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Showing posts with label yelling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yelling. Show all posts

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Blog tease, yelling to no one & the secret to long life

For those of you who subscribe, you may notice my blog cuts off after a short paragraph or two. Basically we changed the settings so subscribers and readers have to click through to my blog site. The reason: My blog gets more credit, notice, monetary gain and raises in the Google search queue if people actually go to my blog. I've been hearing and noticing that my subscribers get the emails and if they like the blog, they reply to me or forward the email to friends. Well, that's fantastic, but it'd be better for the blog's notice-ability online if people actually go to the blog, click "digg" or "share" at the top, and leave comments. I'm not trying to be a blog tease. I'm just trying to share with more people, and create a blog that's more interactive

Now it's worth noting that my primary reason for writing this blog is because I love to write and express myself. I love and appreciate that you all read. It brings me tremendous joy. But I also hope to reach more people, to garner more comments, to be out there more in the world (or blogosphere as it were), and someday even compile my favorite or themed blogs into a book. Lofty? Maybe. But mostly, I'm moving more towards sharing my creative gifts instead of just... working hard for the money. I'd rather choose a job I love - see yesterday's blog, My Addendum to "Choose a Job You Love..., than do jobs I sort of like because they make me money. Well, I love writing, mostly. (Sometimes I need to just make myself sit down, but once I get going, I love it. So, that's the mostly part.)

Capiche?

Last night between 11pm-1am, a woman was yelling outside my apartment window. By outside and yelling I mean she must've been within 150 yards or so (either outside herself or in another apartment) and when she was yelling coherently, I could understand what she was saying. As it turned out, she was not really being all that coherent, so Marcus and I only got bits and pieces. Now, I don't live in downtown LA, Venice, or even West Hollywood, where this type of behavior wouldn't really surprise me. I live in Santa Monica. Where we all pretend to be civilized. Heck, we even have 4 vegan restaurants within a 3-mile radius, two of them raw vegan. Hmm. Maybe that's what's doing it. All the raw vegan food is making people crazy!

Anyway, last night she was yelling things that sounded something like, "How dare they do dat, talkin' bad 'bout Obama like that. No way!" and something like, "Who do you think you are, anyway." She also might've said, "I'll come out there this is just...aw hell no!" There were others but they escape my memory (I really should've taken notes), and she appeared to be yelling at/to no one because no one answered and her timing was very sporadic. It was amusing and confounding to say the least. I figured she was probably drunk. But today, around 10am and again at 11:45, she came out with a few more (unless things pick up later in the day today). They were something like, "What's with this twitter man...I'll twitter this." and a quieter and harder to understand, "You can't feast on the feces...and be on this program...like you think you should." Maybe she's chatting online with someone and has to yell some of her responses. Who knows.

From what I could ascertain, this large-lunged-lady has severe issues with anyone talking bad about Obama, anyone who thinks they're somethin', twitter generally, and objects to feasting on feces. This woman is clearly a sh!t talker through and through. Marcus (a sh!t-talker in his own right) was tempted to yell back at her just to keep her going, but he resisted and we only got the few incoherent gems written above. Though socially uncouth, I wonder if something in her feels better for letting her crazy out. I mean, letting go of frustrations in a way that doesn't truly hurt others... That's a good thing, right? Or maybe she has crazy nightmares that are fed by her crazy yelling. Maybe she's a parasomniac who yells in her sleep. It seems drugs (prescription or street) and alcohol can exacerbate parasomatic tendencies which naturally tend to be talking and walking into more extreme sleep-behaviors like yelling. But all of it left me to wonder, is our neighborhood-yeller more contented or disturbed as a result of her outbursts? Either way, this lady could probably benefit from meditation.

Years ago I heard a brief interview on National Public Radio (NPR) with a man who was reportedly the oldest person in the United States. This 110 year old gentleman owned and lived-on a farm in Iowa. He apparently didn't do any of the heavy-lifting-farm-work of his youth, but he still enjoyed walking his land and spending time with his family. When the NPR interviewer asked him what his secret to longevity was, he replied, "Well, I don't know for sure. I eat oatmeal every day for breakfast and when I'm sad, I cry." 

I remember thinking how simple and poignant that was, and also thinking how repressing our emotions, especially sadness, probably takes innumerable years off of our lives. Now I believe this man probably also ate fresh farm food most of his life, and probably had a knack for letting go of stress and seeing the beauty in life. But for him, eating oatmeal for breakfast and crying whenever he was sad were the two things that really stood out.

So... click on my emails to link to my blog to read more, yell if you must (and meditate to release the craziness), eat oatmeal for breakfast, and cry when you're sad.

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Monday, March 15, 2010

Yelling - One of the Highest Forms of Compassion

Lately I’ve been watching Kitchen Nightmares with Chef Gordon Ramsey, who in my opinion, does for wanna-be successful restaurants what Simon Cowell does for wanna-be pop singers...and that is give them a serious dose of honesty – delivered fearlessly and without restraint. Personally, I like the honesty of Ramsey (and Cowell), not only because I usually agree with them, but because I admire how effortlessly Ramsey (we'll cover Cowell in a future blog) handles confrontation with stubborn, defensive, and clueless chefs and restaurateurs. I find myself wishing I could handle confrontation more like Chef Ramsey. It makes me curious about his upbringing and family life. In Ramsey’s home, is it copasetic and even encouraged to raise your voice during a discussion? I’m sort of fascinated by what his family dynamic might be like. Maybe he just learned it in the kitchen. Who knows.

I suppose it’s worth mentioning that my family is not a yelling family. In fact, my father’s side is fully non-confrontational to the point where they’ll completely ignore an elephant in the room to avoid making waves. However my father has more boldness than his mother, in that he handled confrontations while teaching and coaching (35 years of the former, 25 years of the latter) with relative ease. My mother’s family, while generally not very confrontational, has a bit more fire in them, being a blend of Serbian and Russian, two semi-confrontational cultures (though I believe we having nothing on Latinos). I also never witnessed my parents yelling at each other. Something I feel grateful for now because it’s not a default that I readily go to when in arguments with my beau Marcus. Though I might not have learned how to verbally spar from my parents, I did learn how to fight for what I believe in and for what’s right, as my parents taught me that on a constant basis throughout my childhood.

The background is to bring you to this: For the first time in my life, I’ve yelled at my father. I have to tell you, it’s a bit uncomfortable for me, but still, I feel justified.

So maybe that’s it with Ramsey. He feels justified in his yelling at these chefs and restaurateurs who are so reluctant to take responsibility and create change in their businesses that he’s their loud, living, in-their-face wake-up call.

Because that’s what it is for me with my father. I feel justified yelling at him. Here’s why: He’s pre-diabetic. For anyone who knows anything about this, you know that for a seventy-one year old man (for a man at any age, really, but especially a bona-fide senior citizen), being pre-diabetic is not a good prognosis. The human body seems to handle semi-high blood sugar for about ten years, but once we pass the ten year mark, things start to go. My father, true to form, doesn’t really want to change anything in his diet or lifestyle. The changes he has made are sort of half-assed. The problem, I think, is that besides being overweight, my Dad feels generally all right. His weight-gain occurred primarily since he retired 15 years ago (since he worked out and ate less as a physical fitness teacher and football coach). But slowly over the past 15 years he’s gained weight and grown more sedentary. But they (they = reporters, doctors, the powers that be) call diabetes The Silent Killer for a reason. There are often no obvious symptoms with diabetes, even though complications from diabetes can be blindness, amputations, and usually irreversible coronary artery disease (which can lead to heart attacks and strokes).



So I feel justified yelling at my father because he didn’t really change much when I just spoke with him. Fortunately, I’m not alone in my fight as I imagine this would be much more difficult if I were. My boyfriend Marcus is a health and nutrition expert, and much-like Ramsey, is not afraid of confrontation, so we take turns talking to and sometimes yelling at my father. My mother, while not yelling at him, is making him healthy, healing foods to eat, but between my Mom’s healthy and Marcus sanctioned meals, my father still goes to some of the bad stuff.

Today’s yelling spell at my father was due to my mother’s report that he recently ate Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and a tuna-salad sandwich. Part of my rant was, “Dad, Kraft mac n’ cheese and a canned tuna sandwich?!? They are the bastards of pasta and fish. How about some organic pasta and the good, organic cheese (unpasteurized) that I know you have at home, or getting fresh tuna from the co-op?? But no, you have to eat the bottom of the totem pole of pasta and fish. Come on, Dad. You know better.”

But at this point, his taste-buds and eating are so habitualized, that he isn’t even aware of what he’s putting in his mouth and how it’s contributing to his impending diabetes. For example, the boxed mac n’ cheese has a higher glycemic index than a can of coke. Think about that. Mac n’ cheese spikes your blood sugar more than drinking a can of regular coke. Seriously. And sandwich was surely loaded with unknown sugars, what with the high-fructose corn-syrup spiked mayonnaise and the white bread that undoubtedly comprised the tuna-fish sandwich.

But what does this yelling mean in the big picture?

Though uncomfortable at times for all parties, I actually believe that yelling at my father is one of the highest forms of compassion. True compassion is fighting for the highest good, even when it’s uncomfortable.

I selfishly want so badly for my father to live long and healthy, that I’ll resort to yelling my truth to him, in the chance it’ll get through his thick, stubborn skin.

Which is part of why I like Chef Ramsey. He wants so badly for these people to have what they claim to want, that he’s willing to exert the effort and frankly, balls, that it takes to speak loudly and fiercely, the truth about how they’re f%*king up their restaurants.

Could there be a more quiet or gentler way of getting across my point or Chef Ramsey’s? Probably. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be as entertaining television in Ramsey’s case. But in my life, yeah, I suppose if I were more Zen, I might be able to find a way to get my point across without yelling and with more finesse and subtlety. But until I attain this Zen-state, I’m going to throw anything I have in my arsenal at my father about his health. Because as long as he’s not wiling to fight for himself and his health, I’ll fight for him. I can handle being a little uncomfortable, and so can he.

The irony is, I learned this lesson on true compassion and fighting for the highest good from my parents. Guess my Dad should’ve known it might come back to bite him on the ass. But Dad, I promise you... you’ll thank me some day.


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