Category Archives: Hypocrisy

Communicating with Clicks

I’ve wanted to learn a second language for years—besides cursing, which I’ve yet to master, so I keep practicing.

But I just realized I do speak another language, and I understand when others use it. It’s ghosting with clicks. I’m going to call it “Ghostickit.”

When I recently had no idea what to say in an uncomfortable electronic confrontation, I asked Paul for advice. Big mistake. I prefer being straightforward, and he’d rather confront Ebola than interpersonal tension.

Predicto-Paul said, “Just ignore the message.” Click. Offline. Ghosted.

This person had the courage nerve to question why she was being ignored, and despite savoring the sensation of being an asshole, I decided to be candid. I feel better, but I still feel like a jerk, so it’s a win-win, I guess.

But this shit happens to me too. Like with the justifiably overpriced hair salon I used to enjoy.

One day the receptionist, who previously appeared sane, had a monster meltdown at my expense for me. It was the fun kind of moment where you can see yourself being interviewed by a local news crew. “She always seemed so quiet. I never would have imagined she could shoot up an entire lobby full of customers. Good for her that she’s finally expressing herself.” Or something like that.

When I told my stylist—let’s call her Avoidy Girl (AG for short) because she’s great at addressing issues—she was unsurprised and offered a heartfelt shrug, which made me feel special and appreciated.

When I expressed my fear appreciation to the manager—let’s call her Fluffy because I take her seriously—she took a generous bite out of my ass for being so unkind about a woman whose husband had died two months before. I agreed that it was appalling and inconsiderate of me, not using my telepathic powers to figure out why this woman was losing her religion all over me.

Still, I didn’t want the honor of being Among the Many Dead the next time I wanted a trim, so Fluffy told me, “Come see AG again. We’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with the front desk.” When I questioned how she could manage to make that happen, she said, “No problem. I’m fantastic at my job as long as nothing is going wrong.” Or something like that.

So the next time I was foolish wise enough to go in, there’s Batty Betty, greeting me with a smile as she hid an Uzi behind her (I reasonably suspected). AG rushed to me and apologized for not greeting me first, then said, “Oh, I should have told you I’m at a totally different location once a week. You didn’t even need to come here to have your hair done.”

At this point, despite my gratitude for being charged more for one visit than my weekly grocery bill, I decided to move on. That was a couple years ago, and I’ve calmed down. Mostly.

So I decided that because I don’t go to the salon often, I’d give the outfit another chance—as long as I don’t have to deal with Mercurial Mona and Fair-Weather Fluffy. I figured that’s pretty magnanimous of me, and there would be truckloads of gratitude.

So I contacted AG on social media, and you guessed it. I got ghosted, which is chickenshit but fair. I get it because I speak Ghostickit. So I wished her well—and surprised myself by mostly meaning it. Then I blocked her. Click. Ghosted.

So it turns out I do speak another language, and I certainly understand it. Good for me.

Annie Oakley_public domain
                                                                 “AG is ready to see you now.”

Bonus feature:

Me explaining why sticks, grass, and total isolation are better than people.

Confidence is My Faux Finish

Every time I believe I know what I’m doing with finances, it freaks me out.

That’s usually when I find out I’ve forgotten to pay the electric bill or haven’t checked our bank account in two weeks and now we’re overdrawn by several hundred dollars or, as just happened, miscalculated our IRS tax payments, which caused our anticipated refund to drop by eight hundred dollars.

Even when I get things right, I experience heavy sweating, just waiting for the next fun monetary surprise. I’d like to feel good about the little things I do well, but that feels like total hypocrisy.

What’s it like to experience a sense of confidence that doesn’t lead to a panic attack?

Anyone?

I believe in me_public domain
                                                                                      Liar

 

 

Hypocrisy, Self-Delusion’s BFF

For years I’ve chastised Paul for being careless with gloves and hats. I’ve been so certain that he’s lost and repurchased every item that I once threatened to sew his gloves to his jacket.

At this moment, I can’t remember a time when he misplaced any of these things, but in the last twelve months, I’ve lost two pairs of gloves and a hat. I think I can be a real asshole sometimes.

It’s like when I shriek in protest at the idea of Paul climbing onto the roof to fix something…because of my acrophobia.

Just one of many moments of self-awareness. Why don’t these ever happen in my favor?

three_little_kittens_public-domain_r-n-ballantyne
Me on the left, scolding Paul. Collectively me on the right, confessing that I’m the moron who can’t track her accessories.

 

Protests and Peaches

This morning I learned that 250 students at the local college plan to walk out of class tomorrow in political protest. This is scheduled during the time I tutor someone on campus, so I started writing a benevolent e-mail, telling him I understand if he’d prefer not to meet. Maybe he wants to join the protest, or perhaps he’d rather avoid the campus because of the potential for violence?

By the start of the third paragraph, I sat back and said, “Oh, this is my shit.”

So the Watts Riots of 1965. (My first piece of merchandise is going to be an official Windmill Tilter Neck Brace. “Wear at all times. This blog contains herky-jerky segues.”)

The Watts Riots happened just around the corner from us in ’65. For years I thought they were a million miles away, but Google Maps just told me, “Holy crap, Cindy. That maelstrom was happening in the next neighborhood!” *

Considering how close it was, it’s no surprise that my father sat me down and, in a voice filled with gravitas, said, “If you’re anywhere near a riot, run. Even from the cops. I know we keep telling you the police are your friends, but in the chaos, they won’t be able to tell the difference between you and a rioter.”

Good advice, that, except the cops could easily pick me out of a crowd then because I was five years old.

We lived in an area that was so breathtaking in its safety that I used to go door to door, alone, “shopping” for peaches. Everyone stocked up on them just in case I visited. Why the hell would I stroll into a riot zone when there’s no guarantee of free fruit?

For fifty-two years now, I’ve avoided all marches, rallies, and sit-ins. I’m stuck with my fear, but I admire those who speak their mind loudly or silently, publicly, and peacefully.

To all aspiring thugs who want to bring violence and distract from the protesters’ message: Fuck you in advance.

To all peaceful protesters: Be as loud or quiet as you see fit, but please be safe.

mayday1913
This looks like fun, but I’ll just stay at home, eating fruit.

* Yes, I believe Google Maps talks to me. You try sitting alone in a home office, day after day, and maintaining sanity. I dare you.