Late night television can be edumacational

I’m a night hawk, and because of this, I see some pretty bad television.

I’m not sure what keeps me up at night – my internal clock, my internal wiring, my incessant worrying over everything that isn’t nailed down – you name it and it’s probably true, or at least makes up a portion of the reason my head doesn’t hit the pillow until at least 2 a.m. every night.

But last night was a windfall. I watched a program, while worrying about my new budget and cutbacks and light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not something I’d likely ever tune into – Tim Gunn’s Style Guide. It was pretty, frou-frou and surprisingly enlightening.

Sure, it dealt with a revamp of a wardrobe but unlike most “makeover” shows it delved deeper than the penchant for sequins and bad holiday sweaters and actually showcased a “Life Stylist.” What’s this humbo-jumbo you ask? Yeah, me too. But I kept watching.

The Life Stylist (code name for social worker, psychiatrist, therapist?) had this woman do an exercise where she labeled a bunch of volleyballs with her worries, some everyday worries, others life altering. He then had her put all of the balls into two prospective buckets, one of all the things she can control and the other things beyond her control.

After worrying about money and looking high and low for cutbacks and potential income increasers and expense decreasers, I needed some perspective. What can I control? My attitude. What can’t I control? You’d be surprised. You thought I was Wonder Woman didn’t you? I may have the same name but that’s all we share, if you don’t count the invisible plane and the gold lasso, but they’re presently locked up in my bedroom so I can scratch that worry off of the list. Phew!

So, at 2:30 in the goddamn fecking AM, I created two lists (I couldn’t find my volleyballs or a Sharpie marker… or buckets for that matter). I grabbed the first paper-like substance I could find – napkins – and wrote in point form my lists, a separate napkin for each ‘cause even though I’m skint, I’m not that cheap.

Things I can control:

• My attitude
• My weight
• My health
• My exercise regime
• My time
• My expenses (cutting back where I can)
• My job search

 

Things I can not control: 

• My family
• Other people’s reactions
• Work and the numpties I work for and with
• My past (I’m learning to forgive and let go, but not forget)
• My Man and his insecurities (I can’t make them mine or take responsibility for them)
• Other people and their issues

This morning, I’m invigorated. I may not have thrown all of the items I can’t control into the bucket, but I’m in the process one issue at a time. And that’s a start. (I also applied for about 10 jobs online last night, one of them in PEI, so I’m hoping that my career horizon is on its expansion route.)

Until then, I’m in control. Damn it.

 

Apron strings around the world untie!

God, if it were only that easy; to break the cycle, release the apron strings and the years of hurt, drama and tears. You see, I just got off the phone with my archnemesis. Mother. Mum. Mummy Dearest, Margaret.

I know, no names. I really shouldn't, but you see I'm pissed. Pissed enough to write something really, really personal on this blog and out into cyber-space. Maybe she'll see it and rethink how she should interact with me.

It's been a really bad day, bloggers. Really bad, and it all started with a telephone call. I called my dad today for his birthday. He had come over on the weekend to spend time with me while Margaret was at a bridal shower in my hometown, but I could not let the day go by without phoning in my congratulations at reaching another milestone: his 77th birthday. That's when she got on the phone, telling me she was worried about me, about my health because apparently I'm so gargantuan size that I'll keel over at any minute. I will take responsibility for this: I am overweight but when you can't say something positive, don't say anything at all. It almost never has a good outcome. Margaret knows this, has been taught this, but Margaret never follows this rule, all under the guise of concern.

My weight is a sore spot with me, not with other people, only with her, because it's been a constant since I was five. And at nine, 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 (I was a healthy weight throughout). Fast forward to 38. Always under the guise of concern, she has consistently nitpicked all of my faults: my hair, my make-up (she called me a whore at 14 for wearing eyeliner), my choice in friends, my finances, my house and the maintenance on my house, my relationships and especially my weight. At 30, after I had lost my mother-in-law to cancer, left an abusive relationship and lost a house in the subsequent divorce, she told me I would never be able to survive without her, and that included maintaining a healthy weight. Her answer to bringing to my attention to the last 5 lbs. of the 70 I had lost was to grab my belly and squeeze, saying "Oh Scribe, a little thick around the middle still, I see." Okay, she didn't call me Scribe, but she did grab, and I grabbed back. Literally. Painfully. Squeezing until she stopped. It was my only defence and the only way she would stop. At that moment anyway.

It's fodder for psychiatrists everywhere - a mother who loves too much, who is too concerned all of the time . Before my parents moved out of town and into their next phase of retirement, I had gone on a 20-minute walk from my house to theirs. I was not alone and it was not dark (the streetlights hadn't even come on). She was convinced I was kidnapped. Kidnapped at 35. Six phone calls and a drive-by later (remember, it's only a 20-minute walk, oh but I have to cross the street), and she had relaxed because I was now sitting in her kitchen with my cousin sipping tea. But before that, I was dead. She was convinced. And I can't forget about the time she told me I would die if I drove on the highway, insisting I spend two hours on the regular roads to get anywhere.

So what does this have to do with my weight? My weight is just one part. By bringing up my faults, it's her way of telling me that she's unhappy with my state, the way I look, the way I live and my choices - all of my choices. Her worrying is her defence. "I'm only saying for your own good." It was permissable at 8, it's not at 38.

So, it's time for a surgical procedure - the removal of the steel rod up her ass and the snipping of the apron strings. Get ready, Margaret. You're in for a lengthy, painful recovery and I'm not sure if our relationship will ever recover.

I apologize for the rant. Mummy made me do it.