I mean, seriously? You felt the need to resort the dishes in the washer again? What on earth was it THIS time that made you decide that to move all the dishes around? Were the plastic tubs – that once held sour cream and cottage cheese – offensive to you? Is that why they’re now residing in the recycling bin? Did you stop to consider that maybe JUST MAYBE, I had them in the washer for a reason? That perhaps I wanted – *shock gasp awe* – faux-tupperware that had lids? No, of course not.
We have spoken about this before. This is one of my peeviest peeves. Whenever you do this, it pushes both my anal-retentive “you’re doing it WRONG” button AND my “I’m not good enough, apparently” button. Double jeopardy, dude.
And really – it isn’t just when you anyone comes behind me and re-does a bit of housework that I’ve completed. Honestly, it’s for any project that I’ve accomplished where someone makes drastic changes to my work.
I recognize as a writer – esp. one with aspirations to publishing fiction – that I must get over myself on this. Editors are there for a reason. They’re not out to get me or secretly trying to figure out a way to make me go away. I shouldn’t automatically think “dear god, look at all the red! I am made of suck and fail!” Those red lines aren’t there to punish me.
Here’s a thought, self: If an editor writes you back with suggestions – then they’re thinking about your work. They’re helping you refine your words so that other people will better understand what you’re trying to say. That story isn’t sitting in a “to be shredded pile” or lining the bottom of someone’s catbox. It’s being actively read. So, you know, relax. Better yet,
Whew.
I feel much better.
Well, except that I am still kind of peeved about the dishes. I recognize you aren’t actually making judgments on my housekeeping ability, it still revs my crank-motor all the way up to eleven.
What about you guys? What are the things that get under your skin? What are the habits or behaviors that others in your immediate vicinity have that sets your hair on fire?
DISCLAIMER: This is my beef and is in no way a comment on anyone else’s behavior. I am also exaggerating…well, OK – slightly exaggerating for effect.
One of my favorite songs came on the radio as I drove home from the grocery store. I sang along with a fierce face, pointed my finger at the windshield as I howled the chorus. It’s a stupid song – the lyrics are fairly ridiculous – but, it’s a grimace-inducing, fist-shaking experience. Whatever the meaning of it is, the lead singer tells you about it with feeling. His voice sounds like he just staggered away from a mano-a-mano fight at the local biker bar. Probably having to do with the virtue of the local heart-of-gold hooker. I imagine him standing there, bleeding and singing to his tawdry beauty. Intent dark eyes, bristly beard, bulgy muscles. *rawr*
Anyway, after the food and sundries were all put away, I wanted to hear the song again. Fortunately for me, Al Gore invented the Internet1. I typed in my search parameters, queued up the video and …
Whoa…is THAT really the lead singer?
More Googling revealed that yes, indeedy that is the lead singer of AWOLNATION. So not what I was expecting. And where in the hell does he hide that voice? Because that is the voice of bruised knuckles, stained white hats and righteous anger. It is the voice every knocked down cowboy, staggering back up to his feet to give the Bad Guys(TM ) what-for.
It is not the voice of Spindly Emo Guy.
But apparently, it is. This is what expectations do for you. I expected this guy to look a certain way based on his voice. I had built up a picture in my head, added flavor and nuances and associated emotions. And was totally floored by the truth. Spindly Emo Guy sings my song. I hate spindly emo guys. What is that going to do for my enjoyment of it, going forward?
My Mom called this morning. Mostly, it was to catch up and gossip. I usually talk to her about once a week. After some back and forth about family things and upcoming Thanksgiving plans3, I casually asked her if she had gotten the picture I’d sent a couple days ago.
Oh, jeezly. Now what?
I hadn’t heard back from her about it and truth to tell, I was disappointed. I mean, when I’d posted that very same image on Facebook – many of my friends had given me a virtual thumbs up. My Mom, on the other hand hadn’t even mentioned it. She was my mother and I was anticipating a somewhat different reaction. An excited call. An email with a lot of exclamation points. Something. I got zilch. Zippo. Zero. Nada.
Well, she is a busy person. She works hard and her weekday hours are vastly4 different than my own. Maybe she had just forgotten or gotten overwhelmed at work or something. So, during our call, I brought it up again.
“Oh, yeah. I saw it.” [ho-hum tone]
“Well, what do you think? I got accepted to Texas State!” [très excited, bouncy as a mucous factory can get]
“That’s nice.”
“…. ?” [if there can be a questioning tone to silence, mine certainly had it]
“I mean… Bon, how’re you going to pay for it?”
Now, I gotta say that my first reaction to her reaction was one of hurt. Really, Mom? “How’m I going to pay for it?” That’s your response? I answered her question [“Um, the same way I was paying for ACC – grants and loans”] and got off the phone. My chest was a tight and hurty place. I just, I dunno…expected her to act differently.
Mom, I am disappoint.
I went and did my errands, still chewing on the phone call.
“How am I going to pay for it? [weighs tomatoes] Really, that’s her takeaway from the news that I got accepted to a major university? [digs in the yellow onions, looking for something non-bruised] I should think she’d be a little more excited, or something. I mean, [ew, rusty lettuce!] if Summer told me that she was accepted to university, I sure would be shaking pom-poms and such.”
And people – that’s when it hit me.
My Mom was not behaving in a way that I expected her to. That’s why I was so upset. I had expected her to be excited for me, to jump up and down, to get a touch shrill. That’s what Moms do, right? Well sure – if your kid is a teenager being accepted into a university for the first time. It’s not necessarily the same thing when that kid is a 41 year old woman.
Her response was perfectly valid. Maybe not ego stroking, but perfectly valid.
Mister Man and I have been struggling financially for the last few months. She was responding to her adult daughter with a concern. Her expectation was that I was an adult, a mother first. I have long since left my teen years behind.
All of which leads me back to AWOLNATION.5
We can’t really let our expectations of others set the tone for our relationships with them. To do so will often lead to disappointment. Yes, have a standard of acceptable behavior. Yes, have morals and likes and ethics and preferences. Yes, feel a certain way.
Do not expect others to conform to the bull that lives in your head, though. That is a fast track to a sad you. The only person that you can reasonably have expectations about is yourself.
1 – Not really. 2– Ask me how I know about the segue thing. ß Not a work-safe link, btw. 3– There is some concern that the infection that I am recuperating from might cause problems for my Aunt as she is currently on chemo. I am no longer infectious but…chemo doesn’t play nice with immune systems. 4 – Try 4 AM to 8:30 PM, every day of the week. Sleeping in on the weekends means that she will stay in bed all the way to 7:30. 7:30, people. *jibblies* 5 – You knew there’d be another segue, right? I think its mostly because I like saying and writing the word “segue.” 6– First off, that is what I thought that “Maybe I’m not listening” first was. Yay, misheard lyrics. Second, I have no way to embed the video for your enjoyment. Go forth, listen. Grimace, shake your fist, bend in double as you shout “SAIL!” Then, slap on your stained white hat and go downstairs to wrangle the kitchen into order. 😉
Long, long day. I meant to write up a regular post this morning, but I woke up late and had to scramble out the door. Please accept a smattering of snark instead.
Thanks!
~Bon
~*~ Nothing says “glamorous” quite like leaving sweaty butt prints on the machines there, cupcake.
~*~ Mmm, that sure is a sexy convertible! I love how it makes your comb-over flap like wee little hands. Yay, loser-applause!
~*~ Stuck to the inside lid of the “feminine bin” does not, in fact, satisfy the “don’t flush your pad” rule in the public restroom.
~*~ Whoops! I guess there should have been a freshly cut flower on your entitlement tray.
~*~ I know that this is difficult to grasp but, try. We belt our pants around our *waist* and not our knees.
~*~ In that vein, I have no need to read your cock-wrinkles through your FAR TOO TIGHT pair of jeans, bucko.
~*~ Yes, I curse. No, I do not let my daughter curse. Fuck off.
~*~ For the love of all that is holy, go here and absorb. Once you have completed that, try this on for size. Do let us know what you’ve learned.
~*~ I don’t care how good a time it is, if I can hear you through the walls as you pray to Jesus for just one more orgasm yesyesyes, I will send you along to make your request in person.
~*~ Oh, GOODY! Today’s track is an obstacle course. Let’s see, we have pull-up bars, incline crunch benches and my personal favorite – swerve around the giant pile of dog poo left in the middle of the trail. (What the HECK was that thing? Was it’s name Clifford?)
~*~ Please don’t make me regret my initial impulse to let you live.
The Process 