It ISN'T What It Is

I've had a frustrating week.  I'm allowed a rant.  So bear with me.

I am so sick of the phrase "It is what it is"

Has this suddenly become the most popular cop-out in America?  I rarely heard it before but the past few months I'm now hearing it everywhere.  And it's almost always used as a way of avoiding responsibility.

You know me, you know I'm all about the accountability--even when it sucks.  But that's part of the reason why I'm able to respect myself.

It isn't what it is.

Life is the culmination of decisions and the results of those decisions.  Sometimes the results of those decisions rock and sometimes they don't.  When they rock, we're all too happy to take credit, but when they don't rock, we still have to admit that they're the results of decisions.  And if we were a part of what "it is", we need to grow up and own it.

It isn't what it "just is".  It is what we--as a general whole--have made it.

Quit copping out and start owning up.  Our country will never move forward until it does.

The Cat Bit My Eye

Seriously.  The title is not an exaggeration.

And I have not forgotten it, even though the cat would have me to.

He's been all pesty and needy and "Feed me", "Look at me", "Love me", "That smells good, can I have some, too?".  And I've been all "That bridge is burned, buddy."

But still he persists.  After all, it didn't happen if there's only partial evidence, right?  I'm sure that's what he thinks.

I was laying in bed last night and the cat was on the bed with me and I moved my hand under the covers, which brought out playful kitty and he pounced.  So I moved my hand again and we had a fun little game of it for a few minutes until Mr. Kitty got ticked off that The Human was faster than his feline reflexes.

And apparently he got ticked that I was laughing (at him) because he looked at me as if he was about to go for my face, but then he went for my hand instead, and then when he missed it, he decided to go for my face after all.

He rethought it in mid-attack.  I could see it in his eyes.  I know this, I've had that same moment of re-decision myself.

In my first physical fight with my sister, I'm sure this same look flashed across my face as I was throwing a fist aimed for her nose.

Daddy always taught me to go for the nose (though I doubt he meant that I should go for my sister's nose, but he also never directly told me not to either).  He said it's the time-out button.  Plus a man can't fight if he can't see, and apparently when your nose gets broken, your vision is one of the things your mind's not overly concerned about at that moment.  So he said that the first punch you throw--if you had to throw a punch at all--should be to the nose.  Or to the stomach, because that bends them over where you can come up with a hook to the nose.  Same train of thought, though.

Anyway, so I'm in mid-swing...well, I guess I should go back at least a little.  (I'm hoping that since we can laugh about it now I'm free to blog about it, besides, she made an inappropriate beef crack on my Facebook this past week, so worst case scenario we'll call it even)  ;)

I was 15 I think.  I was on the computer and my sister and her boyfriend (now husband) were wanting me to leave that room so they could have some time alone.  Back then we couldn't just pick our computers up and take them with us.  They were stationary which meant that if I wanted to be on the computer, that's where I had to be.

And I had no intentions of moving.  And for some reason it was a big deal to both of us.  And things escalated pretty quickly.  A threat was made if I didn't get up (and a chair was yanked out from under me), I mentioned our comparative intellect (my standard go-to), she threatened to throw a monitor over my head.   The next thing I knew I was swinging for her nose and my brain suddenly chimes in with bells and sirens announcing "Abort!  Abort!  Abort!"

There was this moment of clear thought that broke through the irrational teenage angst that reminded me, "This is NOT going to end well if you break her nose."

But my arm had already committed before my brain decided to get involved.  Somehow I course corrected (or I had really shoddy aim to begin with) and my fist (and my prized Atlanta Braves championship ring) connected with her forehead instead.

Knot-head didn't even begin to describe her.

So she left her entire dental impression in blue bruises in my upper bicep to make things fair and we called it quits after that.

Wow, I may have wandered from the story.  The point is, I knew that moment of "Abort!" the second I saw it in Link's eye.  But he'd already committed.  Which possibly spared me an eye because he didn't bite my eye nearly as hard as he otherwise would have.

And considering one tooth landed right at my tear duct and the other landed at the crease of my upper could have been bad.

Unlike my 15 year old self, I've learned that when I get really mad, I'm better-off to shut up and withdraw from whatever has made me mad.  Which is why I texted the husband to let him know that his cat (he was in trouble after all and, like children, pets become temporarily orphaned when they've crossed a certain line in the badness of their behavior.)

And as "punishment" the husband came in and scooped the "Bad Kitty" up and petted him and told him--in the same tone of voice that you speak to a newborn--"You have to be nice to Mommy."

He's a tough one.  It's a wonder we don't all cower in fear of him.

So my eye got bit and Link got a loving "bad boy" pet.

And the cat acts like it never happened at all.

Not me, I remember these things....