Good Advice
There’s something about grappling with huge, life altering decisions that makes me a little bit bitchy. Why exactly, I don’t know. It just puts me on edge. And when I’m on edge, I get even more sarcastic and vocal, so there’s going to be a lot of italicized ranting in the next while, is my prediction. Or it could just be the gas fumes talking, which will not wash off my hands (“I’ll hold it steady and you pour,” I said to him. “You have more practice with aiming things.”), or the angst caused by Ken’s callous declaration while rigging a (yogurt container/kitchen knife) funnel for the jerry can that I am a far cry from being MacGyver. I really resent that.
That said, I’m going to write a little bit about advice, which, holy fucking hell, I have gotten my fair share of in the last week. All of which, I’ll admit, I have asked for. Begged for, on some occasions. Physically run away from, in others. The problem with alternate viewpoints, as far as I can tell, is that once they are offered, you have a multitude of good points of view and still no decision. Now if someone would make a decision for me, well, that would be another story all together. Apparently, my friends and relations (oh, and yes, let’s not forget my therapist) are all a bunch of decision-shirking sissies. I have to make decisions about my own life. I have to take responsibility for my own actions.
The truculence and inhumanity would break your freaking heart.
I should just add that in lieu of actual decisions made and carried out for me, all the advice I’ve received lately has been very good advice. I can tell, because it hasn’t actually helped me make any decisions at all (except, possibly, to stop asking for advice). No one (okay, almost no one) has tried to pass off cheap generic advice that seems crystal clear and beautifully poignant until you have to try and apply it to your own existence, at which point you realize you’ve been listening to people who seem perfectly normal but are somehow managing to scrape along with only one desperately overworked brain cell.
Generic advice. You know what I talk. Every cloud has a silver lining, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade, if a door closes, somewhere a window opens (usually, it is something about God closing doors and opening windows, but I think everyone has enough to deal with here without me dragging the ventilation whims of deities into the fray).
I was pondering the lemon one today, on my way from Ken’s to the nearest gas station. (“Don’t drive home thinking you have a full tank of gas,” he said. “Stop at the nearest station and fill up, even if you have to wait in line.”) Advising one to make lemonade from lemons is assuming an awful lot. Like, that you have a container, and water, and a whole lot of sugar just sitting around. And glasses. I hate when people drink out of the container.
Perhaps better advice would be, when life hands you lemons, make lemon juice. But you can’t even do that without something to cut and squeeze the lemons with. And what kind of sick freak drinks lemon juice neat?
The reality of it is, you can’t make lemonade when all you have is lemons. That cloud may be lined with silver, but you will never see the inside of it and it is still going to dump rain all over your sorry ass. And while the door was a perfectly sane and respectable means of exiting the place you found yourself, the window is always – at least – four stories up off the ground. Ain’t nobody holding a mini trampoline for you at the bottom, you’ve made your bed and now your mattress won’t fit through the window, and the rose bush planted down below so you’d have something to stop and smell is a nice place to inhale, but you wouldn’t want to land there.
Happily, there will still be people around proffering advice. Presumably, they will have a slightly more objective perspective and want only what is best for you. But when they are standing there on the ground, staring at you through their binoculars and yelling, “Jump!”, you have to wonder, do they have your best interests at heart?
What if they’re just really fucking bored?
All you know for sure is, four stories is a long way down. And once you’ve let go, there is nothing to slow you down or break your fall until the ground. Also, four stories is too damn far to jump back up; you’ll be stuck down there whether you like it or not. Possibly somewhat broken. Possibly having landed on someone you never intended to use for cushioning.
The single brain cell generic advice people say that when a limb loses feeling, it is not so much a matter of circulation as it is of nerves. That if you lose sensation, the best thing to do is move.
I am not sure what they say when this happens to your life.
But my recommendation? When you get handed lemons, put them somewhere safe. Then you can use them to huck at the next person who gives you shitty advice.
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Questioning/Examining:
Did I say yes a little too quickly when that guy replied to my request for photo ID with, “Will my licence to carry a firearm do?”
Grateful/Relieved:
That Ken’s lawn mower runs on gas.
Regret/Deny:
Imagining sex with MacGyver. “Well, I don’t have a condom, but I do have this Saran Wrap from my sandwich and a bit of twist tie.” “Uh, no.” “Why not? It’s perfectly-” “I said, NO.”
Musing/Reflecting:
Gravol and Chocolate Carmella ice cream make a damn fine pre-bedtime snack.
Whistling/Humming:
http://www.danah.org/Ani/OutOfRange/YouHadTime.html – Ani DiFranco
Reading/Scanning:
This totally AMAZING “Got in on the 606th take” Honda ad, which I think I’ve watched about ten times. It actually makes me proud to be an Accord owner. Isn’t it nice when advertising just works?
Shout out to:
Dr. Laura, the raging queen of generic advice givers.