(Sigh) Can someone please explain to me why people take joy in hurting each other?
A writer from the National Post (Canada) recently wrote a profile about The Man Himself in which he made a remark about his fans. It wasn't positive or negative in my opinion, just a remark that reflected an aspect of his success as an actor.
Apparently, some fans took it negatively, and the writer immediately wrote a blurb explaining that Gerry does love his fans. It wasn't something that was really necessary at all, but I thought it was a very classy and courteous thing to do.
Years ago, I would have been the first person to say "fans" were crazy, lonely women who had nothing better to do with their time than fantasize over a complete stranger, whom they had a snowball's chance in hell of ever meeting. I would have, and probably have for that matter, used the words stalker or weirdo when talking about any person's fans. Fan is short for fanatic, after all, isn't it?
But now I know better, because to my own surprise, I've become a fan of Gerard Butler myself, and have been for the last two years. He's not the greatest actor out there. But he has potential. His acting is getting better with each film he makes. Anyone with half a brain can see that. And sure, admittedly, it was his striking looks that originally brought me to the website. But that's not the only reason I stay.
I stay because being a part of this special group of women has meant more to me in the last two years than anything next to my family. It has opened me up to things I never thought I'd be a part of. I have made friends there whom I'll have for life. I've traveled and laughed and shared in camaraderie that I never experienced before, and I'm a better person for it. We support each other and we talk about our lives, and we laugh and we gab and we are happy just knowing that no matter what time of the day or night it is, someone is there. I've had some of them to my home, and they've met my family. We've gone out to dinner and movies and shopping.
More importantly, I think, my husband once told me that since joining this website, I laugh more. I'm happier. And he's happy to see that.
But back to the story. The blurb was a very nice gesture on the writer's part (Bob Thompson is his name). I write for a newspaper myself, and honestly, I don't know anyone who would even have gone to the trouble.
The problem is, tonight I went to re-read the blurb, and there were comments beneath it, some so hurtful I could feel the heat rushing to my face as I read them. They said, in a nutshell, that Gerry's fans are "nutjobs", "batshaft", whatever the fuck that mean, "crazy", "stalker types", fat...oh, and let's not forget that some of us look like "tired streetwalkers." (sigh)
You know, it shouldn't surprise me any more that people can be so hateful and hurtful to each other, and yet it does. I wish it didn't bother me so much. Many of the other ladies have said that it's silly to let it bother me, and to ignore it, and these people just don't know what they're missing. We have fun and that's all that matters. And they're right. But for the life of me, I can't understand why people choose to be cruel.
I'll never understand it.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
The night Winston saved my life (part one)
I've been thinking a lot about high school lately. I put myself in a lot of dangerous, foolish situations back then, situations that could have gone another way very easily. I often think I must have had an angel on my shoulder a lot of the time, keeping me safe. I certainly wasn't keeping myself safe.
I'll tell you a story of one such incident, but I'm at work, so I might have to tell it in two parts, so bear with me.
I was 17, a senior that year, and I was invincible. My friend, Alicia, was a good person with a big heart and a bad reputation (which was undeserved), but she sought out trouble. If there was trouble to be had, she'd find it, and I'd go along for the ride.
I was dating The Greek at the time, and he lived in Cambridge, one city over. You could take a bus and then walk a really long way to his house, or you could take a train and walk across a baseball field in half the time. One particular summer night, Alicia, her friend Reynalda (I think that was her name), and I decided to take the train.
Despite being a warm summer night, the train station was completely deserted. The three of us were the only people on the platform, and we laughed and gossiped as we stood waiting for the train. Finally it arrived, and we got on, once again alone in the car. We weren't scared, although we did remark at how odd it was that there weren't more people around. But that changed quickly.
The train pulled in to a stop, I don't remember which, and eight or nine young black men entered the car we were in. They immediately surrounded the three of us, asking where we were from, where we were going, what school we went to, and if we had any cigarettes. They laughed as one of them grabbed Alicia's purse and took her pack of smokes from it as she pulled it back from his grasp. "Fat Newports!" they shouted, passing her smokes around between them. They squeezed in closer to us, asking if we had boyfriends. One of them asked if we had deep throats.
I was scared now. So was Alicia, although she was trying to be cool and laugh with them. I thought Reynalda looked as though she might throw up, she was as pale as a ghost. My knuckles were white as I held on to the bar, hoping they'd get off the train soon...or hoping they'd let us off when our stop came.
I'll tell you a story of one such incident, but I'm at work, so I might have to tell it in two parts, so bear with me.
I was 17, a senior that year, and I was invincible. My friend, Alicia, was a good person with a big heart and a bad reputation (which was undeserved), but she sought out trouble. If there was trouble to be had, she'd find it, and I'd go along for the ride.
I was dating The Greek at the time, and he lived in Cambridge, one city over. You could take a bus and then walk a really long way to his house, or you could take a train and walk across a baseball field in half the time. One particular summer night, Alicia, her friend Reynalda (I think that was her name), and I decided to take the train.
Despite being a warm summer night, the train station was completely deserted. The three of us were the only people on the platform, and we laughed and gossiped as we stood waiting for the train. Finally it arrived, and we got on, once again alone in the car. We weren't scared, although we did remark at how odd it was that there weren't more people around. But that changed quickly.
The train pulled in to a stop, I don't remember which, and eight or nine young black men entered the car we were in. They immediately surrounded the three of us, asking where we were from, where we were going, what school we went to, and if we had any cigarettes. They laughed as one of them grabbed Alicia's purse and took her pack of smokes from it as she pulled it back from his grasp. "Fat Newports!" they shouted, passing her smokes around between them. They squeezed in closer to us, asking if we had boyfriends. One of them asked if we had deep throats.
I was scared now. So was Alicia, although she was trying to be cool and laugh with them. I thought Reynalda looked as though she might throw up, she was as pale as a ghost. My knuckles were white as I held on to the bar, hoping they'd get off the train soon...or hoping they'd let us off when our stop came.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
No pain
I've had a bad back since I was 19. It was the day of my older brother's wedding, and I was dancing in the shower, when I felt a small pull in my lower back. I didn't give it a second thought, and I danced all night at the wedding. The next day...well, actually the next 7 days...I was laid out flat in my bed, hardly able to move, with incredible pain.
Since that time, it's bothered me on occasion, but nothing like that first time. Until a few years ago, that is. About three years ago, while doing laundry, I threw some clothes into the dryer and felt that pull in the lower back again. This time, it didn't go away. I felt it get worse in seconds, and told my family I was going to lie down for a bit. What I didn't tell them was that the pain was so excruciating, that it literally knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I was drowning. That episode lasted about 7 more days. My husband had to practically carry me to the bathroom. I never felt pain like that before, not even in childbirth. But again, I gradually got better.
This past January, it happened again, this time sending me to the emergency room. I was in tears. My daughter wanted to call an ambulance, but instead, we called my babysitter's daughter and she took me. The doctor's always say the same thing...chiropractor, pain medication, rest, ice pack, etc. etc. I have a herniated disk, but not bad enough for surgery.
Now, I barely have a single day when I'm not in pain in some form or fashion, and I'm scared. I'm only 38 years old, and already I have to watch everything I do. I can't run and play with the kids like I used to. I have to be aware of every turn and every step and every hug my youngest daughter gives me, and to remind her not to squeeze me too hard. Every load of laundry makes me think...is this the one? Will this be the task that puts me into the bed again, and lose time at work again? Each time my husband and I make love, I worry....will this be the time? If I move to fast or do it too hard, will I feel that familiar pull again? Will this pain ever stop? Will I ever feel great again?
I had an MRI done a few days ago, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope whatever the neurologist sees, he will tell me it's time for surgery. I hate feeling like this every day. I feel 20 years older than I am. I can't play with the kids, or do the housework, or sdo my job without pain. I hope he says I need surgery.
Since that time, it's bothered me on occasion, but nothing like that first time. Until a few years ago, that is. About three years ago, while doing laundry, I threw some clothes into the dryer and felt that pull in the lower back again. This time, it didn't go away. I felt it get worse in seconds, and told my family I was going to lie down for a bit. What I didn't tell them was that the pain was so excruciating, that it literally knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I was drowning. That episode lasted about 7 more days. My husband had to practically carry me to the bathroom. I never felt pain like that before, not even in childbirth. But again, I gradually got better.
This past January, it happened again, this time sending me to the emergency room. I was in tears. My daughter wanted to call an ambulance, but instead, we called my babysitter's daughter and she took me. The doctor's always say the same thing...chiropractor, pain medication, rest, ice pack, etc. etc. I have a herniated disk, but not bad enough for surgery.
Now, I barely have a single day when I'm not in pain in some form or fashion, and I'm scared. I'm only 38 years old, and already I have to watch everything I do. I can't run and play with the kids like I used to. I have to be aware of every turn and every step and every hug my youngest daughter gives me, and to remind her not to squeeze me too hard. Every load of laundry makes me think...is this the one? Will this be the task that puts me into the bed again, and lose time at work again? Each time my husband and I make love, I worry....will this be the time? If I move to fast or do it too hard, will I feel that familiar pull again? Will this pain ever stop? Will I ever feel great again?
I had an MRI done a few days ago, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope whatever the neurologist sees, he will tell me it's time for surgery. I hate feeling like this every day. I feel 20 years older than I am. I can't play with the kids, or do the housework, or sdo my job without pain. I hope he says I need surgery.
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