I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Depressing Stories

I see that book (I Feel Bad About My Neck) everywhere and think to myself, who the hell is this Nora Ephron and why should she feel bad about her neck?

It wasn't until I happened to have been feeling particularly bad about Meg Ryan's botched nose and lips (she used to be so gorgeous pre-2001) after watching her latest dismal movie, My Mom's Boyfriend, and did some googling, that I found out that Nora Ephron is a bigwig Hollywood screenwriter who wrote Sleepless in Seattle, You've Got Mail, and When Harry Met Sally, among other big movie hits.

Interesting stuff. Well, OK, maybe not. What is interesting, is that last week after doing the Seattle Underground Tour (a must-see/do activity for anyone, local yocal or otherwise, looking to kill a couple of hours in old downtown Seattle), we made our way to Elliot Bay Books in Pioneer Square. Elliot Bay Books has got to be one of the best bookstores ever. I adore it. But for some reason, it always reminds me of the charming bookstore in the movie, You've Got Mail. Turns out, however, that downstairs in the underground bowels of Elliot Bay Books is where they would shoot the coffee shop scenes for Frasier. I never knew that until last week.

Anyways, you're probably wondering why I feel bad about my neck. Or perhaps not. In either case, the reason I feel bad about my neck is that a scary thing happened to me on my way home from the specialty Irish shop in Seattle a couple of days ago, where we went in search of Irish dancing socks for Holy Daughter, who will be dancing in her first official competition at month's end.

I was on the I-5, minding my own rush hour business as our lane came to its predictable stop-n-go halt, when all of a sudden an SUV came up out of nowhere and ploughed into the rear end of my vehicle. Can you say Holy freakin' scary, batman? The kids and I were all OK, luckily and praise be to God, but my ass end isn't. It's flattened and crumpled and dented and extremely bruised.

And I feel bad about my neck.

My daughter and I had a doctor's visit yesterday and we are both suffering minor effects of whiplash - mine is mostly a right arm muscular pain extending all the way from my forearm up through to my shoulder and lower neck and back - likely caused from gripping the steering wheel and holding on for dear life at the point of impact, as we were pushed up to the car in front. Her's is an upper back pain. Her booster seat flew forward towards me and then was flung back wherein she bonked her head against it.

I also felt bad for the poor fellows in the car I hit. They were enroute from Vancouver, BC to attend The Foo Fighters concert in downtown Seattle but ended up getting stuck waiting on the side of the I-5 and enduring the stares and honks of lurking motorists, as we all did, some 75 minutes for the state trooper to arrive.

As with all sad twists of fate, crash and circumstance, timing is everything. My son stoically observed not many minutes after the accident that had I only listened to him and detoured for a bite to eat as he had requested, we would have not been in the scenario we found ourselves to be in. Woulda coulda shoulda is schmidta though.

It happened, as schmidt tends to do, just before we were about to embark on a camping trip for a week. We now have to cancel said trip, on account of not being able to pull the tent trailer, but as luck would have it, were able to salvage our state park getaway in small part by being able to find a nearby cabin rental for virtually the same price as a campsite. So we are now doing a marine rather than mountain retreat but I no longer have to stress about cooking with propane.

I'm also thankful to the God of small things that the repair shop did not deem the Odyssey a complete right-off, as is the trend in auto repair.

So in the meantime - which sounds to be 3 weeks - we'll be pimping a ride in a rental car, which as it turns out, means a red Ford Edge for this upcoming week of vay-cay. Which also means the kids will be sitting beside each other. Which is a cardinal sin in this family on account of being within intimate proximity to poke, punch, pinch, jab and jeer and pester one another. Which is the depressing part of this story.

I wonder if there's a special place in heaven for mothers, like say a luxe spa with the sign "Pas les Enfantes dans la Heavenly Spa, si vous plait."

Now that's my idea of heaven.

Archetypical Moments

Oceanography 101

I don't know about you, but I'm one of those people who tends to bumble through life, rather oblivious to what's really going on. The best analogy for that is to say that I am to the waves, drops and mist as enlightened beings are to the oceanic depth ~which is to say, I'm a surface dweller, a.k.a. not very spiritually-intuitive or grounded. But I'm learning to swim deeper without my trusty life jacket, and to hold my breath for longer periods of time.

To my credit (and oft detriment), I will admit that I happen to be a great deal more socially-sensitive and attuned than most. I get non-verbal semantics and can read conversational signs, cues and icons - perhaps overly so - I will never overstay my welcome or impose or monopolize, except by deliberate design. And I do most of my conversational reading between the lines, which is dangerous and discursive footing, to be sure. Or is it?

I have a nameless, blameless family member who has absolutely no clue that my entire perception of her is based on verbal cues, or lack thereof, that I pick up during our rather awkward phone conversations. I suspect some people assume that hiding behind a telephone affords them an opportunity to shirk all that non-verbal body communication - which supposedly accounts for between 65-90% of the communication and which more to the point, the other person isn't able to see.

Unfortunately, the non-verbal sets the tone and ends up being the shadow projected on the wall. This is why the slouching, insecure telemarketer who fears rejection will more than likely receive it. What you give is what you get. Smile and the world smiles with you, even (or especially) if you're a telemarketer.

On this same note, I also have long-time friends who I have finally given up on after years of ignoring the blatant, blinking neon signs they were flashing my way: if I wanted to continue the friendship, the street sign marked effort was going to have to be one-way.

But lately, I've been switching these intuitive radar signals inwards, in order to pay closer attention to my metaphorical thinking, such as what my life outlook appears to be at any given time. And what I've learned is bound up in some of the archetypal theory that Caroline Myss expounds in her book, Sacred Contracts. Stay with me: the nouveau age mud gets clearer.


Life Poirpose
Myss identifies 4 universal archetypes that we all share - child, victim, prostitute, saboteur - and goes on to list 70 additional archetypes, 8 of which each of us owns to some varying degree (in addition to the first 4). My 8 other archetypes, in no particular order, are: mother, addict, dilettante/amateur, networker, poet, student, guide, and seeker/vagabond/wanderluster.

One or a chimera of a few of these is my life calling, I suspect, but I have yet to delve deep enough into the ocean to fully know that yet.
So what I've been noticing lately, in relation to these archetypal realms, is the degree to which I resonate with them at any given time.

Myss suggests this exercise for determining one's archetypes, but here's my metaphoric alternative. Simply ask yourself this question: if you were to visualize and then compare life to any one thing or concept, what would it be? Then fill in the blanks 8 times.

Life is a....

Here is my list, together with my corresponding 12 archetypes who took ownership for the statement.

Life is a(n):

1) blank canvas or book (artist/poet)
2) Silk Road (seeker/vagabond/wanderluster)
3) school (student)
4) accidental ordeal (victim)
5) wondrous gift (child - magical/innocent)*
6) epic adventure tour (guide)
7) womb (mother)
8) revolution (saboteur)
9) free market economy (prostitute)
10) social opportunity (networker)
11) dress rehearsal (dilettante/amateur)
12) buffet/bar/bottle/plant/hotel room/slot machine - simply substitute your addict's chosen noun here (addict)

* this answer changes depending on my child. My wounded child identifies with 'life is pain and suffering,' just as my orphan child thinks life is a hero's quest.

My Many Coloured Days

Anyways, I have no idea why I've blogged about this little philosophical pondering of mine, except as a way of positing to all of you friends, Romans and countrymen who have lent an ear and eye, as to where I'm at this early-Feb morning.

The truth is, a series of unfortunate events (how to tell I'm in victim mode) has me feeling very reflective, pensive and confused about the big picture lately.

• I attended a funeral Saturday for a truly, exceptional woman that I barely knew save through a mutual friend/acquaintance. I felt compelled to attend for reasons entirely ineffable. She had an incredible lightness of being and energy, and I was drawn to that (and judging from the packed church, countless others were, too) even as her candle extinguished much too soon. I find it remarkable that we shared a Pythagorean pattern of birth date numerics and life's purpose ~ 34/7 ~ and yet we couldn't be any more polar opposite. She clearly achieved her life purpose as mystic, mentor, spirit guide - I'm still reading the guide book, packing, making trip lists, and and scratching my head in veritable confusion, trying to figure out the best navigation to destination unknown. The old adage - one day my ship will come in but with my luck, I'll be at the airport rings true here. The Universe is probably pounding me over the head with my life purpose sledgehammer, but I'm too much of a numskull to know it.

• To add insult to injury, a recent and relatively minor communication with a virtual stranger has me licking my wounds and feeling entirely disconcerted, debilitated and desolate about my whole lot in life. Holy Hub is astounded that I've let such an insignificant exchange affect me so much - I put way too much stock in what I perceive others might think of me. And while I know it's self serving, or thus spoke my ego, I also know it's not soul-serving. Quite franky, it's getting out of hand lately and has me treading water, gasping for breath and sinking amongst the stormy wakes.

• Job hunting is continually discouraging and an exercise in prostitution if ever there was one. Last week, I got tarted up and sprayed my Charm perfurme on to go do a local job fair/dog & pony show, but most of the employers in attendance were not companies I (nor you) would choose to work for. And I come back to the constant dilemma of how it can ever be possible to find meaningful, gainful and lucrative employment on a part-time basis, wile still maintaining some semblance of a dynamic after-school life for the kids. As you can tell, I do most of my job hunting with my inner Saboeteur: it's right out of an AmEx commercial ~ I don't leave home without her. But seriously, I don't want them to be latchkey kids, although the irony is, if I don't find work soon, they'll be motherless and latchkey anyways.

• I feel bad about my neck and other exciting psychoses lately and this has me wondering if it's possible to inherit hypochondria memetically from my dear, deceased grandmother who wasn't, technically speaking, blood related. It's the age-old nature/nurture t hing. In the past week, I have had occasion to believe that I am fighting a terminal battle with breast cancer, liver disease and other untold endocrine disorders that might be manifesting within me even as I contemplate them. I have lived to blog another day, but alas, I may not have many more.

Such is the daily battle and parade of my archetypes.

I feel like the many-faced Eve sometimes ~ minus the books, movies, notoriety, interesting personalities and manic tea parties. So there you go. Life's a bitch and then you die. Hmmm...I wonder which hidden archetype dared voice that analogy aloud.

Must be my inner Queen. God save her imperious ass....and all other utterances both noble and nebulous.