Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Art Works (via Mowser)

Wag the dog.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

My friend Molly sent me a video clip via my cell phone.

My old cell phone would not have allowed it, but this new phone, a used Motorola Razr sent to me by my friend Will, has these, and other, advanced features.

The video?

A top view of her pug dog wagging its tail.

I probably had to pay $20 to download this! I shrieked in my head. My pay-per-minute contract-free plan from Alltel (perfect for people who can't commit) isn't the best plan for such wireless hi-jinx.

"Isn't this cute?" Molly said in the message.

It's a dog, wagging its tail. It looks like a beige blob with a stick moving on one end.

Grrr.

Just to refresh your memory, Molly....read this!!!!!

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Labels: friends, pets

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The inopportune cat.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

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Violin practice ran late and long, and so I found myself riding with Alice home in the dark. I'd carpooled with Alice, the piano player for the violin group, and her daughter, who is also in the group. Since it was so late, she decided to drop her daughter off at home first so she could get a head start on getting to bed, and then go the seven miles further to drop me off. I sure appreciated the ride; carpooling is very necessary when gas is $3.68 a gallon.

As the car swung around the corner up their long driveway, headlights splaying out in front and piercing the dark trees that lined the road, I saw it.

An inopportune cat.

I'm sure, at any other time, it's just a nice tabby cat, a jolly farm pet. At this moment, however, it was inopportune. It looked peculiar in the position it had assumed, at least as far as the distance we were at would allow us to see.

The car drove further up the driveway, getting closer.

As the car slowly rolled by the cat, I commented. "It looks like that cat is going to the bathroom by the road."

"It does, indeed, look like it is," Alice said.

I snickered. I'm pretty grade-school, when it comes right down to it.

The cat was all squatted and hunched, right on the edge of the dirt driveway, its eyes huge, staring at us, no doubt greatly chagrined at the invasion of privacy. Unmoving. Caught in the throes of.... well, anyway.

"That must be very embarrassing," said Alice.

I actually think it probably was. Cats are animals that do seem to get embarrassed. The cat appeared unsettled, no doubt planning to have his evening constitutional in the safety of the dark only to be mortified by double spotlights and spectators to take it all in.

Maybe next time the cat will think twice before relieving itself right next to the driveway. If cats think.

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Labels: cartoons, humor, my life, pets

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I hate puppies.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

That's just a title to get everyone upset, a little inflammatory fun.

Three of my friends have puppies.

Puppies are lively, destructive critters. I have been told the many tales (tails) of what these puppies have done. I usually end the conversation very grateful that I don't have a puppy.

They're cute. I don't have to own one to appreciate that. I can buy a calendar or something.

So, in honor of all my friends with new puppies, I created a cartoon of an imaginary conversation that hasn't happened as depicted.

I just want to state for the record that I don't really "hate" puppies. But, for desired effect, I decided to go with full-blown hatred. Click here to see the full cartoon.

For those interested in drawing: You can watch a video of me drawing this cartoon here.

If you want a shirt: Get the inflammatory T-shirt here.

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Labels: cartoons, friends, pets

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Noah.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

When the name of the blog is "The Best Dog In The World" and the most recent post is this, you gotta feel sad.

I know how important pets are. I had a dog I really liked. A foal. And I miss the cat, too.

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Labels: pets

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The dog has no name.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 6 comments link this post

My sister Jacqui has a very pretty dog. It's a nice dog, as far as large dogs in the house go.

The dog has a name.

I don't use it.

"Dog, sit down."

"Come here, dog."

"Move, doggy."

"Dog, get in the kennel."

It's kind of like the janitor on the TV show Scrubs, who is referred to as Janitor.

I find the idea of referring to people or animals by what they are both intriguing and disturbing. Intriguing on some philosophical level that cuts to the chase and gets rid of an pretentiousness or facade. Disturbing, because it would negate the idea I hold onto (with white knuckles) that we are not our job. In the case of Janitor, I'd really have to come up with answer to the common and hated question of "what do you do for a living?"

What do I do for a living? Breathe?

Either that, or people could just call me Person.

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Labels: family, pets, television

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I'm not a loser!

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

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I'm not a loser!
I'm a winner!
The proof is this photo.
Plus, I'm wearing Nikes.

Anytime I'm feelin' down
And my spirits droop
I just remember my 4-H Market Lamb Sheep Project
And my feelings recoup.

His name was Friendly
Because he was
And I won Grand Champion
Due to few flaws

He was later sold to a meat market.
That's probably not a happy ending.
But you can't keep a sheep project forever,
Even if they're friendly.

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Labels: clippings, my life, pets, poetry

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The St. Patrick's Day photo shoot.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

See the photo shoot that took the world by storm.

Or, at least, the cat by storm.

The video behind this festive post:

This page contained an embedded video. Click here to view it.

Labels: brutus, pets, video

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Happy St. Patrick's Day from Brutus and the Gang.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

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My cat hates me. His chew toys, however, don't.

The Holiday is upon us.
The cat will take part.
I insist.

Any back-talk,
And even 3M
Will cover you in green.
(Yellow-green counts.)

(The cat has shame.)

(But I don't!)

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

Download your own poster from Brutus and the Gang here (PDF).

(This is the most obnoxious post I've assaulted your eyes with, I think.)

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Labels: brutus, my life, pets

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The purpose is to stain.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 7 comments link this post

The clothes I bring home from Nicaragua tend to have an all-over gray/brown appearance. The whites and light colored clothes never come back as they left home, and often have odd brown stains.

I should know never to bring anything down that isn't darker colored, brown, gray, or that I care about.

As it is, I had two shirts -- a white, spaghetti strap tank and a pale blue T-shirt -- that came home fairly grungy. I decided that I would dye the tank in tea to give it a kind of aged look and also make the brown splotches look liked they belonged.

The light blue shirt, however, would require the serious dye: Rit Royal Blue.

I boiled the water. I carefully trudged into the bathroom where I had a vat in the tub. I poured the hot water in, and carefully added the dye powder, ready to stir. I sensed someone looking at me.

Turning, I saw The Fluffy White Cat* staring at me.

A fluffy white cat is not useful during a dye bath. Fluffy white cats have limited functionality in general, and none when it comes to permanent dyes or laundry services.

"You can be of no help," I told The Fluffy White Cat. "Go away."

I pushed him out the door, the resumed the stirring of the dye. I readied the shirt and was about to put it in when I sensed it again.

The Fluffy White Cat was exactly where he had been, quietly sitting, staring at me with half-opened eyes.

I seriously contemplated dipping just one paw in the dye to see what would happen, but though better of it in the final moments.

I remembered, back when I was a counselor at 4-H camp up at Lake Metigoshe, helping with the tie dye project. I had a young boy in my group who was badly behaved, and I was pretty sure I knew how the day would end.

"Do not throw your shirt in the dye," I admonished him, when it was his turn for the dye bath, "Do not."

So he threw his shirt in the dye and it splashed back on him and on the Chicago Bulls T-shirt he was wearing.

"Is this gonna stain?!" he said, obviously upset and angry, green droplets all over the front of his shirt.

Here was a child which logic had successfully escaped from.

"The purpose of dye is to stain," I said calmly. "So yes, it will. Perhaps you shouldn't have thrown your shirt in the dye."

I eyed The Fluffy White Cat before turning back to the dye and gently working the light blue shirt into the dark blue bath. Considering all things, I had to admit that The Fluffy White Cat would be more useful than that kid.

As it is, my hands are stained blue, and the bathtub is a decided mess.

The Fluffy White Cat remains white and fluffy. And functionally useless.

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*When my brother visited last October, I asked him if he liked my cat, Brutus. "Normally, I don't like fluffy, white cats. But I like Brutus." Hence, I often refer to Brutus as The Fluffy White Cat.

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Labels: brutus, my life, pets

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Conversations: Take a gander at the dogs.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

My sister: Hey, do you want to take a gander out the door and see what the dogs are doing?

My sister has a large dog, and my niece has a new puppy which she leaves at my sister's house while she's at work. My sister just came home from work and let the dogs out, and I, fresh from a medical study, was available to do the gandering.

Me: Hmmm.

The puppy, Max, was following and annoying Nakita all around the yard. Max then decided to leap on top of Nakita, who was trying to go to the bathroom. This was not acceptable.

Me: The big dog is eating the little dog.

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Labels: conversations, family, pets

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A horse is not a cow revisited, with a little blogging advice.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

Prerequisite reading:

Making People out of Animals A horse is not a cow HORSE SENSE - I don't make this stuff up.

Prerequisite viewing:

A photo of our childhood pony Nubby, with (L to R) me, my friend Dani, and my sister Janet. We learned to ride on Nubby, no saddle.
A photo of the horse I had since I was 14, that my sister Janet bought for me with her own money for Christmas, which died in 1997, which can be seen in a number of my horse drawings and paintings. Obviously, she meant a great deal to me.

My suggestion would be this: if you want to make a case for the necessity of horse slaughter, don't create a divide in which people are either sensible folks considering the meat cut and value of all animals, or far to the other side, worshipping them. That is a false dichotomy, and it is a weak way to show yourself correct. Also, for the specifics of this particular discussion, consider that, for some people who live in a rural area and spent a great deal of their childhood summers around and on and going places with horses (instead of with other kids since there were no immediate neighbors), that sending an old and beloved horse to slaughter because of the value of its meat and the seeming sensibility of doing that actually does not make sense in every situation.

Both horses shown above I found dead. It was not a good thing. Both were buried. I do not worship them. They are vital to my memories -- like all the other 10 + horses were -- just as any friend might be, because I was around them more than people due to location and the way we grew up. Animals have places in people's lives and memories and sometimes, the memory just shouldn't end up at the rendering plant.

My suggestion here, in a benign blogging sense, would be that if you are going to make an argument, make it a good one without unnecessary tangents. And then, if someone calls you on those tangents, don't feign hurt and try to regroup by reiterating the tangents and suggesting at the end of the regroup that this is how you are and you'll not apologize.

Be better. Write better. Think better. And take what you dish out. This is a good thing.

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Labels: blogging, essay, pets

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Why I might have to kill my cat.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

He sits on the floor by the computer and just stares at me. For great lengths of time.

"Quit looking at me, Brutus."

I can't look at him, because he'll meow. I can't take the pitiful meow.

So I look to see if he's still staring at me.

"Meow."

"What do you want?! You've been fed. You have water. What could you possibly want?!"

"Meow."

I go back to working on the computer.

He's still staring. His eyes are drilling into the side of my head.

I slip up. I look at him.

"Meow."

"!@&*#!?@! -- I don't speak kitty language! Go away!"

"Meow."

I go back to work.

I peek, a few minutes later, to see if he's still watching and waiting.

"Meow."

(Repeat the above for the next 20 minutes.)

(And then start over.)

It's like Poe's "Tell Tale Heart" except it isn't. But it is.

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Labels: brutus, my life, pets

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A horse is not a cow.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 8 comments link this post

Gene, over at Norther Gleaner, has written a post about horses and some pending legislation regarding their slaughter. His first line is very telling:

"I have never ever understood the need some people have to rescue and care for animals like they were people."

After reading on a bit, where there is a mild jab at women (probably unintentional) in regards to horses, I would have to agree. I don't think Gene does understand; it was good of him to state as much at the beginning lest anyone confuse the issue while reading on. Anyone who calls a horse a simple animal, as he does later, is missing the point and very much so.

I'm not going to address the specifics of horse slaughter¹, since, in the comments section of Gene's post I touch on it briefly. I do understand the logistics and the need, and have had the wrenching moment of knowing a beloved horse was sent down the road to slaughter. We have also buried a horse or two, anthrax be damned.

In this post I want to assert that there is a difference between a horse and a "mere meat" animal -- say, a cow -- mainly in that there is a difference between a person who sees a meat source and one who sees past it. In doing so, I am not saying there needs to be an end to horse slaughter, but trying to show why it is some people have a hard time with sending a horse down the road to be rendered.

Growing up on a farm, even around horses, doesn't mean you have an automatic understanding of what I'm saying. My grandpa, an excellent horseman beyond question, unfortunately imprinted a very vivid memory in my mind, one of him beating our paint pony, Nubby, with a two-by-four board to discipline him for bucking my sister Janet and I off.

Perhaps, back in the day when horses were the tractors, they were little more than machines. But I know of stories where this is not the case, where farmers and horse lovers cried over the death of a favorite plow horse or the end of a great team. People have long reacted differently to horses.

It has to do with wanting something broken, and wanting something whole.

My grandpa knew a lot about horses, but I came to understand something very important a few years later, after reading a lot of what Monty Roberts wrote his own life experiences and how that affected his interaction with horses: there are people who come at horses to break them and ride them, like pieces of meat that will eventually be used up like any farm animal, referring to them as horseflesh; and then there are people who come at horses, seeing something else, more than a just a cow with a bit more grace, wishing for them to want to be ridden.

This is as it carries out in life, too. Some people set out with bluster and force and the intention to break and force others around them to a certain will, while other people, the second kind, choose to approach soft and gentle, stopping, letting others come to out of their own want and desire.

I do not think God was random in his creation of animals, and the levels of intelligence in animals. There is no argument that certain animals exhibit higher levels than others. If you disagree, please consider the earth worm and the dolphin. A horse is a unique animal, and there is a reason it has a mythical place in not just American history, but human history. However, it should not be elevated to the level of a human, and I am not trying to do so.

A few years back, my sister Janet and I had the opportunity to work with our horses at a Pat Parelli-based weekend clinic. There is a moment of magic when, with a delicate waving of a loose rope, a horse pauses, looks at you, and does what you ask. No forcing. The horse does it anyway. Try getting a cow to do anything of the sort. If you don't believe me, just go to a 4-H fair and watch the kids struggle with cows that are either ornery and dragging them around the arena, or almost in a coma and being drug around by the child.

An interesting question to ask, instead of making a rather cruel assumption about people who love horses, is a question of why women, or people who have been hurt, or people who are lonely, attracted to a horse? A horse is not an animal that expresses need, like a dog. A horse is an animal that can be convinced to allow you around them, but it would just as soon run off across the field. It is not an animal that fulfills need. It is an animal that strangely senses pain and hurt in people. It is a powerful animal that allows instead of needs, and in doing so, gives a person back a sense of worth. Not everyone gets in, but some are allowed in. The blustering individual isn't let in. Swagger and threats work on a basic degree; you can beat the horse with a board and force it, but it's not obeying out of anything but fear.

If you're a person that doesn't mind obedience or companionship out of anything but fear, then that's the kind of person you are. Perhaps, once a horse is broken in that way, operating out of fear, it does become meat. Perhaps that is why certain people only view horses as such, because it is all they have seen.

I could talk poetically about the horse, talking about what it is to be allowed to sit on the back of such a powerful animal, to get a taste of flying, hearing the blood running through its veins when pressing an ear to its neck, feeling the muscle and bone and power and amazement that such a creature even exists. I could elaborate; that would be its own blog post. But describing the horse this way is very likely what caused Gene to write his post in the first place, and would only cement opinions of women and horses further.

So, instead of trying to make someone who refuses to understand what it is about horses that causes abused children to see the light, brings joy to the hurting, frees the heart and mind of "simple women" who "have no control over their own lives" -- instead of trying to spit into the wind -- I maintain that there are two different kinds of people and the reaction to a horse says a lot more about the person than the horse.

Recommended reading:

Hope Rising: Stories from the ranch of rescued dreams. The Man Who Listens to Horses (Monty Roberts has many books out there, worth reading, but this is the one where he talks about his own life and how it changed the way he saw horses.)

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¹Gene's valid point regarding horse slaughter would have been better made without confusing the need for derogatory jabs at those who appreciate horses with the simple task of making the logistical facts clear. To give him credit, he points out people who do the same for dogs and other animals. I agree, for example, that dogs have become bizarre stand-ins for children in this culture where many people pour thousands into pet products and medical expenses, doting on and exalting them, calling them "fur kids", enjoying very much the need and acceptance of a dog. It might be an example of an animal we've made higher than humans. But his post is about horse slaughter, and he has a funny way of trying to convince people that it is necessary by insulting those who might think otherwise.

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UPDATE: Gene has answered this post, and though I would normally let it drop and let people find his post by the linkback below, I feel he has, again, missed the point. I'm not sure if he believes I disagreed that women and horses have a traditional connection or what (I don't believe I ever make that suggestion above), but whatever the case, his post leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

My comment at his blog was as follows, preserved here for longevity as well as that it adds to the point I was trying to make but must have failed to do so in the above post:

"Gene:

1. There is no excuse to verbally kill ants with a sledge hammer. That's just poor writing. If you know you do it, work to become better.

2. My North Dakota Farm Girl upbringing has not made me any less aware of the difference between animals and humans. That's silliness and I don't know what you're trying to say. There is no point to what you're making since the blog you are linking to is mine...a North Dakota Farm Girl.

3. Bambi has nothing to do with my post or what I was trying to say. I say in my post more than once that I was not equating humans and animals.

4. Why is it a bad or weak or laughable thing, this connection between women and horses? Monty Roberts himself has acknowledged that men have a difficult time with seeing horses as anything but an animal to break. This says less about women and horses, and more about something about men that is not admirable. You may not have been mocking women, but you came off like it. Would you like me to mock you? I could do it...I don't think you'd like it.

5. Again, you use a 61 year-old woman with extreme issues as proof? False dichotomy, Gene, and you know it. You wrote a blog post about all the different argumentative tactics people use just a few months ago. Go back and read it.

6. What's the point of your whole "horses and seminaries" comment? Did I ever hint that horses could be dentists? Geez. Please read what I was trying to say. I never said horses were geniuses. I also said that the reaction to a horse said more about the person than the horse.

7. Then you end with trying to prove that you're a good guy. Why do you feel the need to do that? Why not prove that in your entire post, with your writing, instead of mocking and making fun of those who see differently than you?

I, incidently, smash spiders into oblivion. I also am not a dog person. I'm not going to mock you crying over your dog. Because, you know, men and dogs have this weird thing together...like women and horses.

If you don't like tongue lashings, quit dealing them out yourself."

I think, in the comments below, attached to this very post, the telling line is this:

"There was sentimentality in his actions that made no sense."

Precisely. There are two different languages at work, and one person can't understand the other. Why would sentimentality make sense? It should never make sense. I would hate to live in a world that made sense, free of sentimentality. It would be cold and efficient, filled with debit and credit columns that all added up.

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Labels: essay, my life, pets

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Other people's dogs.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I'm at the house of some friends, and they have a dog.

I liked our dog, but I'm not a dog person. I don't like other people's dogs.

My friend mentioned something about how it's different with other people's dogs. I agree. Other people's dogs drive me crazy.

I had a friend with lots of greyhounds and they would always greet me at the door by sticking their noses in... well, let's just say it's no way to greet someone. I had another friend with a dog that would always jump up on me, the car, anything. Despicable. I have no desire to dance with a dog.

Since it's not my dog doing these things, I can't exactly haul off and scream and whack the animal away, so I have to find some kind of pained polite look on my face and assure the owners, as they pull the dogs away or say "bad girl" that I'm not inwardly thinking non-PETA sanctioned thoughts.

Don't even get me started on people who refer to their dogs as their "fur kids" because I think that, if a person really, really thought about what they were suggesting, they'd feel a great deal of shame at their Old Testament behavior.

I'm appreciating my sister Janet's chihuahua more and more. It's little and easily dismissed. It also is too short for invasive nose procedures and when it jumps up on me, it's merely an ankle issue.

The standard argument with cats and dogs is that dogs are so much better because cats are too independent. I fail to see how that is a negative. Their rejection of their owners is nearly universal, and their refusal to obey is a subtle nod to anarchy. Clearly, they're the thinking man's pet.

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Labels: pets

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Brutus wishes you a Merry Christmas.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

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Mom called up the stairs and told me to get the camera. "That cat is sitting on the piano next to the nativity set."

We'd just put up the tree and decorations last night. I'd tied some bells to Brutus and he'd had a miserable night. I do my best to spread Christmas cheer to all creatures.

There was Brutus, just as she'd said. I took a few photos, trying to shoot them in such a way that they wouldn't reveal his recent rather bad and silly-looking haircut.

"You're cute, kitty," I said as I shut the camera off, needing to get ready for today's little trip to Fargo with dad. "But if you get your grubby paws in that set and drag the baby Jesus around the house, you're dead."

Merry Christmas. This is Brutus' Christmas card to you.

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Labels: brutus, christmas, pets

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What I imagine purgatory might look like.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I'm at my sister's house in South Dakota. My nephew turned 14 last week, but we're celebrating his birthday this weekend by visiting the Haunted Forest in Aberdeen which will, like last year, start off with my nephew's friends, a bunch of goofy, young teen boys talking tough and then shoving ol' auntie Julie to the front of the line to meet the scare first while they cower and shriek behind me once the tour through the forest begins.

That's not purgatory. It's actually fun. I'm known for laughing uproariously and very bad moments. There's also be pizza and the need for much patience during the evening.

Right now, my nephew is cleaning his room and blowing through his duck call and "fart" whistle alternately. The TV is blasting loudly so my sister can hear it in the kitchen. My other nephew is running around screaming, wearing a spiderman pajama outfit. But that's not purgatory.

Earlier we went for a horse ride and I rode on a horse as tall as a five story building. Or so it seemed. That wasn't purgatory, by any means.

No. Purgatory was me, a non-lover of dogs, sitting down on the couch having my sister's chihuahua jump on my lap and try to lick my face while the doberman pinscher sat by my feet and stared at me while the brown lab dropped a ratty looking toy in my lap to play fetch.

That was purgatory. Way too many dogs.

"This," I said to my sister as the dogs crowded around me, covering me in hair and slobber, "is what I imagine purgatory might look like."

Though the sounds the fart whistle are making are coming in a close second.

Off-camera to my nephew: Gross! Quit blowing that whistle and clean off your bed!

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Labels: family, my life, pets

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The stupidest blog post ever: The huckster cat.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 22 comments link this post

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::Sometimes I look at my blog stats and see IP numbers that repeat many, many, many -- far above what's needed -- times throughout the day. I don't know who they are, of course, but I can see it's the same person, coming back, all day. I confess that I'm not sure why a person would come back to my blog over 12 to 15 times a day; what are you expecting me to do? It's not that good of a blog. Particularly when I've posted once already and have never been a blogger prone to posting many times a day. At most, I've had a top number of four blog posts in one day and that is rare. If I were linking to and then responding to various news articles and was a poli-blogger that put up tons of posts daily, that would be one thing. But since I'm just writing nearly 98 percent original content there's no way I can churn out 12 decent posts a day. Though I appreciate the additional hits to my counter...12 to 15 times a day?! I suppose it is sacriligeous for a blogger to "complain" about hits, but that's not exactly what I'm doing. Out of minor irritation and major suspicion to what drives a person to do this, not being sure if they are just huge fans out of control (doubtful), or an internet stalker fixating on me (which is creepy and unsettling and possible), or a reader expecting me to be some kind of performing monkey and post that often (more than a little unfair), I've written this series of stupid blog posts to meet my apparent quota. I hope it makes all the repeated visits worthwhile.::

Meow meow meow mew.

MEOW -- Meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow meow! Meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow meow mew mew meow. Meow meow meow "L. L. Bean" meow mew mew meow meow.

Meow Meow "horsemeat" Meow

Meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow mew meow meow meow. MEOW MEW MEW MEOW!!!

Meow, meow mew mew; meow meow meow meow meow mew meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow. Meow meow mew meow meow meow mew mew meow meow mew.

Meow meow mew meow meow meow? Meow mew meow.

Meow.

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Labels: blogging, brutus, humor, pets

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Laboring on.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

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Labor day.

The day we honor those hard workers, those fine folks who wake up early day in and day out, who labor on in sweat and tears, pulling their own weight, making our country the fine place it is, often time their reward being too little too late.

And then there are the others.

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Labels: brutus, pets

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You sometimes have to cry.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

In gradeschool, I was teased often for many reasons but the one that has affected me to this day was about crying.

I cry very easy. Tears are always just at the back of my eye. People would be surprised how often I cry, how often I'm very close to tears and they don't know it. Kids teased me for being a crybaby. I cried openly at my desk when the teacher read Wilson Rawls Where the Red Fern Grows, and the other kids teased me for it later at recess. I cried when I flubbed my half of a piano duet during a recital only to come to school the next day and hear the other girl laughing at me about it with some other girls. I cried when the car hit a bird or ran over a mouse on the road.

Crying is associated with weakness, I learned. I had to get it under control.

I quickly learned to not cry around people. I have about a number of different ways I keep myself from crying that work 95 percent of the time. I put on a cloak of apathy and pretend I don't care about anything until there's no one around. I make jokes. I lie and answer that everything is fine with a smile and quick change of the subject; most people never follow up. I bite the inside of my lip, sometimes until it bleeds, focusing on the pain instead of what's making me cry. I pretend I'm someone else who wouldn't care or cry, and so I don't. I remove myself from the situation. I compartmentalize. Until I'm alone. I cry in movies, often openly weeping, but the lights are out and I get it together before they come back on. No one sees.

I d

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You sometimes have to cry.