It's Not Always About You

 Because I am the way that I am*, oftentimes my very first reaction to a situation involving another person who is angry/short-tempered/impatient/silent, or who otherwise responds in a way that I do not expect, is: they must hate me/not care about me/OH GOD I'VE DONE SOMETHING WRONG. It's a knee-jerk response over which I have no control -- that cold-water sensation of embarrassment, followed by a protective withdrawing into myself. Run. Hide. If left unchecked, the feeling quickly devolves into self-critical analysis: I'm so needy/awkward/STUPID/much. That's just one stop away from self-loathing. And I don't want to go there, because that's a rabbit-hole from which it's hard to escape. 

Plus, I'm not THAT terrible. I don't think. 

I have spent a fair amount of time over the past few years making an effort to be cognizant of that first reaction, and when I spot it, to deliberately step back and think more carefully about the situations. Is it really about me?

And I've come to the determination that most of the time, it's not about me at all. 

-----

My default setting is an assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say. That's an erroneous assumption on my part, however, and one that I would do well to let go. People are just not that clear. 

Why are people unclear? Because I cannot see their whole picture. 

Everyone comes into every small moment bearing not only their current state of mind, but also all of their history, both large and small. All kinds of Life going on. And only a tiny fraction of anyone's previous stories includes anything having to do with me. Yet I find it very hard to put myself in someone else's shoes -- it does not come naturally to me to imagine someone's current mood/projects/situations, plus to bear in mind their history, when trying to comprehend what they are saying or doing. 

So the important thing to remember: I'm only a main character in my own life. I'm a peripheral character, at best, in most other people's lives. I probably don't even have a name in the vast majority of others' metaphorical movies. And so I don't need to take things personally, because things are just plain not about me. 

If people are abrupt at work, they are probably stressed by deadlines and projects and want to impart information quickly and efficiently. They are probably not thinking, you are so stupid. 

If they don't want to have a meal with me? Probably busy thinking about all the 8,000 tasks that they hope to accomplish that day. Probably not thinking with you? Ew, no. 

If they don't answer a call/text/email? Probably in the midst of Stuff. Probably not rolling their eyes and thinking ugh, she is so needy, IGNORE. 

Repeat the mantra: it's not about me.

-----

Perhaps I should go back to my assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say, and try to make that work. It may require my asking additional, occasionally uncomfortable questions: did you mean, X? Are you OK? Is Y a problem? What is going on, really?

That strategy might backfire, though. If someone is in a hurry or bent out of shape for miscellaneous reasons or otherwise preoccupied, more questions won't be particularly helpful. I don't want to make anyone's life harder, or to occupy mental space they don't have at the moment. 

Perhaps I'll just resort to wordlessly offering Grace: an assumption that my exuding kindness, patience, and most of all, not-about-me-ness, is what people need most. And I can return the favor if I am ill-tempered or crabby, by letting other people know: I'm just having a moment. it's not about you. Perhaps that will make everyone's life a little easier. 

Let's see what we can do. 

-----

* The way that I am: anxiously attached (whether anxious-ambivalent or anxious-avoidant, may vary from day to day). 

Scrabble

 Over the years, we have honed our Scrabble skills. Mine are still inferior, but are improving slowly.

Game one:

288 to 270 (his win)

Game two:

360 to 375 (my win)

Game three, the tiebreaker:

360 to 344 (his win)

(yes, his win, despite my having played 

a 152-point word on my very first move)

If I were asked why I like my Friend as much as I do, one very short answer -- which is both literally and metaphorically apt -- would be:

Because he plays an excellent game of Scrabble.

Kayak

 From Oceanside.

Is this what contentment looks like?

Lovely.

Corny

It's been a long time since I've made muffins. I can't even remember when the last time was. Once upon a time, though, I would make muffins regularly, to bring with me to sparring class for taekwondo. Seems like a lifetime ago. 

This morning, though, I decided I would try a simple recipe: sweet corn muffins. Light, fluffy, just a hint of butter and honey. They turned out well. Especially, I think, since I used the ghosts-and-jack-o'lanterns muffin tin. Festive!

Trying to get back to doing the things that I once used to enjoy doing. And to find some new things, perhaps, along the way. 

Pegasus Unicorn

 Discussion of medical issues today. You have been warned!

I had a follow up appointment today to check on progress from the recent surgery. I'd mentally prepared myself as best possible, knowing that the doctor would need to do a physical exam. And honestly, I am not certain whether I, or my doctor, was more concerned about how my healing was going. He spoke to me first before the exam, to be sure I was comfortable with the idea of an exam, and he explained how he had gone to a continuing medical education course specifically relating to one of my issues, because of me. He filled me in on what he had learned and how we would change my treatment plan if the current regimen proves to be insufficient. 

It was kind of endearing, honestly, to know that he voluntarily took these extra steps to ensure he is providing me the best possible treatment. After being my doctor for over twenty-five years, he knows well that my assortment of issues makes me a sort of pegasus unicorn medically, and he went out of his way to take a specialty class in unicorn management. Good for him. Good for me. And good for any other unusual patients, especially unicorn patients, or even -- if she exists -- another pegasus unicorn.

I did my best not to flinch during the exam (and pretty much failed at that), but I was able to relax enough for him to take a good look and proclaim delightedly that "things look great!" I could hear the genuine relief in his voice. We then had a discussion of the very specific details of my anatomy and the use of the prescribed medications, and scheduled another follow-up for two months from now to see whether the discomfort I am still experiencing has further improved. He seems optimistic. That's good.

As I walked to my car, I realized that my jaw hurt from clenching my teeth, and I had to make a conscious effort to allow the stress to drain out of my body. I thought about the treatment plan, especially about the fact that I really do need to gather my wherewithal, get a mirror, and take a good look at everything myself. That way I will know what exactly the new-and-improved situation is, and can ensure that I'm following the treatment plan correctly. 

I don't really want to look. But it does not behoove me to be a coward.

-----

As I drove back to work, I heard echoes in my head of follow-up appointments from eons ago: those six-week appointments after delivery of a baby, when I awaited the same "things look good!" reassurance from the doctor. That anticipated-and-dreaded blessing to resume... activities. Those were tricky times -- weeks of gingerly parking my exhausted self on a donut pillow with a needy nursing newborn, feeling touched-out by children, wanting to be held and simultaneously to be left alone, wondering if I could ever feel amorous again. 

When permission was eventually granted postpartum for me to use my undercarriage as I saw fit, I had to summon all the courage to begin anew once more. Healing and moving forward takes time, and patience, and a certain amount of tender care -- both physical and emotional. Then (as now) I was afraid. The line between pleasure and pain, always so fine. Was it desire that quickened the pulse, or was it fear? Or perhaps a little of both? 

As these reminiscences flowed, Paloma Faith's "Only Love Can Hurt Like This" came on the radio. So very apt, in both a literal and metaphorical way.

Only love can hurt like this
But it's the sweetest pain
Burning hot through my veins
Love is torture
Makes me more sure
Only love can hurt like this

Only time will tell whether I will be brave.

 

All That

 A little bit about body issues today. You have been warned!

Let's talk a little about something slightly strange/unusual that bookended the trip to Oceanside. It involves... being Visible. 

Incident One happened en route from the Oceanside airport to Cherished Friend's abode. We were in some fairly standard evening traffic, and while slowed down, a nondescript Jeep driven by a middle-aged man pulled up alongside us.  I generally pay very little attention to other drivers, but this one was -- how can I put it? -- making eyes at me. Positioning his Jeep in his lane so as to get a better look. 

What the everloving hell? 

Incident Two happened the last evening I was in Oceanside. We were walking back to the car after dining in a restaurant, going up the ramp into the parking garage, and a middle-aged man was walking down the ramp. Even I, as oblivious as I generally am, had the distinct feeling that he was... ogling me. 

Good Gravy!

There is not much disguising my cup size, this we know. But, as that sound byte on TikTok goes, "am I showing OFF my boobs? Or do I just HAVE boobs, and exist?"  I, and my boobs, clearly Just Exist.

Let's contextualize further: neither time was I wearing anything particularly revealing (and the man of Incident One couldn't even see much of me except for what was visible through the car window) or noteworthy. I'm doing my best to keep my "I turned 55" haircut done properly, but beyond that and occasional lipstick, there's not a whole lot going on here. 

I'm accustomed to moving through life unnoticed. So why, when I have felt invisible for YEARS, were strange men of Oceanside perceiving me?

It was disconcerting. 

-----

I'm struggling with middle-aged-body-image issues right now, exacerbated by the very unpleasant recent surgery and the ongoing chronic migraine pain and the extra pounds that I have not shed despite (albeit mediocre) efforts. When I turned 55, I inwardly decided that my Last F*ckable Day had passed, and resigned myself to Crone-dom: be neat and tidy and dress reasonably well, and don't expect any attention, because Those Days Are Gone. (Let it go. But don't let yourself go.)

I was more or less OK with that. So I don't know how to fit these two Incidents into the whole picture.

-----

In Days Of Yore when I was young and thin and shapely and taut, my female peers and I would talk about being desired for our brains --  to be wanted for our intelligence, our thoughts, our emotions, our selves, independent of the bodies in which we resided. That was the goal: to be completely loved, for what was inside as well as outside. 

Then time passed and I left my thirties (and then my forties) in the rear-view mirror, and everything gradually flipped on its head. I know now that my ability to work capably (on the whole) in mentally-rigorous fields is appreciated; that's gratifying. Society's emphasis on youth and beauty, though, dies hard: now I (and my female peers too, I would imagine, though we are too busy to spend time talking of such trifles) want to do it all, while somehow still being sexy. 

Realistically: that's not achievable. 

Isn't it? Is it?

And what do I really want, anyway?

I am not sure. 

-----

Perhaps I should just put the Incidents into a box labeled "Occasionally Visible," and leave it all at that. I don't have the wherewithal to contemplate the complexities further right now. 

I have to go blow dry my hair. 

Limbo

 The trip to and from Oceanside requires flights with a stopover -- it's very difficult to get directly from the Desert to anywhere else. The trip out to Oceanside was mercifully uneventful. The trip back, however, has been a bit... complex. And is still ongoing. 

The first leg of the flight was fine; the bad weather had not yet arrived in the stopover city.  It blundered in shortly after the plane landed, however, and then things devolved. The three-hour layover was sprinkled liberally with gate change notifications (I think there were ultimately about a dozen); when the intended plane finally arrived, there was further delay while there was "mechanical work" performed. Then decisions were made somewhere, a different plane was identified for use, and a full terminal change was announced. The hopeful passengers moved en masse through the airport, like salmon hopefully swimming upstream: up the escalator, onto the tram, off three stops later in the new terminal. The flow of people slowed and idled at the new gate. As we waited, the giant sign over the gate unexpectedly and unceremoniously changed to CANCELLED. 

Oh, dear.

I wasn't speedy enough in the airline app on my phone to nab the one last available seat on a different flight later that afternoon. The best I could do was accept the rebooked flight the following day (today). Plan B took shape. I had a thoroughly mediocre meal at the airport, figured out a nearby hotel that was neither too expensive nor too seedy, and inwardly marveled at the submachine-gun-toting police officers patrolling the outside of the terminal while I used a rideshare app to arrange transportation to the hotel. I checked in, verified the time for the airport shuttle the next day, found my surprisingly spacious room, and shoved the coffee table in front of the locked door for good measure. Slept like a rock. Exhausted.

It's now the crack of dawn here in limbo-land. Windy, but the rain has left. Dark outside still. 

The new plane doesn't leave until this afternoon, so I am left with ample time. These hours should be well-spent processing the visit to Oceanside, here in the quiet, propped up on fluffy pillows of a king-size bed in a city In Between. Yet it is difficult to do so. There is so much. And so much of the so much is made of ordinary moments: strolling, sitting, Scrabble-ing, talking. It seems almost surreal -- a life briefly stepped into for a few days. (Where does my regular life go during that time? I do not know.) I have been trying to recall all the tiny pieces and affix them somehow in the Oceanside box in my brain. 

Inevitably, as with my last trip to Oceanside several months ago, I encounter in my mental review a minute moment that sticks, larger than life, and encapsulates the visit. The sight of a fish jumping out of the water. The sound of a squirrel rustling in a tree. The scent of the ocean on the breeze. The texture of the handmade blanket adorning the back of a couch. And I try to weave a spell around that moment, to save it for use as a Patronus. The spell must be strong, though, because the moment is strong and will threaten to be overpowering if it is not protected properly. I touch it in memory only for a microsecond here and there, long enough to become used to it without being burned. And the spell becomes complete. 

-----

The ultimate lesson, I think, is to take the magical ordinariness of a visit to Oceanside, and to apply that same lens to review my everyday, regular life. Can I find minuscule moments to form as additional Patronuses, in between the mundane of laundry and grocery shopping and cleaning the rabbits' litter boxes and the eight thousand pieces of paper at work? Can I make the ordinary into something magical every day? Appreciate all of the things -- and all of the people -- in a new way? Make my entire life uniquely enchanted?

Imagine how marvelous that would be.

It's time to try. 

Moments

As you may have guessed from the posts of the past few days, I have been visiting my most Cherished Friend in Oceanside. And the trip was all that I could have hoped for, and more. 

-----

The most critical part of being in Oceanside, is staying in the moment: not to dwell on the long interim between the previous visit and the current visit, not to give thought to the immediate future when parting is inevitable and the waiting time begins again, but to be, suspended in the present with -- and in the presence of  -- my Friend. And it is, surprisingly, incredibly easy to do so. 

I listen to his voice, I walk alongside him, I sit in companionable silence with him. It is all simple. All easy. And there is such beauty in being able to savor each moment. Don't look forward, don't look back. Just be. 

Indescribable: the comfort of the knowledge that, despite how I might feel about myself and my failings and flaws, he nevertheless understands my thoughts and my words and still somehow accepts me for who I am. I don't know what I have done to earn his friendship; I do not feel worthy. Yet miraculously, the Universe sees fit to allow me periodic, restorative coexistence with him. What a Grace. There aren't words. 

I don't know how to tell him how honored I am, or how thankful. There is no way to ever repay him for everything. All I can do is to try to return the gift, in kind. 

-----

Sometimes when Things are hard, I fear some terrible day in the future when my life has diverged from his so much that I no longer have the comfort of his sheltering tree. Hopefully when those thoughts arise, I can look back on this Post and revisit in my mind's eye the moments of this visit. And I can remind myself: don't anticipate a Loss. Be Present. Hold on to the Moments, like a life preserver. 

I wish I could show him, himself, through my eyes: to give him a moment in time when he sees that he is loved for who he is, exactly as he is. And I would hope that he could carry that moment with him, like a shield against the slings and arrows of life. To be able to provide that for him would be a Joy. 

Be well, my Cherished Friend. I wish for the very best for you, Always.

Swimming Snake

Vultures

Fly Away

Autumn

Delivery

 The missing package was dropped off this afternoon by the neighbor to whom it was inadvertently delivered, with a very polite little note written directly onto it saying, sorry for opening the box, we thought it was for us.  

On the one hand, I'm glad to have the package and the things that were inside. That means I don't need to re-order/work on getting a refund for the items.  Why is it, though, that the box feels... tainted? And as if the initial anticipation of receiving the package cannot be recaptured. Too late. 

This is why it is hard to look forward to things -- because things so often go awry, and then that looking forward is never quite satisfied in the way it was expected.

This sounds like a me problem. Hmmm.  

One thing is for sure: the rabbits will be very happy to have their treats. 

Frustrations

Yesterday, I spent a solid forty-five minutes standing in line at the pharmacy.  I was picking up a routine prescription for a member of my household, and that member spent eons waiting in line for me to pick up a prescription after my recent surgery, so I was happily returning the favor. I also wanted to ask about one of my own routine prescriptions, to see if it was ready since it has been on backorder for over a week.  

You can guess what happened: after the wait, I left with neither prescription. 

The first prescription had been sent to a different branch of the same chain, and the computer didn't even indicate whether it was in fact ready, so I opted to transfer that prescription to the branch where I stood since it is closest to our house. Frustrating, but not a problem. Can pick it up the following day (and hopefully the line will be shorter).  The second prescription.... well, the supplier didn't have any, there is no date in the computer indicating when it would be available, so basically, without any notice from the pharmacy, I was just plain out of luck for that one. The task now becomes: call around to find another pharmacy in a different chain, to see 1) if they take my insurance and 2) if so, if they have the medication. My favorite -- making phone calls. It's thyroid medication, For F*ck's Sake, not anything weird. 

That was my final thought on the matter. Resolving to be patient and try again the next day, I valiantly maintained my equanimity and went home. Where, at least, I knew that a package of assorted things I'd ordered would be waiting for me.

Except the package was not there. 

I checked. And checked again. And checked the mailbox twice, even though the delivery info said UPS and left on porch.

Nope.

The package contained a carefully curated set of items I'd ordered over several days last week: a piece of camping equipment for Beloved Husband; some all-natural dye-free vitamins for Offspring the Third; several items that collectively would serve as a fifth birthday present for a relative; some extra COVID tests because they are hard to find locally and we used up all of ours when we had Plague recently; a book I was planning on taking with me on an upcoming trip; and treats for the rabbits.  All kinds of good things. 

Nowhere.

That was the end of my patience and ability to remain composed in the face of frustration.  For the rest of the evening I sat on the couch, ate junk, and watched stupid things on television until I could muster the energy to go to bed. 

-----

I have to wait 24 hours before I can even report the box missing, so at the moment I am immobilized by annoyance. Did someone take it? Was it misdelivered and a neighbor has it? WHERE DID IT GO?

The doorbell rang 20 minutes ago. Could it be such a neighbor kindly delivering a misdirected package? No, it was two people with campaign literature. For the party for which I historically have never voted for. CRIPES. 

Can I hope that this comedy of errors of yesterday means that things are likely to be better today? Or is it a sign that things are just going to be inconvenient and slightly shitty for a while? I don't know. I'm afraid to find out. I might feel all Done, even though the day hasn't even started yet. 

Let's see if I can salvage the day somehow. 

Spider

Behold, the beautiful spider. 

It takes a truly special eye to be able to capture all the small things in this way. 

Amazing.

Photo Copyright 2022, Mediocria Firma.

All rights reserved. Used with gratitude.

Late Rain

 The late rain showers in this season have brought forth some random flowers near the front door. 

Lovely.

Match

 Facebook ads fail again: eHarmony. I ask you, Facebook, how ON EARTH did the algorithm determine this was appropriate for my demographic in general, and for me in particular? 

Think about it, Facebook. I'm 55 and have been married for over 30 years (you know both these things, because the dates are in my profile). Why do you think to mention a need not to "waste more time" on "casual flings"? Even leaving aside my ongoing commitment to the forsaking all others part of my marriage vows, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a casual fling person. Good gravy.

If by some terrible twist of fate I were to find myself single at this point in time, I would immediately go full-on solitary-crone-in-the-woods. Or perhaps independent-Hogwarts-professor, some kind of mix of Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawny and Professor Sprout -- no nonsense, a little batty, fully embracing my special interests. That sounds like a very good way to carve a place in the world for oneself. 

I do not need to be partnered to be complete: I'm a whole person all by myself. 

Gibbs

 I've been watching the TV show, NCIS, while using the treadmill.  (Exercising always requires distraction. Because exercising is loathsome. Even though I feel better after doing it.) There are approximately a bajillion seasons, and I'm somewhere in the middle of Season Nine. The characters and plotlines are, at this point, a little bit cliché -- like stereotypes of themselves. Nevertheless, the familiarity and predictability are some of the appeals of the show. 

Yesterday's episode (Season Nine Episode 14) apparently centers on character Leroy Jethro Gibbs. I say apparently, because the first few minutes of the episode indicate that it will focus on his backstory, his choices and traumas from his past, and such. Weirdly, I couldn't watch it: I am not in the right frame of mind to watch someone else take stock of their life with all the joys and regrets and intense moments contained therein. I can barely do that myself right now. So I turned it off, and will find something else to watch until I am ready. 

That being said, I will eventually watch the episode. Gibbs is my favorite character. I especially enjoy the way that he has clear command presence and exercises natural, firm authority, but also has a quiet and understated tender side. He may be terrifying, but he also actually cares. It's very nicely done. As an added bonus, the actor Mark Harmon is not the stereotypical buff youth, but an older gentleman (in his 50s-early 60s in the seasons I have watched so far). Granted, he's an attractive gentleman. Nevertheless, it is gratifying to see an actor in my age group, and have the focus be primarily on his personality and not his physique. 

Well done. And worth watching. 

Gibbs found here: 

https://www.tvfanatic.com/gallery/special-agent-leroy-jethro-gibbs/

Restaurant Review

 Beloved Husband and I tried out a new restaurant the other night. 

He'd spotted it while running errands a week or so ago, and thought it might be worth exploring. So Friday after work we went out for dinner. (It felt a little unusual to go out to eat for no other reason than just because, because we don't typically do so. I could get used to that, though.) Here's my thoughts:

It was nearby home (a definite plus), and the parking was decent (also a plus). As for ambience, it was relatively small, clean, with tasteful and vaguely industrial decor (polished cement floor, brick wall).  It was a tad noisy because there was nothing to muffle the acoustics. The clientele appeared to be what one would call "millennials" (late 20s-early 40s), who were well coiffed and well dressed (no jeans/t-shirts/sneakers on the whole). It looks like it is specifically catering to adults, since there was a small bar with seating on one side. There were no children present. 

The menu was small and interesting with a good variety despite its small size.  Unfortunately, it was medium high on the likelihood-of-migraine scale, since some form of cheese was part of most menu items, and it was hard to ascertain possible problematic ingredients based on the menu descriptions alone. (I did have a migraine later. Alas.)

The food itself was nicely presented -- pretty food! -- and a good portion size, being neither too big nor too small. The service was pleasant but slow (likely because every table was full). The price point was medium-high but not outlandish. 

Overall, the restaurant would not be a great get-to-know-you-date locale or business-lunch experience, both because of noise level and slowness of service. Nevertheless, it was decent for people such as ourselves, wanting a nice meal and not needing to hold significant conversation. The only downside is that it will require a fair amount of trial and error to figure out least headache-inducing offerings, so it will not likely be a place where I can regularly dine.

Illustrations! 

Appetizer: hummus platter. My favorite was beet hummus, to the far right. Nice.

Poblano pepper soup. I suspect there was cheese in the croutons.

Chick pea soup. A little thick, a little bland. 

Salmon. I know fish in the desert isn't the greatest option, but it is often the safest migraine-wise. The roasted vegetables were quite good. 

Beloved Husband's lamb chops. Tasty. I feel bad eating lamb, though. Because tiny sheep.

Photogenic Kitty

Vacation

The interwebs once more captures the precise sentiment: sometimes, we would like very much to take a break from being The Responsible Person.

Liz Climo

There aren't enough words to express the quiet joy I have found in the work of Liz Climo. So delightful. So pure. Wonderful. 

https://thelittleworldofliz.com/

Try, Again

One more post on the Try Guys fiasco. 

The remaining Try Guys have spoken; they provided full transparency and honest description of the situation. It was excellent, not only from a public relations point of view, but also a personal point of view. 

Watch the video, and look at their faces: the hurt, the anger, the disappointment. Ned -- how could you? Look at the damage you have caused. See the raw emotions they cannot hide. For shame. 

And why does this bother me so much, as a complete stranger to the situation? 

Perhaps it is because ordinary people (including myself) do difficult things all the time. We change jobs, move states, choose paths that may be harder for us personally but better for the people around us. We take into consideration our families and friends and coworkers in everything we do, even if it is ultimately to our personal detriment. We purposefully abstain from taking action that will harm others. We sacrifice, for the greater good. 

Yet Ned, who had everything as far as we could see -- a loving family, solid friends, a highly successful job he enjoyed, with coworkers who relied on him -- took the selfish, sneaky, dishonest path which would ultimately cause the greatest damage when it came to light. He sacrificed everyone and everything around him for his own personal satisfaction. 

He threw his Important People under the bus of his own desire. And that's unforgivable. 

The lessons therein: don't blow up other people's lives. Do the hard things, like sacrifice your own immediate wants, in order to take action honestly, openly, and properly. Don't be Ned. 

Toast

I love toast. Toast with jam. Cinnamon toast. Toast with just butter. Toast. 

Unfortunately, toast does not love me. I aim for a relatively low-gluten diet to keep IBS in check, so frequent toast is not a good thing. I did find some gluten-free bread and was so delighted: toast is back! 

 Alas: it appears that the gluten-free bread is a migraine inducer. This is why we cannot have nice things. Or at least, nice toast. 

Oh, well. A small slice every now and then will be a special treat.

Ned, You Fool

 Let's talk about the Try Guys. Specifically, about Ned's fall from grace this past week.

(Need a nutshell version of who the Try Guys are, and what happened? Try this link here.)

-----

I've nonchalantly followed the Try Guys for several years, since their Buzzfeed days. Their videos have always been fairly entertaining. Since they branched away from Buzzfeed, they have expanded significantly into podcasts and several YouTube channels and a line of merchandise. their own rapidly-growing multimedia system. They have seemed unstoppable: a new series on the Food Network, visibility on numerous platforms, and more and more. They have been everywhere. 

Each of the four Try Guys has their own persona which has been carefully cultivated over the years; Try Guy Ned's schtick has always been his married status, with multiple, frequent references to his wife. There is an entire mega-cut on YouTube of just Ned saying in various intonations, "my wife." His wife has appeared in various videos, as have their two tiny children. Ned, the quintessential family man. 

You already know where this is going.

Ned was caught, and has admitted to, a "consensual workplace relationship" with an employee. Oh, no.  Ramifications were swift and brutal: he and the other Try Guys have parted ways. Fired, publicly shamed, ostracized. He is the subject of a seemingly infinite number of TikToks, Instagrams, social media commentary -- his public failure is everywhere. 

So much damage: to the other three Try Guys; to their extremely successful brand; and most of all, to Ned's wife and by extension, his young children.

Ned, you fool. 

-----

When I was young, the idea of a person cheating on their spouse was uniquely repellent: sleeping with someone-not-one's-spouse was always an unforgivable sin, and I judged accordingly. As I have aged, I have come to understand that lives are incredibly complex; although there are certain choices that I would never make myself, I do nevertheless try to hold a molecule of understanding for individuals who, for various reasons, have fallen to temptation. I judge less. Life is hard. 

For Ned, though, I have absolutely no sympathy. He blew up not only his own life, but the lives of everyone around him. He grievously harmed his business partners, his livelihood, his relationship with his fans as a public figure, and most of all, his family. Publicly, visibly, loudly. For what? For why? 

Perhaps it is the dissonance between his public family-oriented persona and his (previously) private activity, that is the most disturbing. Perhaps it is the sheer volume of harm, rippling outward, that he has caused to other people. Ned has been reminded, in an incredibly painful way, that relationships are not insular. What one does in one arena, has an impact on all aspects of one's life. And on the lives of the people who should be most important. No man is an island. We are all in an archipelago. 

-----

Time will tell how the Ned-pocalypse shakes out. What is certain, is that numerous lives will never be the same. Perhaps they will be better in the long run, if they move forward with new honesty and humility. Perhaps, too, other people will look at Ned's fall from grace, think more carefully about their own lives, and spare their loved ones a similar tragedy. As the saying goes, if you can't be an example, be a warning. You can be a warning, Ned. 

I am doing my best not to judge Ned. We don't know why people do what we do, in the end. Still, my sympathies are completely with the victims of Ned's shenanigans. I hope for the best for you all. 

Good luck. 

The Peanut Butter Did It

 Because I had a migraine brewing, I wanted to complete a chore that would make me feel productive, yet would not be terribly taxing. I opted to clean out the pantries (the smaller one near the stove, and the larger cupboard-under-the-stairs) and spice drawer in the kitchen: threw away things that were expired, wiped down the shelves, rearranged the remaining items so that we could better see what we have.  It was satisfying. 

I was doing well until the end, when I was checking dates on items in the cupboard-under-the-stairs. There was a jar of peanut butter in there. Creamy peanut butter, because Offspring the Third prefers the smooth texture and I (preferring crunchy peanut butter) do not eat peanut butter any longer since peanuts make me itch. I was reminded about how my Daddy likes to have an apple with peanut butter as part of his lunch, except he likes crunchy peanut butter, too.  

Perhaps it was the incipient migraine. Perhaps it was the thought that there are only so many crunchy peanut butter-and-apple meals left in the world for my Daddy. Either way, I found myself with a lump in my throat. And now I am just... sad. 

Enjoy your lunches, Daddy, for as long as you can.