My Sunday mornings are something I greatly enjoy. Typically, it involves rolling out of bed sometime around 9 or later, then some lazy TV until I get up the energy to make a nice breakfast. Then, I’ll take my nice breakfast, my coffee, and settle in to watch one of my many movies (if nothing worthwhile’s on telly, and usually nothing is) until the urge to write has struck.
Guess which part of my morning I’m at now? Well, to my right sits too-strong coffee with a bit of milk, and in the VCR is one of my really old videotapes – An American Psycho. My breakfast was eggs scrambled with caramelized red onions and red peppers with sundried tomatoes and basil, and back bacon, and good toast. I’m pretty much in my happy place now. A shower eventually looms, and then a trip out into the world for a Solo Day of Fulfillment.
The movie, a psychological classic, has got me thinking. If you’ve never seen American Psycho, it’s a remarkable study of the psychosis of the Type-A serial killer, chillingly portrayed by Christian Bale. The writing is top-notch (as most of Bret Easton Ellis’ work tends to be) and the acting makes it pretty surprising that Christian Bale ever got another job after that movie, since he became the killer, which generally slays an actor’s commercial appeal. (Much like how accurately portraying Ted Bundy put Mark Harmon’s career in the toilet for a decade.)
As I said, the movie has me thinking. There’s the old cliché, “How well do we really know anyone?” Not very, not usually. We think we know people, but we tend to go on face-value more than any real criteria. There’s a segment at the beginning of the movie when Bale’s character, Patrick Bateman, goes on at length about his skincare regime. The inference is, his face is the only thing people have to go on, and its perfection is his façade, covering his whirlwind of anger, insecurities, and need for approval, all of which drives his merciless, brutal killing of women.
We find “love” by comparing likes. Ooh, we like the same movies, the same books, we have fun the same way, we laugh at the same jokes; it must be love!
The thing is, even the most stark-raving lunatic enjoys culture and movies and has favourite foods they can’t live without. Likes and interests are superficial, at best.
When it comes to people in my life, be it friends or family or lovers, I watch The Little Things. The insignificant things that we often brush aside are the greatest tells as to who and what the people around us are like. It doesn’t take me long to assess a person’s character, and it tends to make me fiercely loyal when I see them behave in respectful, goodly ways.
Ignore the big picture and turn on the macro lens. Do they respect people providing them service in stores and establishments? Do they come to the aid of someone in need? Are they helpful when someone asks them for info on the street? Can they chat amiably with a perfect stranger? Do they ensure they’re including you in conversations with friends? Do they arrive on time, or let you know when they’re going to be late? Do they drive aggressively, tail-gating every car they come upon?
You get the picture. I’m not saying a person should be dumped for any of the above transgressions, but you sure as hell ought to be taking note of it. For instance, one could assume that I have a very quick temper by the way I get so snappish when riding my scooter, or one could at least assume I’m very quick to get on the defensive. And they’d be right. It’s true, I get very defensive. It’s one of my worst qualities. It also speaks to the fact that I’m a perfectionist who overthinks things, so when someone begins to point out a flaw or an error on my part, I might well put up a wall to protect myself. I know this to be my character weakness, and I at least have the guts to own up to it with those around me. It doesn’t make the flaw go away, but at least I’m accountable about it. As flaws go, it could be worse, but it’s still a character flaw.
I’m forever astounded, though, by people who seem to blatantly ignore endless flaws and attitude problems in partners, all because they have ‘so much in common.’
So many of us hide a great deal of who we are. We’re fools if we fail to suspect others might be doing the same. We have insecurities, fears, hatreds, weaknesses, and they all combine for a lethal cocktail at times. How we behave in the Little Moments is indicative of our character at its deepest levels. Yes, we have flaws, but are we inherently good and kind people? Look deeper than the surface. Our daily insignificant actions are the only true evidence we provide – the things we do so naturally that we don’t even think before we act. These are the moments when who we are comes through, and those are the moments to take note of who’s at heart of the person you think you know.
Tag Archives: reacting
I Shoulda Stayed Home
I don’t hear my monthly train a-comin’… it’s roarin’ right on top of me.
PMS, that fickle bitch, has struck. I was doing well, you know. Really. I thought I was in a good mood. A bike ride yesterday, was there for my guy when he needed it, had some time this morning to myself, and then things slowly went downhill.
I wrote something about PMS last month and just went back to see what I’d said. Now, normally, I’d never have the balls to quote myself. I try not to. It’s bad form, you see. But this one passage describes the day/night I began to have around 3:00, so I’ll save myself the work — since I’m still a bit on this side of Bitch — and break the “good” form and quote myself. Sue me. It’s my blog, and I’ll be a pompous cunt if I wanna. Deal.
It’s usually not until you’re half-way through the ever-increasing darkening that you remember: It’s that fucking time of the month again. It’s your early warning system for the red tide, and the villagers better get the fuck out of the way.
Women despise PMS. Women loathe the emotional charges that come from being victims of estrogen. We wish for days of smoother sailing, when everything would be a little less turbulent. Some days there’s just nothing a gal can do but wait to ride out the storm.
You guys think it sucks? Try riding the wave from inside the barrel sometimes, boys. You ain’t fucking woman enough to deal with half the head games brought on by that fickle bitch named Estrogen.
You know what set me off? Well, first of all, the fuckwits on the roads. See, I drive a scooter. (Think Japanese Vespa knock-off. Cracker’s song “Eurotrash Girl” is my theme, baby.) If you’re a driver and those two-wheeled contraption things are next to invisible to you, can you please, for the fucking love of all things holy, learn to look around you as you drive? Sigh. I love my scooter, I hate other drivers. It’s a bitch.
But then… it happened. The pissy, bitchy, diva hairdresser moment. I go to this guy who’s cut hair for all manner of Hollywood stars here in Vancouver, and he’s considered pretty hot shit. He likes me. Thinks I’m cute and funny and totally irreverent. I make a point of saying at least three or four terribly inappropriate things per session, and always bribe him with delish recipes, since he’s a diabetic foodie who just can’t get enough. And he gives me an insane deal. But he’s a real fucking prima donna.
Today, he went into rant mode. I rant, but I’m funny about it. Or, I try to be. Nothing cheers me up better than making someone laugh, so that’s what I do when bitchy (usually) — something I have in common with Mark Twain, who had a quote to that effect. He — let’s call him the Queen, since like most good hairdressers, he’s as queer as a three-dollar bill, like my dad would say, but in this instance, I mean it in a superior and arrogant kind of classist way — is so fucking negative and whiney and moany when he’s down. He slams people, says vicious things. Sigh.
Most of the time, I like him. Today, he was in serious danger. Scissors are sharp, and as the Guy will tell you, I am a very, very strong girl. I wanted to go fucking medieval on the Queen’s ass.
I repeat, there is a reason PMS has been cited as justifiable defense for homicide. And I’m well-read. I know this shit. I coulda gotten away with it. “But I was paying him ridiculous amounts to cut my hair in a way I’m not wild about, and he bitched the whole way through! I grabbed those fucking shears from his pudgy hands, and turned his neck into a sieve!”
There’s a testimony you want ring-side seats for, my friends.
Add to it the fact that he said I could come 15 minutes early and get me started, yet didn’t start me until 10 minutes after the original appointment time, and the stupid high-maintenance wench who couldn’t pick out a hair product in less than seven minutes with his supervision, and I was gonna pop an eye-vessel, man.
Then, I had to get food for me and the Guy. I’d already had the underwhelming experience of ordering what Subway THINKS is a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich. (Fuck, that sandwich ain’t even in the state of Pennsylvania, let alone Philly!) The Chinese place I went to for their awesome Ginger Beef has this horrendous layout. The best seat takes about a minute or two to go around the counter to, etc. There were two people in the place, and naturally, they sat as far from the counter as possible. The food kept coming out 30 seconds apart, but instead of the woman selling me mine and getting me the fuck out of there, she’d drop what she was doing, take the food out, come back, start ringing me in again, and presto. Another dish. “Oh, I must do this. A minute, no more!”
“Fucking hell.” A 2-minute stop turned into 15.
Then, I get to the Guy’s house, and all was good — or so I thought. I gave him the new ankle brace he desperately wanted, and that I had no problem taking the time out to go get, although I had to go to two shops to get it. He was putting it on and it seemed he was having difficulty, so naturally I made a comment. He snapped at me to let him do it. Well, that was it. My grumpy afternoon came crashing down, and instead of what I thought would start out all fluffy and groovy and sappy and kissy, with him being thrilled and grateful and all, turned into him seeming to be bitchier than I was.
But it turns out he’s one of these guys who can snap, apologize and actually mean it, and have the mood utterly dissipate then and there. Honestly, if I’d been having the kind of week he’d been having, I’d likely have snapped, too.
Unfortunately for him, though, my train was roarin’ past, and it just crumpled me. I put our food together, and as much as I wanted to shake my mood, I just couldn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. He was great about it, but a lot of fucking good that does, y’know?
His timing for snapping sucked, really, and that’s inarguable. One of those, “It’s out there — you can’t take it back!” things that get really annoying when both parties start wishing for a do-over. Throw a little PMS in the mix? Oi!
PMS. It is what it is: A reason to stay home and out of other people’s faces, most times. But I never saw it coming this time. I was happy, enjoying my day, and whammo, like a bus through a red light — whomp, there it is. “You, DOWN. And STAY DOWN,” sums it up rather nicely, honestly.
Fortunately, the Guy and I had a decent time. Nothing quite as nice as we’ve had before this, but hey. It happens. And I opened the toothbrush. And he has my robe there now. And we’ve had a snapping. Wow. It must be a relationship or something. It still rocks. PMS sucks, but it still rocks. I think. [Insert PMS-driven paranoia here.]
Now, a bath. Sanity. Sleep. In that order, too.