Writemet

Hug Deficiency Disorder

The Center for Disease Control may not have realized it yet, but many people are suffering from Hug Deficiency Disorder. This disorder seriously affects quality of life, most often of the single and elderly demographics. These two demographics are especially susceptible because of their lack of a consistent partner or close family to supply the necessary treatment.

While this disease can be serious, it is easy to treat. If you notice yourself becoming withdrawn, despondent, quiet, sad or depressed, it’s time to seek treatment. Treatment can be administered by anyone with arms, but is especially effective if provided by someone who genuinely cares for you. Treatment administered by children seems to be especially effective. Sometimes a single treatment can reverse the effects for several days, but will need to be repeated on occasion, pending the return of the symptoms. If the case of HDD is severe, several treatments may be in order and multiple caregivers may be required.

If you are not lucky enough to have someone around who notices when you are suffering from HDD, locate someone who appears to be suffering from it as well. One of the most effective treatments for HDD is administering treatment to someone else.

BAD GAS

Once upon a time, when I was young and foolish (yesterday—okay, it was when I was in college, but the description still applies) I created a theorem I named BAD GAS. BAD GAS stands for Boys are Dumb, Girls are Stupid. I know, it shouldn’t really require explanation, but here I go.

Boys are Dumb. Rather than unintelligent, I mean this as unenlightened in the ways of women. No one can argue with that. They just don’t “get” us. They don’t understand why we react the way we do, why we say the things we do, why we get hurt by things they do without intending to hurt us. News flash: We don’t understand either.

Girls Are Stupid. We’re stupid for expecting them to understand us. We’re stupid for being hurt by the things they don’t intend to hurt us with, for being upset when they don’t understand our reactions, for getting mad when they don’t react the way we want them to.

Is there a fix for BAD GAS? The best I can offer is for boys to stop trying to understand girls and stop trying to do what we want you to—because not even we know what that is. Show us you love and respect us. Even the craziest girl (me) will recognize that as a genuine reaction and know that’s the best you can do.

Girls, quit expecting boys to know anything about us and just take them as they are. If you want a boy to understand you, you’re going to have to teach him. Just know it’s going to be like teaching Braille to a man with no hands. Otherwise, learn to recognize a sincere, caring reaction and know that’s the best he can do.

If you continue to have problems with BAD GAS, I suggest you see a doctor, because I’m just a stupid girl.

I’ve seen some size but man you’re somethin’…

Music has always been a major part of my life. I wanted to be a country music singer when I was little, until I learned that being able to sing involves more than knowing all the words. I still sing all the time. Wil, who has advanced musical taste for a 4-year-old, covers his ears when I sing.

Even if being a music star involved just knowing the words, I’m still not sure how much of a success I would be. Until Google, there were a lot of songs that made me think, “Really? Well, okay…”

Like Sawyer Brown’s “Some Girls Do.” For years after it was released I thought he was singing, “…and twirled my pink furred ass…” Twirling pink fur dice is a much more conventional, though less interesting, image.

“Hello Country Bumpkin, how’s the frost out on the pumpkin? I’ve seen some size but man you’re somethin’…” A friend enlightened me that the woman in the song had seen some SIGHTS, not SIZE. Again, I think my version is more interesting.

Sometimes I don’t misunderstand, but my brain insists on superimposing my own skewed lyrics on perfectly nice songs. “Young Love,” for instance. A delightfully sappy old song, “The heavenly touch of your embrace tells me no one can take your place.” When I hear it I have to make an effort to not sing, “The heavenly touch of your embrace tells me no one can break your face.” And sometimes I don’t make the effort.

We had a six-year-old foster kid one year who had to sing “Silent Night” in the school program. Somehow he turned “mother and child” into “murdering child,” which was a little bit disturbing.

Music is a major part of my life. I require it to reflect my mood, my mindset, to bring me out of a funk or help me revel in it. But when I look back over the soundtrack of my life, I hope I get the words right.

Control Freak

I was recently told, “I don’t like it when a woman takes control.” Mentally I responded, “Then you won’t like me.”

I’m not sure how I feel about that response. I try to stay in control. I have to. I’m the only one in my life who can. I’m independent and I like being that way. Do I sometimes wish I didn’t have to be? Absolutely. But I love the fact that I can be.

Sometimes being in control of my life spills over onto the lives of people around me. If there’s something about their life that influences mine, my reflex is to try to control that part. I like to know what to expect in my life and so much about relationships is unexpected. I have a hard time accepting that, so I try to control it.

I’m learning. I’m learning to keep my mouth shut. I’m learning to control what I can of my life. I’m learning to let other people decide if they want to let me in their lives or not, and not force my way in.

I’m learning.

But if you’re being stupid, yeah, I’ll take control.

It’s All Greek to Me

I took Latin in high school. Not Spanish or French or German or any of those other lively languages. Latin. A dead language spoken only on special occasions by those who live in the smallest country in the world. I thought it might be valuable if I went on to study biology, or it might even help me understand English better. It may have if I’d spent the entire year of block classes learning vocabulary, but the instructor on the satellite, Magistra Pope, seemed to think it was important for us to learn conversational Latin. Funny, since the only two people likely to have a conversation in Latin would be Magistra Pope and—wait for it—the Pope. I’m not likely to strike up a conversation with either of them, since the extent of my conversational Latin is limited to, “my name is Maria,” “bite me,” “kiss me” and “beware of the dog.” Oh and the bits I remember from “Dead Poets Society.” You can imagine how that might go.

I bow to Latin as the mother of many languages, but, like many ancestors, it’s dead. The lesson I took away from Latin is that it must have died for a reason and it’s best left that way.