any heart,
You were fragile, almost broken, before I put my hands out for a hug,
You were disconnected, totally broken, before my looking straight at you was a demand for attention, for action, for approval, for love,
You were sleepless, nagging insomnia, before I started nagging,
You were without friends, unloved, before I started looking for elsewhere love,
You were stressed off your wits, depressed, before I was more than fetus,
You were depressed, untreated & suicidal before I saw the first boy I liked,
How is it then possible, that I felt like I caused it all?
How is it then possible, that I felt like I caused it all?
I had been thinking.
Pulling my hair.
Gnashing my teeth.
Scratching my back.
Picking at the pimples on my face.
Scratching my scalp bloody.
Biting my nails.
Re-counting my years.
Checking the wrinkles that may or may not be showing up.
Checking my awaited grey hairs.
Learning new things.
Investing the savings.
Thinking. Choosing. Re-choosing.
What a luxury! To have choice. All these wonderful choices.
Some mornings, I woke up sad. Some nights, I slept close to tears.
I can afford the rent.
I can feed myself.
I can pay my ticket and hotel room in Paris.
I can buy my own shoes.
The thought hit me.
To choose; when you have everything else and the only thing left to choose is love; you have to choose the love you cannot live without.
The silent question: “how to choose?”
Pooh answered: “You cannot go through your feminist life looking back at the things you rejected and miss & regret when you are 50, 60, 70 years old.
If you cannot say the below to the rejected, the left behind, the discarded, the not-chosen, or to yourself, and really mean it; then you cannot reject. Anything. Anyone. Ever.
We should all have the same opportunities and the same pay for same work.
What does this mean for child care when finally, they arrive in my life? Do children need 24 hours of care from parents (read mother) to turn out well? To feel stable, to feel loved, to feel acknowledged?
One of my favorite quotes on equality is by Thomas Jefferson regarding how to treat people un-equally.
We are turning 30. Friends and acquaintances all round are turning 30. Turning 30 seems to come with babies or baby plans.
I meet people, even close acquaintances, colleagues & almost friends who have children and children have become enough of a life. I feel so impressed.
Often, it is the woman who has stopped working, has decided to stay at home and take care of the child or children. The man continues to work. It is a smart calculation because the man often (not always) earns more. So he can support the growing family.
It becomes a catch 22 situation because women continue to earn less if they are away from work for long periods. It also leaves the policy setting and rule making to the men for those years when women are away being good mothers.
I am not making this all up. There is data to show how the loop repeats itself.
Apparently, to be a good mother, you need to dedicate your whole life to the child/children. I haven’t understood yet if this is a matter of feeling, appearing or wishing to be considered & therefore treated as a good mother.
Rarely have I met a man who has completely given up work to be home with the kids. Once, I met a man who took 2 years leave from his work, to follow his wife and children to New York, where, the wife had gotten her dream assignment. He was to be home with the two kids for 2 years.
He was back to work, working 50% from home, after one year. The taking care of the kids became too tedious and monotonous for him. He is a very good father.
In Sweden, to be home means that you are not “saving” any money to pension. That could make a very miserable life after retirement in Sweden, especially if you should divorce or husband should die early.
Nevertheless, those women who choose to be home with children make it sound like the best decision they have made with their lives. During the years they are home with their children.
When I worked with old people during my studies, most women who had been housewives had so bad income, they were dependent on the state and/or on the children they stayed home to raise. Since not so many children become stinking rich, most adult children have very little money to spare to make their old parents’ lives comfortable.
So old parents feel cheated that they can’t have more income from anywhere, which keeps them stuck at home on low budget. This time, no children to take care of during all the day’s hours.
The bitterness from both sides is so toxic you can smell it at Easter lunch instead of eggs. The guilt. The pity. The loneliness. And the lack of money.
The parents who worked and contributed to the pension are off traveling or playing golf after retirement. They can also afford better housing and care during old age.