That being said, sometimes civility sucks. 

Like when life is falling apart and someone says, “hi, how are you?” and you have to reply, by social contract,  “fine, and you?”

When someone says, “how’s the family?” and you say, “fine, and yours” and the family is anything but fine.

Comedians have riffed on this for ages and I would not dream of burdening anyone on such short notice with my trite life tragedies, but having to perform the civil lie makes the facade that we all have to keep up every day in order to perform in our various roles seem heavier and yet more fragile.  

Houses can only have one facade and they have foundations and moorings and all sorts of structural underpinnings.  We have feet and yet are expected to maintain multiple facades that flip and change, sometimes at a moment’s notice, without revealing any evidence of the competing faces. 

Sanity, my friends, is a miracle.  That is the only solution I can find to the existential quandry in which I find myself over this facade issue. 

Unless I’ve stepped out of miracle and into the quotidien.

facade:  n.  side of a building facing a public way or space and finished accordingly.

whipped cream:  n.  cream that has been beaten until light and fluffy (and that’s from wordnetwebprinceton.edu.  Sheesh!)

schizophrenia (again from dictionary.com) 1912, from Mod.L., lit. ”a splitting of the mind,” from Ger.Schizophrenie, coined in 1910 by Swiss psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler(1857-1939), from Gk. skhizein ”to split” (see shed (v.)) + phren(gen. phrenos) ”diaphragm, heart, mind,” of unknown origin. Slangshortening schizo

whipped: to punish or chastise by repeated striking

cream:  The yellowish fatty component of unhomogenized milk that tends to accumulate at the surface.

It was an unpleasant dream from a movie, Big Miracle, that had me leaving the theater with such warm, fuzzy feelings.

We are no longer living in the wild, but some of our instincts remain. Even when we don’t recognize them.

Last night I dreamed I was in a forest clearing on my hands and knees. My posture suggested prayer, but I can’t be certain.
Certainty was the circle of twelve black wolves that surrounded me. They all looked the same, but I knew them as individuals. They have names. And they were coming for me. I knew they were going to take me down. I did not know who would deal the final blow. I did not know if I would fight back or stay kneeling in the snow.

I knew God was not going to answer me, but not because I had no faith. I had laid the groundwork for this scene years ago. I had free will. And now it had caught up with me. I have been living in The Grey, but for over a decade have thought I was outrunning the wolves when really I was just circling the den.

Maybe next weekend I’ll go see The Vow and wake up having forgotten it all.

This explains why yesterday I was not so upset to find myself with the flu.  This particular strand of flu did not involve vomiting or any other unpleasant bodily evacuations.  Just a fever, aches, and absolute need to sleep.

I haven’t had sleep that good since the last time I took too much NyQuil in a desperate attempt to gain relief from a bad cold.  You know the kind.  When you wake up, it’s like coming up from under water and you head still feels cloudy.  The kind of sleep where it’s possible to just surrender to the wave and go right back to sleep?  Where you sleep so hard your body doesn’t wake enough to roll over and you wake up with a throbbing ear?  A sleep so demanding that any thought of work is futile.

It’s God’s/biology’s way of giving you a day off.  A real day off.

Maybe I can schedule one of those for this same time next February.

I’ve been thinking about Smurf Village as a metaphor.  A series of metaphors.

First, capitalism.  Or maybe feudalist proto-capitalism.  Someone gives me free blueberry seeds.  I have a few slaves.  They’re slave-Smurfs.  I provide them housing, but no pay.  They have no control over their working conditions.  They do not enjoy the products of their labors.  I use those free seeds to build wealth, with which I gain more slaves by building more housing.  Once I accumulate enough wealth, I can plant crops that yield more profit.  I can work my Smurfs around the clock.  And I do.  I actually feel guilty, but I can’t let my fields set idle.  Even when I have more gold than I can spend in the SmurfStore.

I want more.  So my little Smurfs barely sit down on the logs I’ve provided (because they earn points from Timber Smurf) and I’m calling them back to produce more wealth that I don’t really need.

That’s the system.  There’s no out.  No Smurf Revolution.   No LaborOrganizer Smurf.

The gender implications aren’t much better.  Smurfette is the only girl in the village (we’ve been down this road, I know), but she gives experience points every so many hours by blowing kisses.  The more Smurfs that are around when she blows, the more experience points I receive.  I benefit more the more Smurfs she blows.

That is disturbing.  I realized how disturbing as I said to my four-year-old daughter, “Wait until she’s in a crowd of Smurfs because you get more points if more are around when she blows her kisses.”

I used to call myself a feminist.

Smurf Village might also be a metaphor for our culture.  I get some modicum of satisfaction from harvesting my crops and watching my gold grow, from expanding my village and building more houses and fields.  My input is even more minimal.  Or is it?  I watch my Smurf Village more closely than my retirement account (which refuses to grow).  I now check Smurf Village more often than my email.

I used to be addicted to email.  Now it’s a distraction from my Village duties.

Luckily, I just planted golden corn, which won’t mature for ten hours.  At least I can sleep through the night.  Until my scouting party returns from spying on Gargamel.

I am a sad little person. Papa Smurf has a potion for that.

This weekend it’s been the Twilight series on DVD.

I read the books.  Loved them.  Even when the writing was awkward.  I read a lot of trashy romances in my younger days and the scenes between Edward and Bella were hotter than most I remembered.  Whatever anyone thinks, Twilight made waiting sexy again.

Bella gets the dream–a guy who finds her scent to be like heroine.  A guy who looks at her like food.  A guy who’s been waiting over a century for her to come into his life.  And he’s hot.  Pale, but when she wants color she has Jacob.  Who also lives to serve her.

I’m solidly in the Edward camp.  I love me a six pack, but a brooding look and a taste for Shakespeare are more within my realm.

So color me pale and celebrate me for whining self-indulgence.

The big change there would be the celebrating.  And the vampire boyfriend.  Well, maybe just the celebrating.  I dated a few vampires.  Hasn’t everybody?

Back to the angst and gloom.  And sexual tension.  It’s so much more interesting from this side of it.

I have never answered this question with the word, “worker.”

When people want to know what type of work a person does, they ask, “what do you do?” not “who are you?”

“Who are you” gets responses like, “a mom,” “so-and-so’s cousin,” “so-and-so’s teacher.”  We talk about who we are in relation to other people.

If we’re asking ourselves, “who am I,” we might say things like, “I’m a caring, giving person,” or employ other adjectives to explain our personhood.

My work is rewarding.  I spent many years being educated to do my work.  I hope to do my work for many years to come.

But it’s not who I am.  It’s an expression of who I am.

And I’m god-damned tired of our leader and our potential leaders talking about their constituents as if they were leaders of a beehive, not a democracy.

from oneida.uwex.edu

So, Mr. President or Mr. President-wanna-be, try talking to us as citizens of the world’s greatest democracy?  You’re not my boss.  You’re my president.

Now get back to work.  You have an important job and the clock is ticking.

The glory of pajama days is that they stretch out forever.  There’s no schedule to follow.  The older I get, the more I realize the value of not being over scheduled.  Being productive is good.  Being frantic/manic is not.

Today is a day off for my school-age kids and a work from home day for me, which translates to a pajama day.  It’s noon and no one has dressed or showered.  I may dress and shower later.  Right now I’m working in my pjs next to my daughter, who’s playing PBS Kids and watching Signing Time on the PBS channel.  Am I teaching bad multi-tasking habits?  Probably.  Are we having fun chilling?  Do you even need to ask?

It’s almost enough to make me lobby for national pajama day.

Looks like somebody beat me to it.  http://nationalpajamaday.com/

Good.  Now I can get back to working on my real “to do” list while I lounge in my pajamas and stop every once in awhile to snuggle my daughter in her super snuggly fuzzy jammies.

About half an hour into church, an activity that I choose, I have found my mind wandering.

I used to think about what we were going to have for lunch.

Now I start jonesing to check my phone.  Facebook.  Email.  Smurf Village.  Anything.

What is wrong with me?

In that half an hour I have sat, stood, kneeled and sat again.  Blood is flowing through my brain.  I have listened, spoken, and listened again.  A half an hour of church is more interactive than half an hour in front of the television.

In the second half an hour I will have the chance to drink, chew, and shake hands with my neighbors.  So why am I more interested in my virtual Smurf community than in the flesh and blood community in front of me?  Has my brain turned to the mush my mother predicted all those years ago as I watched  cartoons?

Then, in addition to jonesing for my phone, I began to panic.  If I, a middle-aged woman who did not grow up with this mind-candy, cannot make it through more than half an hour of a an activity that I chose without needing to tune in to my device, how the younger generation survive?

As soon as I get back to my phone, I’m going to use my notes app to make a list for my fallout shelter because civilization is going to end.

If only we can pay attention long enough to notice….