Here's What I Don't Get

Methuselah Lived 900 Years

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 00:09:00 +0000

Nine, or ten, or eleven years ago, we were sitting in the office of the person who is arguably the greatest pediatrician on the face of the earth (i.e. ours), and we were chatting at some length and with great animation on all sides, like you do if you have this particular pediatrician, and I had to open my big mouth. I suppose I was proud of it, and I thought somehow, this wonderful out-of-the-box doctor would nod in the way that she does, and smile. So I told her. I told her (beaming all the while) that we had a frame on our living room (Yeah. Our Living Room) wall into which I had placed a red and white greeting card that said:

Because, you know, questioning authority (which, contrary to public opinion, didn't originate on a bumper sticker in the 1970's, but came from Benjamin Franklin) is good, but it just isn't enough.

Her reply? Well, it wasn't a smile and a nod. There was a smile, for sure, but it was a subtle, knowing smile, cultivated over years and years of pediatric practice (which, by default, involves dealing with parents, insane and otherwise). Her words, though, were quick and decisive, and I'll never forget them.

"You reap what you sow. You reap what you sow."

You could see her laughing on the inside. Or maybe worrying a little bit. Or both. I can see it like it was yesterday.

The frame is still on our wall.

So what I'm saying is: Okay. This is my fault.

So. Now it's those same nine, or ten, or eleven years later. Bat Mitzvah Year (which not only means hers, which is long past now, but attendance at countless others.) And Passover, replete with creative and engaging seders (if not the excitement of the dramatic productions of the past, which featured water turning to blood, large blow up locusts, ping pong ball hail, etc) is over tomorrow.

"I love matzah," she said today, as she gently spread a generous layer of butter on a piece for a quick after school snack. (She also loves chopped liver, whitefish salad, lox, and gefilte fish. It's good to remember how much she loves these things when we have a discussion like we did a couple of days ago.)

"I don't believe any of that stuff. It's ridiculous. They're stories that some man made up and wrote down a long time ago and everyone believes them like they're true. None of it is true."

This is where it gets tricky. For me, I mean.

Because here's the thing. If you really believe in questioning everything, then you have to question your own stances, no matter what they are. You have to question disbelief in the same way that you question belief.

So I asked: "So, you don't believe Abraham or Isaac or Rebekah existed?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"They're just characters in a story, there's no evidence." She is a scientist, through and through, this kid. She has always been so, the same at two years old as at thirteen. When we read a picture book about the story of Siddhartha when she was five or six, it took months and months to get her to understand that we needed to wait until she was older to go to Nepal to see the ruins of Siddhartha's palaces for herself so she could see if it was true or not. It wasn't my idea.

"Well, there is a tomb in Israel where they are said to be buried."

"Oh. There is? Well, then, okay, maybe they lived (wow, she didn't ask how we know for sure they're buried in there). But they didn't live to those ridiculous ages. It's just like Jesus. I believe that Jesus lived, but I don't believe that he did magic things or had special powers."

"So you don't believe Moses existed and that he led the people out of Egypt?"

"No. I told you, I don't believe in any of that stuff."

Here's where I'm thinking well, the Passover story must be a little problematic for her, then.

So then I asked the question that to me, is the next logical step: "So why do you think people believe this? How, in the evolutionary process, did people come to adopt religion and believe in God? And why do so many people believe in some sort of God, all over the world?"

"I don't know. I've never thought about that."

As Leo Rosten says in one of my family's favorite stories....AHA!!!

Just so you know, in our family, the point of "I don't know" is the official launching pad for "I'm going to find out."

And so the research has begun. Damn, this is interesting stuff.

I have spent the last 24 hours reading all about the land bridge under the Red Sea (or the Reed sea), about the wack-job that has "proven" that he found horse and human bones and chariot wheels under the water, about the legend of Moses (which, as far as I can see, does not resemble the story we tell in most ways), about the way the story might be borrowed from the Babylonians of Mesopotamia (now Iraq). I have learned that those who believe in the stories as absolute truth (there are a LOT of those people) insist that the environmental change brought on by the great flood changed the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere and that before Noah's Ark, people routinely lived to 600, 700, 900 years old, and after the flood, because the whole living conditions of the earth changed, people only lived to between 70 and 200 years, which is, you know, proof of why people don't live that long anymore (wow). I have just begun to read, barely scratched the surface of, the countless philosphical perspectives (not all of them as cynical as mine) of why it is that people believe in a higher power, and how that came about via evolution. You know, so I can have an intelligent conversation with my daughter.

I have also thought long and hard about the parallel conversations of the last week, about how I really dislike and speak out against "poor us", "we can't help it", and "people hate us" as the foundation of arguments for equal rights for LGBTQ people and our families, and how I disassociate myself from organizations that use those strategies. And about how the telling of endless stories about Jews as victims ("They tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat") as a way to keep ourselves strong in our faith has a similar ring to it, an undeniable irony, even if it is sacrilege to say so. (I suspect this is why I love the work of Shalom Auslander, but that's another conversation.)

Some of you, at this point, are chomping at the bit. You want to tell us, teach us, remind us, about the value of myth, about the power of stories, about allegory, about how it's not important if it is scientifically true, if every fact is just as it we present or recite it. You want to remind us, teach us, tell us about the history and tradition and culture of a people--or peoples--that lies in the stories that have stood the test of time, the stories we repeat to our children, the prayers that we still say together. You want to teach us, remind us, tell us of the grace of community and the power of shared belief systems and how there are no atheists in foxholes, and how we honor our elders by observing the traditions of their youth. You want to say that we do this for the millions who died (yes, we do).

And to this, I say that I love matzah (et al) too. I love the haggadah that I painstakingly put together so as to ensure a meaningful, engaging, seder. I honor my mother, who taught me to question everything, and my father, who would add "it's all nonsense." I honor my Orthodox grandfather who believed in "being and doing good" as the heart of it all, even in the absence of traditional observance.

And she knows these things, too. All of them. She knows of the power of myth, as do I. She knows all of those things, about allegory, about how faith and science coexist for many people. Yes. We have talked about, modeled, lived all of these things. She is a scientist. She'll make her own way to a a faith that makes sense to her. Or she won't. It ain't necessarily so.

Yeah. It's my fault. I reap what I sow.

Thank God.

Seeing Red, or Why I Left Facebook (Baaaaaa)

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 17:20:00 +0000

See me, right there? Hi.

So, in case you didn't see it on CNN or Huffington Post, I've left facebook.

If you couldn't give a hoot--an opinion to which you are most genuinely entitled, because after all, who am I to think anyone should care, it's not like it's a world event--you can stop reading now. Just sayin'. Don't be reading all of this and then leaving some comment like "Who cares?" (not that anyone will see it since I moderate comments...bwah ha ha....but still), even if "Who cares?" is the most frequently posted comment on most news sites.... and of course People magazine. Really. People read articles about the pregnancy weight of whichever one of the Kardashian sisters is pregnant right now (I have no idea), and then they take the time to leave a comment that says "Who cares?" Who cares? Um....You.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

On the other hand, if you're interested (which I am, because, well, it's me) or curious (because you're that kind of person...I love me some curious people) or perhaps a wee bit jealous (which I know some of you are), read on.

So here's the deal.

I didn't leave facebook because it ate (or killed, depending on the generosity of my mood) my blog a couple of years back, although I've thought of that many times.

I didn't leave facebook because it's one huge addictive massive time suck that has negatively impacted much of my work and my life. That's a really good reason, though.

I didn't leave facebook because I don't value community or staying in touch with my friends from kindergarten, summer camp, music festivals, or chorus. Those are good things about facebook, and I'll miss them. Although, come to think of it, you're getting warm.

It is possible that I may not have left facebook permanently. While I'm away, I'm going to spend some good time working out at the bullshit gym, strengthening my bullshit deflecting muscles. I'm gonna devote some portion of my day to working at the lab, testing out those new sprays that make facebook posts slide right off without leaving any powdery residue or unsightly stains. I'm going to go to Use-Facebook-Infrequently-And-Don't-Care-About-Anything-You-Read Camp. We'll see.

I understand that this is new, because, well, I just left, so I haven't thought this through so perfectly yet. But my reasons are timely, and hell, this is my blog, so I'm gonna write about them.

The short version, for those of you who have read about as much as your attention span will tolerate, is: I left facebook over gay marriage.

I mean, that's completely inaccurate and incomplete and doesn't even resemble the truth, but I am aware that, if you're a good little soldier and you read this post all the way to the end, that's what some of you are going to come out saying. It will be wrong, but that's all you will have gotten out of it. So I'm saving you some time. Okay. Fine. I left facebook over gay marriage.

Ding ding! Tram Stop Number Two. We will be stopped here for thirty seconds for those who wish to disembark at this point.

You see, I'm singl.....

I know how you think. I was about to start a sentence with "I'm single, not partnered..." and I could hear your brains clicking and saying "aha!" and linking that sentence to that "I left facebook over gay marriage" thing. See how that works? Well, you're gonna think what you're gonna think.

I'm single. Not partnered. So I mostly have myself to talk to. Yeah. You might think it doesn't make a difference (especially from the privileged perspective of being partnered). But it does.

I live in a town that I moved to solely so that there would be really good public schools for my daughter (an admittedly questionable elitist and capitalist choice that I still struggle with every day)--perhaps needless to say, I don't live in a hotbed of radical lesbian feminist politics. Hmm. Come to think of it, I don't think that there is such a thing as a hotbed of radical lesbian feminist politics anymore, but, hey, a girl can dream. So I don't feel a lot of community where I live and spend a lot of my time.

I'm a mom. I'm the kind of mom that believes when you're a mom, that goes at the top of your list. I get that not everyone feels that way. I do. So I spend a lot of my time with 13 year olds, cooking, packing lunch, and driving to events. (This stretches my anti-assimilation muscles further than they can bear, all on its own.)

I'm a lesbian who came out into an enveloping community of strong, resistant, proud women.....and into a community of some loving, wonderful men, the great majority of whom were dead by the time I'd been out for six or seven years.

Facebook is perfect (or deadly) for people like me. It's a little glimpse of community, a tease. One of my friends said, a while back now, that facebook was like "sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name". So...like a bar, I guess (which could explain my dissatisfaction right there)...but that's not how I took it. I know that feeling. We all know that feeling. Hanging out with friends. A place where people are glad when you pop in to visit. Where you chat a bit and then you go back. Nothin' wrong with that.   That's why I am was there. Keep up with the latest, chat with friends, see what people are up to, take a break from being a single mom in an affluent (gag) suburb. The way life used to be when LGBT people weren't so focused on being "just like you."

I assure you, this is not a procedural issue, or even a fit of cynicism. It's about community. The kicker leads back to that age old conversation, the one that was used to represent "us" (whoever "us" is) in the Supreme Court of the United States (did you hear it?) the one that is one of my least favorite conversations anywhere, anytime.   "We deserve rights because we can't help it", "who would choose this?", "no one in their right mind would choose to be gay". Yeah. The argument in our favor before the Supreme Court included the sentence: "[it became unconstitutional] when we as a culture determined that sexual orientation is a characteristic of individuals that they cannot control." Great. Now it's enshrined in the federal record.

Poor us, we couldn't change this if we wanted to.

Bullshit. There are plenty of us out there who could change it. And have. Some of us (especially women, whose stories are buried under the "legitimate" research that focuses exclusively on gay men) did choose it, and aren't sorry, and aren't victims of this "horrible life where everyone hates us".   I'm one of those. And WHY did I choose it? Not because of the sex. Not because I think women are "hot" (I don't care for, or even understand that concept, no matter who it applies to). Because the women's community, which has long been, at least in part, a euphemism for the lesbian community, at least in the place that I came out, was a wonderful, wonderful place. Warm. Welcoming. Alternative. Accepting. Diverse. Contrary. Loud. Activist. Feminist. Radical.   A positive, wonderful, political choice.

So. This week.

The massive proliferation of red HRC (no, I'm not linking to them) logos made it clear to me, in a more final, permanent, way, that that community is dead, at least in my pretty large circle. I've kind of known it for awhile. But I have been practicing my best denial skills, and it's been working pretty well. Until this.

I have always held, deep in my soul, that if I were ever to find myself in this sort of crowd, I would leave:

I'm Jewish. When a family member dies, we cover our mirrors. It symbolizes a withdrawal from society's gaze, a recognition that mourning is lonely and silent.

And so I left.

Ironically, a few weeks ago, a facebook friend posted a meme that said, aptly: "The only thing worse than being alone is being with people who make you feel alone." Touché.

So now you probably want the brief takeaway, because that's how people are these days (you see? I'm catching on). I told you already. You can say "Robin left facebook because of gay marriage."

Oh. You want the REAL takeaway?

Robin left facebook because she felt as if she found herself in a massive community of people who, almost without exception, have no qualms about playing right into the marketing scheme of a big, wealthy, corporation, and then defending it as benign. Because I found myself nearly swept along in a nationalistic, flag-waving march for assimilation. Because, in an almost flawless enactment of quasi-Orwellian groupthink, a voice of dissent is like screaming into a chasm--and frankly, I have enough of that in my life already without inviting it into my living space through a brightly lit screen.

Lighten up, Robin. It was great. It's a history making event. People were supporting us, everywhere. I loved seeing that sea of red. It meant so many people were with us. It's not a reason to leave. It's just a symbol for marriage equality, and we were just saying we're in favor of it. You're making too big a deal of it. I don't understand why you wouldn't be excited about gay people getting equal rights.

I am excited about gay people getting equal rights. I'm excited about all people getting equal rights, leaving none behind. Ya know, with the emphasis on the none.

And it's not a "symbol of marriage". It's a logo. Like this:

Or this:

(Just in case you don't know what that last logo is (I know you know the first two), it's the logo of the ACLU. You know. The people who argued the case in our favor before the Supreme Court. You know. An organization that is actually related to the cases currently before the highest court in the land. An organization that doesn't focus its time and money on slick marketing campaigns.)

The equal sign, red or not, is a logo, created in 1995 by Stone Yamashita design firm. A logo of a $50 million dollar business, that overpays its executives and which many people within the LGBTQ community (especially those ambivalent about assimilation) do not regard as their advocate of choice.

So, you still want the "blurb".

I am a lesbian. But before that, I am a woman and a feminist. And before that, I am a person who believes in the inherent danger of groupthink, especially in the current culture of corporate capitalism run amok. And before THAT, I'm one of those moms who did not let her kid wear shirts with promiment "GAP" or other logos on them...I long ago joined the surprisingly large league of mothers who have told their children (as part of their education), "If they want us to advertise for them, they can pay us."

That'll do.

Hot tip: I already mentioned that I moderate comments. I don't do that because I like some of you and not others (though that might be true). I do it because there is a HUGE amount of spam that floods into the comments sections of blogs, and it's a LOT to keep up with. So it's easier to moderate. That being said, please don't send me comments that tell me that I need to learn not to take this stuff so personally. I've been listening to that shit my whole life. I am who I am, and I like that I'm principled and analytical, and I have people in my life who like that I'm that way, too. Actually, say it if you must, but be aware that I can respond to comments, and I will then feel free to tell you what you need to learn. Deal?

P.S. Oh. Even though I'm not seeing them anymore, much gratitude to my few friends who changed their facebook profile pictures to GLAD, or Lambda Legal, or the ACLU. Even one or two different ones (not including knockoffs of the HRC logo) helped. And even more gratitude to people who changed their profile photos to pictures of themselves at their weddings or commitment ceremonies, or just together with their families of choice. And even more to those who just left it all alone, so we could all see your face and remember who we're doing all of this for.

Rainbow Hat: 0 Robin: 1

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 20:57:00 +0000

What I want to do is to hurl a similar set of expletives back at you. What I want to do is to get on this blog and rant and rave, and rant and rave some more. What I want to do is to put on my detective hat and find out who you are and throw eggs at your house and let the air out of your car tires and say terrible things (which are of course true) about you in ways that will be as public as possible and hopefully shaming, things that will ring true for your wife, or your family, or others who know you, as they have felt alone in dealing with you for all of these years, feeling like no one would believe them about your behavior. What I want to do is intellectualize and moan about the death of civility. What I want to do is scream.

But instead, I am crying.

This week, I have been in more than my fair share of discussions, both online and in real life, about bullying, perhaps bolstered a bit by the recent studies that have been all over the media that affirm the long term effects of bullying in childhood. Not that these results are surprising--any one of us could tell you that they're true--but it's good to be validated, I guess.

This week, I spoke with a guy who talked about how he was bullied in childhood, and he got over it, and in fact, it made him stronger. He then proceeded to reveal his definition of bullying, which included having someone tell you that your clothes are ugly, or that you're stupid, or pretty much anything that could be categorized as "mean", leaving me to wonder if he had ever experienced bullying at all, or if he just felt free, as so many do these days, to use the term to cover anything that hurts someone's feelings, which is a huge load of crap and a massive disservice to those who are bullied. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for him that he "got over it" and that it "made him stronger". I'm happy for him that he was somehow able to internalize his parents' assurances that the insults were about the person who threw them, and not about him. How nice for him that he had a family that acted, in effect, as a buffer, rather than as a parallel wound.

This week, I made a decision. I decided not to use that worn assurance anymore. It's what my mother said to me, and as these things happen, it's what I say to my daughter. "When your friend insults the way you dress, that's about her insecurity." "When someone tells you you're always copying another friend, that it's her that has all the original ideas, that has nothing to do with you." "When people say mean things, it reflects on them, not on you." I've always thought, right up to this week, that these were pretty good things to say, ways to help a child navigate the world.   Now I think they're missing the point.

This week, I read and grieved and yelled and read some more about the Steubenville rape case. And I thought about the victim, and how she is continuing to be viciously bullied. And I thought about whether we would say such a thing to her. "When those boys raped you and took photographs and everyone talked and laughed, that said something about all of them, not about you." Nice try. Well, OF COURSE it said something about them and not her. Rape is a violent crime (which would make you wonder why it would receive a one year sentence, but that's another conversation) for which the perpetrator--usually male--bears responsibility. But would we say such a thing? I suspect not. I hope not. Because it doesn't help. It's minimizing, and most importantly, it misses the point. She has been violated. She will have to live with this violation and trauma. She continues to endure emotional torture. Assurance that it's not about her doesn't make one bit of difference. She was still the victim, and the pain is hers. If we have any empathy at all, we want to support her and validate her in her pain, not try to help her to rationalize that it's their fault. Yeah. It's their fault. Duh. Can we move on to something that matters?

So why do we feel so free to use those phrases with our kids when they endure the daily torture of peers? Because emotional and verbal violence doesn't count? Because we still believe in that nonsense that starts "sticks and stones.."? Because, well, some pain is legitimate and some pain is "oversensitivity"? Who decides? Because we don't want to nurture a culture of victimhood? As if victimhood is more of a societal problem than victimization?

Last night, I made a stop at Trader Joe's. I was tired. My poor dog was in the car, as she had been for most of the day. I pulled into the lot, littered with red plastic shopping carts (which people call "carriages" here, something I've never gotten used to), all of the carts thoughtfully (I presume) placed in such a way that did not effectively block parking spaces. I got out of my car, took one of those carts that were strewn around the lot, went into the store, grabbed the few things I needed, went back out, and put my single grocery bag in the trunk.

Maybe it's cultural. Maybe it's geographical. Maybe it's generational. Maybe it's laziness. Maybe it's conforming to a cultural norm (like "driving with the flow of traffic", even if everyone is going 10 miles over the speed limit, something I'm sure none of us have ever done). Sometimes (get ready to gasp) I leave my shopping cart in the parking lot.

Mostly, I return my cart, a task admittedly made easier by the invention of "cart returns" in parking lots, something that people a bit younger than me seem to think were always in existence. Mostly, I return my cart because I have a daughter who feels very strongly about such things. Yeah. I want to be her when I grow up. Mostly, I return my cart because it's the right thing to do. Mostly, I return my cart because I've been known to be highly irritated by shopping carts that are left blocking parking spaces. But yeah, sometimes I don't return them. No, I haven't done a sociological analysis of the factors involved. And no, I have never--EVER--left a shopping cart in a place that would block a parking space (you know how they roll, so you have to be careful). It is only just now, however, that I have learned that this behavior is a violation akin to rape or murder. Good to know.

Yeah. Apparently (and here is something I never knew before), every individual who, at any time, has not returned a shopping cart to the grocery store--for any reason--is a heartless waste of life who deserves to be called names and filed in the drawer labeled "100 top reasons to hate people and wish them dead." Yeah, no kidding. People feel more strongly about this than I could ever have imagined. Which I found out first hand in the parking lot of Trader Joe's last night.

Yes, your honor. Yes, I plead guilty. Yes, I was in the process of positioning the wheels of my shopping cart at the front edge of my parking space, in a way which I felt would be certain not to obstruct cars from parking in any of the adjacent spaces. Yes, your honor, I understand that it was wrong. Yes, your honor, I will return my carts from now on. Yes, your honor. I understand.

As I was doing this, a small blue car pulled into the parking space next to me (unobstructed by me or my cart). It then continued into the space directly in front of that space, so that it would be parked facing outward. Plenty of spaces at that time of night, apparently.

He got out of his car, looked at me. White guy, tall, probably early 60's, gaunt, a little unshaven, rainbow striped knit hat (just for the irony, I suppose), a bit of the People's Republic of Cambridge communal housing kind of look. I smiled at him. Because I do that. And then it began.

"Put the f*#kin' cart back at the front of the store, you lazy b@#tch."

Pause. I froze.

"How f#*@ing selfish can you be, blocking parking spaces!"

So here's where the long term effects of bullying come in. I am like a deer in the headlights. Inside my body, where you can't see, I shrink into the smallest possible person you can imagine. I can't possibly think of a productive thing to say or do (see the first paragraph above for the list of the options that generally present themselves). I often think of great things to say about 15 minutes after something like this, but never in the moment. I have never been able to think of something to say in the moment. Except this time.

I looked up at him. I said: "There's a nicer way to say that." I think I raised my voice a bit, but I can't be sure, since I wasn't there at the time.

And then I went and returned the cart, despite the other two carts nearby in the parking lot. I almost took those, too, because that's what it's like being me in such a situation..."Oh, I spilled a small bit of coffee? Don't worry, I'll clean the whole floor!" I heard him behind me. Mostly, I heard that he took one of the carts from the parking lot, as I had about ten minutes prior, to use for his shopping. "He could have just offered to take mine, I do that all the time when I see someone emptying their cart," I mumbled under my breath. Mostly, I was thinking "When I get back to the store and return my cart, I'm going to have to turn around and he'll be right behind me heading into the store, and I'll have to look him in the face again." Mostly, I was trying to figure out where I might have stashed my invisibility cloak, so that that last point would be moot.

I returned my cart. I turned around to head back to my car.   There he was, right behind me. I looked into his eyes, and I said (calmly this time, I'm sure of that) "That was a good idea. And a good reminder. There are just a lot of nicer ways that you could have said that to me."

He gave an odd tilt of his head that, on one hand, looked like "Well, I got you to do it, didn't I"....and on the other hand looked like he couldn't possibly think of something to say in response. I'll take the second one.

When you behave in this way, you don't know who you're talking to. You don't know that person's story. You don't know that a few simple words, uttered in irritation on your part, might equal an hour of shaking and crying for someone else, even when they come up with the right thing to say.

You don't know anything about me. And I don't know anything about you. But I've got one up on you. I know that it is possible to be kind to people I don't know anything about.

F@*^k the hour of crying and shaking.

Rainbow Hat: 0    Robin: 1

A Match Made in Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 18:37:00 +0000

Carnival Cruise Lines, meet Fung Wah Bus Company. Fung Wah, I'd like to introduce you to Carnival. You two have a lot in common, I really think you'll hit it off.

Everybody sing!

Click Your Heels Together Three Times

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 02:20:00 +0000

Look at that. I was just about to say "Well, now that the hubbub over the pope has settled down a bit..." So silly.

So this has been an interesting couple of days. You know it's been an over the top media event when I've been watching it, and I am perhaps one of the least interested people you could meet. For me, watching it is more akin to the way in which some people settle down in front of the TV or computer to watch endless hours of repetitive coverage about a school shooting, or a terrorist attack, more akin to the highway rubbernecking that seems almost instinctual. You know, wondering how these kind of things happen, how we allow them to happen, and what it is in human nature that makes people act in strange and irrational ways.

But what I've really been thinking about is the red shoes.

You know the ones.

And I'm wondering (a lot) if this new guy, this Francis guy (I hear that's a good name for him to have picked) is going to wear the red shoes. Well, not THE red shoes. Not the same ones that his predecessor wore (see above), which I hear were made by Prada (ooh la la). Any red shoes. Becuase this whole red shoes thing is really interesting to me.

For years now, whenever given an opening, I have been an evangelist for red shoes. Not religious red shoes (if there is such a thing). Just red shoes. Ask anyone I know. At some point, I probably have asked them if they own a pair of red shoes (and the cool, and somewhat strange, thing is that most people just nod, like they know that rule, and of COURSE they have a pair of red shoes). I have definitely said that it is my belief that everyone should own a pair of red shoes (and by everyone, I mean women...I admit that I have never thought about whether men should own a pair of red shoes, and I can't say I'm inclined to start now). I don't really know why. It's just a thing. I think it's important. Red shoes put a spring in your step. They stand out, they ensure that you are not invisible. They make people smile...or scowl. Either one is good. Red shoes say that you're not afraid. Everyone (see definition above) should own (and wear) a pair of red shoes.

Which, being who I am, has got me thinking. I know. Unusual.

What is the deal with red shoes? How is it that I am such a maverick, spreading the good word about red shoes long before they became a topic of papal discussion? I mean, it's not the first time I've been ahead of the curve, but still.

So back to this Pope for a minute. Did you hear about how he wouldn't ride in the car, but took the bus? Did you hear how he took off the showiest vestments (or whatever they're called, there are so many words that I don't know) very quickly, as soon as he could? Did you hear about how he refused the fancy white chair in the Sistine Chapel, and just sat with the other cardinals? I think these things are pretty decent.

And yes, I know he's anti-abortion. I know he said that gay people adopting is discrimination against children and "child abuse". I know that he said gay marriage is evil. I've gotten all the emails from every LGBT organization, I've seen the posts on facebook. Get real. He's the POPE. He's the head of the Catholic church. Those things are pretty much a given. Did someone (even one person...yeah, in the whole world) imagine that the cardinals would vote in a person who thinks all of those things are a-ok? Give me a break. Yeah. I don't like those things about him. Or the church. Or the followers. Maybe it's just that I'm a person who is able to hold two conflicting things in mind at one time. Yeah. He's a conservative Catholic whose social and moral positions are far different from mine. Yeah, he may have some horrible political history in Argentina (and the other popes didn't have horrible political histories?). I don't know about you, but it's not like I've been sitting around wondering when the Pope and I are going to agree and have coffee or something.

Still, he appears to have some degree of humility, which is kinda unusual for a Pope, and at least is somewhat in line with the whole religion thing, certainly more than gold chalices and a $350K Mercedes. Humility about something. Anything. That seems like a pretty good thing. That's all. And that's why I bet he's not gonna wear red shoes.

The real question remains: What is the deal with red shoes? Dorothy. Hans Christian Anderson. The Pope. Me.

See what I mean?

I'm not alone. Apparently, Elaine Webster, a sociologist from New Zealand, has done extensive research on why women wear red shoes (another fine use of research). She reports that "some men may become befuddled and even confused [at the sight of women wearing red shoes]" What power--I'm thinking that's a good reason for women to wear red shoes right there. There are guides on how to wear red shoes. There's a red shoe movement. There's a history of red shoes.

The best I can tell, they're about power. And about being noticed. And about magic, and desire, and wishes. And about shoes that won't come off your feet or that go on dancing even after your feet are cut off. Ew.

I don't think he's gonna wear the red shoes.

I still think you should, though.

Bloggal Infallibiity

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 03:50:00 +0000

You learn something new every day. That’s what they say. That’s what I’ve always said, and for the most part, it’s true. I mean it. It's definitely true.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had a lot of those opportunities. For learning something, I mean. And now, as I listen to the radio and hear reports of all that they are doing to prepare theSistine Chapel, including false floors and anti-media strategies (I think that’s a little like the anti-Christ, but I’m not exactly clear on that), and all other things secret (because secret equals good, in case you didn’t know), I’m thinking it’s time to not keep my recently gained knowledge in hiding any more. It’s time to share.

It’s not only about false floors and preventing the highest ranking cardinals from tweeting about the deliberations (I don’t know about you, but it seems like the conclave would be a group of people who you could pretty much count on not to leak information, but hey, what do I know). There’s a whole lot of talk going on on the radio (day and night, night and day) about this whole pope (does the pope get capitalized? Not on my blog). resignation thing, this whole new pope thing. It’s been going on for weeks now. You know, how it’s been 400 or 600 or however many years since a pope resigned, how there are rumors that it’s because there is some investigation about him in relation one of the umpteen sexual or abuse scandals related to the Catholic church, about how he resigned but he’s still going to live at the Vatican with the new pope (how cozy!), which is going to be kind of odd and unprecedented, because how does that work, having a pope and an ex-pope livingin the same place. I know I wouldn’t want to try it.

So, in the middle of one of these radio shows, they were talking about just that, about how things are going to work (or not) when a pope and an ex-pope are living in the same place, how’s that going to work when theoretically both of them are pope material, which is really saying something, or so I’ve heard. There was some kind of expert* on there, someone who really understands Catholicism and Pope-itude, and he was explaining the whole thing. And somehow the conversation wound its way into the issue of “papal infallibility”.

Pay attention. This is where there is something really interesting to be learned. Unless you know it already. But I bet you don’t.

So. It turns out that people have an incorrect understanding of papal infallibility. We think it means that, well, he’s the pope and he’s infallible. Strict reading and all.. Apparently not. Apparently, the pope isn’t always infallible. He’s only infallible under a couple of sets of conditions.

I am NOT going to interrupt here and say that I don’t get how this whole papal infallibility thing, and the nature of his whole position, his regalia and opulent living, etc. is not idol worship, and thus in violation of all biblical principles. I mean, isn’t he kind of a sanctioned golden calf with a pointy hat and a fancy dress? Oh. I guess I just did interrupt and say that. Well, I still don’t get it.

So. The conditions. For infallibility. In case you’re still paying attention.

It was on a show on the BBC. They did a whole hour about the pope resigning. The thing that I liked about it is that they were a little irreverent. Irreverance seems particularly called for in this case (or in any case, but that’s another conversation, too). And they started talking about papal infallibility.

This is where it got really interesting. Or funny. Or something.

They were talking with Father Martin, and asked about a really interesting conundrum. The commentator (sorry, don’t know his name) said that the Pope resigning as a result of the decline of age and inability to carry out the responsibilities of the post implied human fallibility, and how did that jibe with papal infallibility. Father Martin responded:

“Papal infallibility is sometimes misunderstood….”

Okay.

“…The Pope is only infallible in very specific occasions…”

Okay.

“…First of all, when he declares that he is speaking infallibly, and second of all, in matters of faith and morals..”

Umm…..

“When he is speaking infallibly, he tells you, and those occasions are very limited.”

Wait. Shut the front door.

When he is speaking infallibly, he TELLS YOU?

Now just to be clear, I was driving when I heard this. I almost had to pull over. I’m really glad I wasn’t drinking coffee or anything at the time or there might have been a mess. I’ll tell you one thing. I answered that one out loud. Here’s what I said.

“I WANT THAT!”

No kidding. That is just completely amazing. He’s not usually infallible, but on the rare occasions in which he is, you know that what he saying is infallible because he tells you. I mean, how does THAT work? Does he interrupt himself (you know, in case he forgot to mention it) and say “Oops. This next part is infallible” (or maybe something more like “Mea culpa. Quod dicturus sum certus.”, so much more pope-like). Really? I want that.

I mean, that could really come in handy. In my daily life—heck, in ALL our daily lives-- there are many times that it would be helpful to notify people (like, say, teenagers. Or spouses. Or bosses. Or whoever) that we are definitely correct and not subject to questioning. So cool.

But then it occurred to me that there was another place in which that sort of “warning” (if you want to call it that) would be really helpful. Blogging. It would be really helpful in blogging. Because you know, all those pesky comments, and people saying they disagree, and arguing (like you do). It gets tiring.

So that got me thinking.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my more than a half century (gasp) of living and being female, it’s that you’ve got to stake your claim. You’ve got to speak up. You’ve got to stop being a doormat and stand up and say what you want. If you don’t ask for what you want, you’ll never get it (I know I saw that on one of those dreamy little facebook photos). In addition to taking back the night, and taking back our bodies, we’ve got to take back words. And rights. And power. Yeah. Power.

So here’s what I’ve decided. You deserve some fair notice. And I don’t want you to miss it. I don’t want to be misunderstood. So let’s make this easy.

I’ve developed what I’m calling an Infallibility Badge. It’s big. It’s bold. It’s red. It's an I. You know, for Infallible. You won’t miss it. Here it is:

If and when (and you know there’s gonna be a when) I write a blog post that is about to be infallible, I’m going to put the Infallibility Badge at the top. Then you’ll know. Sound good? Good.

It won’t be often. Only “in very specific occasions”. And those will be “very limited”. But you know, sometimes I’m right. And I think it’s only fair that I let you know ahead of time.

So that’s the plan.

Capisce?

*It turned out that the expert who knew all about these things (at least according to the BBC) is Jim Martin, a Jesuit priest from New York. I looked him up, checked out his HuffPost blog, including the post in which he briefly eulogized JeanneManford, the recently deceased founder of PFLAG, and he looks like a pretty okay guy (an impression which was only fortified with his more recent entry, entitled “12 Pretty Good Reasons Why I Should Be Pope”). This led me to check him out even more (and got an education—more learning!) with a friend of mine who knows a whole heck of a lot (wait, am I supposed to use that word “heck” in a post about Catholicism? The learning continues) about this stuff than I do (which is pretty much anybody, but she understands this way better than your average anybody). I learned a little about the difference, to the extent that there is a difference, between Roman Catholics and Jesuits and Franciscans and, you know, the other variations not named here, including those guys that made the wine in California. It was really helpful and interesting, especially since my prior knowledge (if you can call it that) was a vague sense that the Jesuits were “the good ones”, whatever that means—although I’m pretty sure it has something to do with having a HuffPost blog and being on the Colbert Report and joking around about being made pope and having a Twitter account and a Facebook page, which you should definitely check out (yesterday’s tweet: “Conclave Tip: Black smoke: No Pope. White smoke: Pope. Gray smoke: The College of Cardinals can't figure out how to use the @#$%&%* stove.”). I mean, I’m a Jewish atheist, and now I’m following this guy. What can I say, I likes me a guy with a sense of humor about religion.

Everything I Really Need To Know I Learned in Maine

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 16:30:00 +0000

Okay, so this is something that I wish I didn't get. Does that still count?

Caution: Cynicism ahead. (oh, like that's something new)

So here it is. Remember, way back when, there was this hubbub about this thing called "Everything I need to know I learned in Kindergarten" (or something like that)? It was all the rage. Posters, mugs, even a book, as I recall.   Saw it posted on the back of bathroom stalls a couple of times (I mean, if that's not evidence that you've arrived, I don't know what is...that's one of my dreams, to have my writing adjacent to the Hiney-Hider logo, which you should know about because what else do you have to do while you're on the pot rather than read the logo on the stall door lock--other than text or read email on your cell phone, that is, ugh, man, is nothing sacred anymore?).   Never bought any of 'em (kind of surprising since I was a preschool director at the time), never was a particular fan, but some of it was cute (cute being one of my least favorite words of all time--right up their with "pus"--but it is the right word for this list). Honestly, I don't remember most of the things on the list, but any one of us can probably figure them out. They're about the regular stuff: sharing, making friends, listening, being fair. You get the idea.

Well, as of this weekend, I am seeing that period of time, which I think was sometime in the late 80's or early 90's (yeah, I could look up the publication date of the book, which sounds just like what I would normally do for the blog because I'm a nut for veracity, but I'm just too lazy. I've been driving all day, gimme a break) as a social marker of sorts. You know how something happens, and in retrospect, it is a historical turning point, an event that, for better or worse, marked a shift in consciousness or in social trends? Well, that's what I'm talkin' about. I am now realizing that that book (and poster and mug and accompanying hubbub) was a harbinger (I like that word). They were--for those of you who prefer sports analogy--a penalty flag to alert us of the coming shift.

There is the Victorian Age.   There is the Age of Reason. There is the Hippie (once and for all, it's' spelled "hippie", NOT "hippy", which is an adjective describing a certain endowment around the hip area, NOT people in tie-dye clothes, love beads, and long stringy hair....got that major annoyance out of my system, spelling snob that I am) Era.   There is the Disco Era.   And now this.

When I was in grad school, I took a class on creativity, which turned out not to quite be about creativity (at least in my book), but which was really interesting anyway. In that class, we talked a lot about the phenomenon of "co-incidence", which is a fancy (i.e. academic, cuz it's important to say things in grad school that no one who was not in grad school would understand, you see, gotta separate ourselves from the riffraff.) way of saying "in the right place at the right time with the right skills or talents". Well, that's what I think happened here.

That guy, I think he was a minister, came out with that list of all things that he learned in kindergarten. It's really a list of how to be a civil human being. Everyone raved, nodded, clucked knowingly. Murmurs of "that's right" and chuckles of recognition were heard in every tzotchke store in the land. And why? Because on some level, we all knew it. This was the beginning of the end.

Just for today, I'm blaming it on technology. I say just for today because I think it's right, but I might change my mind tomorrow, and I want to keep my options open. You understand.

So where did this particular rant originate, you may be asking? Where did she go? What did she see? What thoughtless oaf did she meet?   I'm glad you asked.

First, the factual answer. I went to Bar Harbor, Maine (lovely place, a few too many tzotchkes, probably sold many copies of that poster back the day, maybe adorned with lobsters and blueberries) and Acadia National Park. Never been before. Beautiful and peaceful place (although---more cynicism alert--the overwhelming degree of hubbub about it's gorgeousity leaves me wondering if folks have been to Yosemite, or Glacier, or Waipio Valley--not that it's valid to compare, but still, if you haven't been to those places, you definitely should go). Much of the park, blessedly, is without cell phone signal or (gasp) wifi.

No, people were really quite friendly. It wasn't a hotbed of people who missed civility training (or kindergarten). But it was a place where there was an overabundance of Oblivious. And Oblivious is where the whole technology thing comes in.

People walking down a crowded sidewalk staring at their cell phones or texting away kind of Oblivious.
People who sit (and sit and sit) in their car at a stop sign (probably doing something on their cell phone) while cars line up behind them kind of Oblivious.
A family of five that pulls their bikes up and parks the bikes, standing alongside them, effectively blocking a 15 foot wide walkway that is the only entry way to restrooms, for 10 minutes kind of Oblivious (humility alert: there I was, thinking "only Americans would do this", and it turned out they were German, which was an interesting, though not irrelevant twist).
A person who is finished drying her hands at the only dryer (paper towels are out) in the bathroom and chooses to stand in front of it and rearrange the contents of her purse as multiple people hover with dripping hands kind of Oblivious.

I know what you're saying. Geez, here you were in this beautiful place, and you're focused on all of the irritating parts.   The whole glass half empty kind of thing (which I don't really get, since half empty and half full seem like pretty much the same thing to me, half is half, but that's another post for another day). I hate to disappoint you, but...not really. It was really more of an observation. I'm like that. I was really struck (not irritated) at how many different languages were being spoken in the park. I was amazed at the incredible strength or determination (or both) of those who ride their bikes in this mountainous park, and watched with wonder as I drove carefully around people who cycled up steep roads alongside the crashing ocean...beautiful. I noticed that almost none of the people on a steep hike were carrying water (which made me feel better because I didn't have any.) And I noticed that there were a lot of people who were Oblivious.

Here it is: I predict that this period of time---the early part of the 21st century--will come to be known as The Oblivious Age.

You heard it here.

Now put down your smart phone and make some eye contact for a few minutes.   Just like your kindergarten teacher said.

You've Heard of Bigfoot....

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 23:39:00 +0000

I've always been gullible. And when I say always, I mean always.

I believe people. So shoot me.

But when you're the kind of person who drives miles out of your way to sit on a huge sturgeon with a saddle, or to visit the Jello Museum, or to pay your respects to the guy who came up with the idea of putting holes in donuts (as I did on this very day!), well, you're probably a bit more inclined to believe silly things.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it probably makes you a bit more inclined to be duped.

My friend who owns a small dog who convinced me that she had a herd of Great Danes can testify (among others).

What can I do. I'm like that.

[Notice to friends reading this: This is NOT, I repeat NOT, an invitation to sell me a piece of swamp land or convince me that you have alligators in your damp basement. You're on notice.]

Well, it happened again today.

I think.

Maybe not. Maybe I just wasn't looking in the right place.

See? See how persistent it is? The lingering "hey, it's possible!" has its own special force.

Lucky for me, I got a picture of the guy. Here he is.

I ask you. Doesn't that look like the kind of place where you could gain valuable information about local scenic attractions? Right! I thought so too!

So there I was, sitting in front on that very same bench, proudly displaying (and drinking) my old fashioned tiny ice cold bottle of Coke (mmmm), right within spitting distance from...well, we'll call him the POI ("person of interest"), not to be confused with the taro substance, please.

So we gets to chattin', the two of us. He asks if I'm on vacation. I tell him I'm on my way home. He asks if I've been over the new bridge (which is effin' spectacular, btw). I say yes, on the way there, and I'm just about to go over it again. He says I could go up in the observation tower. I ask him if he's done that. He says "three times". It all sounds good so far. There is a new bridge. It does have an observation tower. See? It's not like I don't check people out or anything.

Then he says that when I go over the bridge from this direction, I can see (and possibly photograph) the giant football. (do I have a sign on my forehead that says I stop at and photograph ridiculous things?) I got excited, real quick. "Where?" "Where can I best see it?" "Is there room to pull over?" "Is it possible to take a picture?" (Answers: On the other side of the bridge, look "up there". At the end of the bridge. Sure, if there's no cars behind you. Yup, if you have a red light." (See? There WAS a stoplight at the end of the bridge! And it WAS red! See? He's telling the truth!)

He says "You've heard of Bigfoot. Well, we have a Big Football." I laugh. (I still believe him)

He says that a guy came through on a motorcycle, and he told him about the giant football, and the guy on the motorcycle didn't believe him, but then he went across the bridge and he saw it and he took pictures and he came back to say that he actually saw it, even though he hadn't believed it. (See? Testimony!)

He says that he hopes more people photograph it, because one of these days, with the weather and all, it's not going to be there anymore, and it's good to have proof that it was there. I nod, thinking that's true, it's important to preserve all weirdness, and also thinking all the while that this is my big opportunity to provide a new entry for Roadside America, the website (and app!) that guides oddball travelers to...well, sturgeons and giant strawberries.

Summer 2010 - Strawberry Point, Iowa

Roadside America calls them "offbeat tourist attractions", which makes the folks there the kings and queens of euphemism, but to me, they're the gods of such things, so they can call 'em anything they want. (See? If there are giant strawberries, why would you doubt giant footballs?)

So.......across the bridge I went (though not before shaking the hand of the POI, since it is important to properly thank anyone who provides you with valuable travel information). I looked "over there" and "up there" (wishing I had asked for a bit more detail). I pulled over (there was a place). I stopped again at the red light. I looked around. Trees. Granite. Bridge. Water. View. Football????

Alas, dear readers, I fear I have been taken for a ride. (or again, maybe not, maybe I just missed it. Hey, it's POSSIBLE!).

Wait. I figured it out. Maybe the football is only visible if you go up in the observation deck of the bridge. Hmmmmmmmm. I'm going to do a little googling. (yeah, it's a verb)

Well, gosh. THERE it is. I don't know how I could have missed it. Musta been the angle. Or the treeline. Or something. Wow. Nice football.

Look for it next time you go to that part of Maine. It's big. You can't miss it. If you do, ask the guy at the Fort View Variety store, he'll tell you. Spread it around. Tell people it's real. Take it viral. Make everyone going across that bridge look for the giant football. This is America.

One more thing. Now you know. If you're ever thinking of going on a road trip with me (I love me some road trips), you now have fair warning. This is what my road trips are like, whether they are two days or two months long.

I chase goofy stuff. I believe people. And I love stories.

Don't say I never did nothin' for ya.

Just in case....

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 22:30:00 +0000

I was here. I'll be back. I don't have much of a connection, and my iPhone is older than God, so it isnt so swift for remote blogging. If I can squeak it in tonight, I will.

Hearses in South China

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 02:58:00 +0000

This is where I'm staying tonight. No. Really.

Here's how it went (more or less):

Me: "Do you have any rooms still available?"

[insert mandatory relevant Larry tone, heretofore referred to as MRLT] "For one night?"

Me: "Well, either one or two nights"

[long pause]

MRLT (but a wee bit slower and a bit more monotone): "Well, I have a room for tonight. It's late so there's not much"

Me: "I understand. So you only have a room for tonight?"

MRLT: "Well, I have a room for tonight. And...um...I have a room for tomorrow night. But no two nights. I can't switch people around"

Me: "So we could switch rooms tomorrow?"

MRLT: "I don't know"

Me: "But we could check in about that in the morning?"

MRLT: "Yeah. You can check with my brother Glenn. He'll be here from 8 until 10. Then my brother Chris will be here, and then [insert female name that I can't remember] will be here. You can ask them."

Me: "Great"

MRLT: They have [insert name of my bank] around here now?

Me: No, I just used to live in a different place.

MRLT: Yeah, well this credit card machine isn't like at McDonald's. It takes a while. The people from Europe, those ones with Ing cards and stuff, theirs seems to go faster. Yours too. Maybe because it's from a bank that's out of state."

Me: "Wow. Maybe."

There's more to tell, but I don't want to infringe on your overactive imagination. Go right ahead, take it to the next place in your mind. You're probably right.

Oh, and about the hearse thing. I don't know. I just don't know. I mean, last night, a friend asked me I was feeling morbid, and maybe this is just the karmic detritus from that conversation. Or maybe I really did watch Harold and Maude too many times (No, I'm not saying how many times. Suffice it to say I've seen it more times than you have. By a lot. Yeah, I'm sure.).

You tell me.

Why would a highly polished new-ish hearse (no casket) with Rhode Island plates be barreling along on the highway in Maine, headed north? Yeah, a real hearse.

And why, once in Maine, with said hearse left behind hours ago, would I suddenly encounter a yard (one that appears to be a makeshift auto repair yard) with three, count 'em, THREE, black hearses in front (and two stretch limos, one up on blocks, but now you're just getting picky)? What's with the hearses?

It was quite a day.

My one regret is that I didn't stop for a bite at the China Dine-ah. It's clearly the place to be (situated as it is between Paris, Norway, and Palermo). I did pirate a photo though, so that counts. Maybe next time.

I hear it's the dining spot of choice for hearse drivers, who seem to be drawn to it like moths to a flame. Go figure.

Bubbles

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 01:53:00 +0000

So, about that photo yesterday. I just want to say that I, too, was cool. I had a corn cob pipe (well, that's what it looks like in the picture, anyway). I had several actually--you know, in case I misplaced one. Don't you have multiple corn cob pipes--say, in your kitchen drawer?

They looked pretty much like this one:

I know, I know. What? You, the most vehement anti-smoker gal that anyone has ever met...you had a bevy of pipes? When? Where? Why? How?

Well, I had a mom that was a teacher at one time. Never during my lifetime, but at one time. Unless you consider someone a teacher whether they are employed as a teacher or not, which I do, which would mean that my mother was a teacher during my lifetime, and remains so to this day, which kind of negates the whole "at one time" thing, but you get my drift. And what that meant, that being-been-is-a-teacher thing, is that there were always what we'll call "materials". Things. Objects. Paraphenalia. Stuff to do stuff with. Art supplies. Toys. You name it. It wasn't all out, but it was all there, and I knew it.

So, in one of the many drawers, there were corn cob pipes. I bet they're still there. I never associated them with smoking. I barely knew that was what a pipe was for, even though my uncle, who visited sporadically, smoked a pipe, which I gotta say smelled great, not like the stench of cigarettes or cigars. I just didn't put the two things together.

No. I wasn't stupid. I was a child.

That was one of the beauties of a childhood that was genuinely a childhood, so unlike many childhoods these days--it carried with it an entirely shameless naivete. So many folks these days, when they talk about how "I had a water pistol or a toy gun, and it didn't hurt me none, I didn't grow up to shoot people, it's so ridiculous when parents these days don't let their kids play with toy guns, they've lost control of their senses, they're helicopter parents, blah blah blah". No. That's not it. In addition to an arsenal of water pistols, I had a hefty toy gun, a big green scuffed plastic toy gun (wait, I'm going to ebay right now to see if I can find one like it). It clicked when you pulled the trigger, and it had a whistle where the little doohickey that you pull back to "cock" a gun would have been located. This one is kinda close, except it was green, not blue, and it didn't say police on it, and it was scuffed, not shiny, and, like I said, mine had a whistle (I know, I said that twice, but how cool is it to have a whistle on it? I can still remember the taste of the plastic.) But still.

Yeah. Me. The rabid "don't let your kids play with guns" person. I had one. Well, actually--and now I'm a little embarassed--when i was searching for the cool green whistle gun on ebay, I found this one,

which I also apparently had. Hell, maybe i had a whole arsenal and I'm just in denial about it. Anything is possible.

Okay, so I had a whole mess o' guns (or two, anyway). But most especially that green one. I loved it, and yeah, it didn't hurt me none, I didn't grow up to shoot people or even like guns. But here's the rub: I didn't know ANYTHING about real guns. I didn't see them on TV, except in westerns, which were okay, but I didn't exactly identify with the characters. I didn't know anyone who had a gun, other than my dad's non-operational German gun in a leather holster that was a souvenir from his service in World War II, which was kept in his bedside table drawer for my entire childhood. I knew it was there, I saw it, I held it--for all intents and purposes, it was indistinguishable (other than by weight) from my green plastic toy gun with a whistle. It was an item, with a label, but it had nothing to do with bullets, nothing to do with harm, nothing to do killing...I didn't even know of such things. Under these conditions, playing with a toy pistol is a whole 'nother ball 'o wax. If you're young, and you weren't around during the 60's, you're just gonna have to believe me. We just didn't see people shooting people on TV--real people, I mean. It wasn't like that. Context is everything.

So plastic guns were for chasing people around and pretending to shoot them without any awareness of what shooting was. Candy cigarettes--which are still sold, and which I also think differently of now (there were no health warnings on cigarettes way back when)--were for pretending to smoke to look cool--they didn't turn me into a smoker, either, maybe because I had no idea that those people who were putting those white sticks up to their mouths were inhaling smoke. I thought they were props. Mine were. And corn cob pipes*? They were for blowing bubbles.

You soak 'em in some dish soap (hot tip: Dawn is best for this) and water, and then you blow bubbles to your heart's content. They're not like the kind of bubbles that float through the air (even though that's what it looks like on the youtube videos of fancy schmancy bubble pipes). They're the kind that just grow and flow and cascade over the side of the bubble pipe, landing on your red rubber toed sneakers, soaking them in soapy suds. So cool.

I bet that's what General MacArthur did on his time off.

*Given my stream of consciousness style, I want a little bit of credit for not blathering on about how i don't get how anyone would come up with the idea of turning a corn cob into a pipe anyway, because frankly, when I eat a yummy ear of corn, the last think I think about is "how could I hollow this out and stuff something inside it and smoke it". But hey, that's just me.

I Can Take A Hint

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 02:54:00 +0000

"Age wrinkles the body. Quitting wrinkles the soul."

Yeah. That's what I said. I can take a hint.

Now, I'm not saying that when I take a hint, I act on it right away or anything. I'm just saying I can take one.   Kind of like a nap, I'm thinking.

Wait. Nothing like a nap, because it is well known that I cannot take a nap. Bad analogy. Oh man, and that's even the part of the SAT that I aced.

By saying this, I don't want to imply that this is the first hint I've had, the first tug, the first nagging pointed finger in my back telling me to start blogging again. But this one, well, it's a doozy (is that how you spell doozy? doozie??).

It's not like I haven't been lonely. Or missed writing. Or reading. Or all the ridiculous reading and linking and tagging and networking that leads to blog readership which in turn leads to motivation to keep writing. Okay, I haven't missed that last one, you got me there.

It's been a long time, hasn't it. Yup. It has.

It's a common malady. I'm seeing that.   As you know, I was all gung ho there for awhile. And then it died out.   Or my life changed. Or something. As I've been considering coming back, I've meandered around the web, visiting some of the blogs that I loved and frequented during my gung ho days (which should be distinguished from my Gunga Din days, which are a completely different thing, though they do both involve a fair amount of carrying). And, well, a lot of them ain't what they used ta be. I'm pretty sad about that--they were great reading. Some have just grown sparse, bare around the edges, while others have disappeared all together. I guess what I'm saying is that I feel like I'm in some pretty damn good company (in the disappearing if not in the returning). Hey, it's a first step with that loneliness thing, right?

But this isn't about going away. It's about returning. Again.

Believe you me, I'm asking the questions. Why am I back? Why am I trying to do this again?   Why say so, rather than just starting again? Huh?

Well, first, because I can take a hint. I told you that already.

Second, because the other night, I found myself watching Julie and Julia again (on TV this time--with ads, which I do NOT recommend, which is why I only wound up watching part of it). I liked that movie. And I remembered going to see it with friends--back in the day before they had a child and could do things like see movies--and smiling and laughing knowingly at her talking about doing a blog, getting comments, having "readers", and finding a construct that would move her to write daily rather than whenever she felt like it, which is really important because, as we well know, in today's ADD world if you don't have a structure for doing something all the time, it often doesn't get done, which is what Julie knew and so she decided to work her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I remembered how much fun it was, how much work it was, how it represented a tiny leap of faith that took place every single day, when I pressed "Publish", sending my words out into the middle of nowhere and everywhere, with trust. It was a big deal. I remember that now.

(by the way, Julie Powell's last blog post was more than year ago (unless she's moved somewhere else, I'm lazy tonight so I'm not doing much digging). So there.)

And third, because (this is a secret...shhhhh), well, I never stopped. Yeah, I know that it looks like I stopped. And I can't prove that I didn't, because there's no secret place --or worse yet, another blog, which would just be like infidelity, that would be wrong--where all the writing I did while I was stopped is located. But I did write. Every day.   Sometimes multiple times a day.   I even stayed on topic.   I wrote about the things I didn't (don't) get. The trick was in getting them to come out the tips of my fingers. Just wasn't happenin'.

So there I was, watching Julie and Julia and trying to keep track of the couple of hundred blog posts that were written in my head, or at least trying to get myself to stop writing them if I wasn't actually going to write them down, you know?, and then I got an email. Because way back when, when I needed the structure that Julie Powell had (at least in her fictional persona) I found it in Nablopomo. Write every day. For a month. Who can't do that? It's 30 days, give or take a couple. Sheesh. If I can't do that....well then. I have friends who do Nanowrimo, ferevvinsakes (and god bless 'em).

Yeah, that's who sent the email. Nablopomo. Because every month, they send a cordial little note saying what the theme for the upcoming month is, just in case you want to jump back on board (how nice of them!). You don't have to follow the theme, it's just a crutch, in case you can't figure out what to write about, in which case you can write about the theme, which always seems harder to me than writing about something else, but there ya go.

So there they were. In my mailbox. And what did they say the "theme" was for September?

"Return"

Get that.   Like I said, I can take a hint.

And so, as they say, I shall.

30 days. Returning.   I can do that.

I'm Changing My Name To Bambi and Moving to the Woods

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 06:22:00 +0000

Once, a pretty long time ago now, one of my sisters told me a joke. No, it wasn't only that time that she told a joke, but you know what I mean. Grammar is an evil taskmistress. Now, I don't remember the whole joke (don't you hate it when people say that? Don't they know how to tell a joke?), but I remember the basic punchline, and I remember she thought it was really funny. As a youngest sister with an unacknowleged idolatry for those older, I proceeded to tell it ad nauseum, laughing loudly at the end, just like she did. (As I read this, I'm thinking it must have been a LONG time ago). For the most part, people just looked at me blankly.

Note to smart asses out there: No, that doesn't always happen when I tell jokes, even though I don't really tell jokes all that often--I tell stories, and they usually go over pretty well, unless I'm kidding myself, which is entirely possible.

Occasionally, after a pregnant pause, they'd say "I don't get it". And then I'd explain. Which, as you know, is pretty much like the crawling-on-your-belly-in-the-slime of jokedom.

The joke concerned one Fifi LaRue (occupation unnamed though implied), who introduced her parents, Mr. & Mrs. LaRue. That's it. Yeah, that's it. The whole thing. Are you laughing yet? Yeah, I didn't think so. No, I'm not gonna explain it to you.

Factoid: It turns out that there are nearly 10,000 people in the United States with the last name LaRue, which means "the street" (get it?). That pretty much shoots the whole thing to hell, even if you got it in the first place, which frankly, would make you an outlier, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now, none of that is what I wanted to talk about, but was simply what they call, in my line of work, "the lead-in". Oh. Wait. Not in my line of work. But in somebody's, I'm sure. I'm referring to the title of this post in which (if you read it) I announce that I'm changing my name to Bambi. Now there are a subset of you gentle readers who, for lack of a better expression, have your minds in the gutter. You saw that title, and you thought I was ditching the glamorous life of blog-writing, consulting, responsible parenting, and all-round child development geek to take up the womanly art of stripping. If you know me in person, I'm sure it's something you've considered suggesting to me as a career choice, but you've just been too shy to mention it. That's okay.

(Wait, I have to catch my breath. It's winter, I have rhinitis, and I cough whenever I laugh too hard)

Maybe, to you, it comes with the name. You know, like Ms. Fifi there. Well, get over yourself, I am talking about the movie. Yeah, the deer one. Specifically, I am talking about a line: "I'll do it because you want to but not because you tell me to."

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: That's me. Obnoxious, right? Aw, go ahead, I've heard it all before. Sticks and stones, all that nonsense.

See, the thing is, I'm not really one for expectations. Or rules. Or authority. Or pressure. Or being supervised or watched. You get the idea. No (since you asked), it hasn't worked out all that well. But a leopard doesn't change its spots [apologies to Kipling]. And the thing is (True Confessions....ooh), I'm not like one of those normal people who dislike authority. Nope. Such things tend to stop me dead in my tracks. It's a little like that famous line of Groucho Marx about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. Kinda.

It's not exactly a source of pride (except when it is). Admittedly, it can really screw things up. And it has. Most importantly (and most unfortunately), it even happens when the feedback is positive. If it carries expectations, I'm out. Now, before you panic, don't get me wrong. I'm highly responsible and dependable, even though it sounds paradoxical in this context. I'm loyal, capable of tremendous commitment. Maybe it's just that no one could possibly have higher expectations of me than I do (or so I'm told). Or maybe not. I just like to set my expectations myself, that's really all.

The reason I mention this here is that, as some of you know, I was writing a daily blog for quite awhile. And then I stopped (for reasons not unrelated to this post). And then, just a couple of weeks ago, I came back. I'm glad to be back. And I started getting the kindest emails and comments, reminding me that people like my writing and are glad the blog is up and going again. You'd think this would be affirming. Encouraging. Well, sure. Instead, I couldn't write. And if I tell you this, you'll all stop telling me this stuff because I've just told you that it stops me, but it's also what sustains me. Hey, I told you it was messed up.

I'm gonna figure it out.

So that's why I'm sayin'....I'm changing my name to Bambi and moving to the woods. If they have wifi there (gawd, I hope so), I'll let you know how it's going.

Oh.

Uh-oh.

Hmm.

I just found out that the line is not from Bambi at all, but rather from Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. Oh. I've always heard it in Thumper's voice. I guess I should stop that. I mean, I understand where I got confused. Bambi is about a baby deer [insert visual and auditory image of children singing as they skip through the Alps dressed in drapery] that is traumatically separated from his mother and all the cute little animals that accompany him (even though I always think he's a her, just goes to show you how unnecessary that whole gender thing is) on his romps through the forest, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle is about an older woman who lives in an upside down house surrounded by neighborhood children and who provides parents with magical cures for their childrens' obnoxious (but perfectly developmentally appropriate--I told you I was a child development geek, I can't help it) behaviors. See? It's practically like the same story! And it wasn't a rabbit that said it, it was a bird. A parrot. Both animals! See?

Shoot. Never mind, then.

Wow. I mean....Wow.

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 00:27:00 +0000

Oh, gawd, I can't believe I'm still talking politics. This isn't like me. I'll probably be sorry. I don't know what's come over me.

It's just that it's not all that often that I come across something that really makes my head spin. I mean, by this point in life, having been out for going on thirty years now, there's just not that much that is very surprising. The arguments against equal rights are the same, basically boiling down to "if we give gay and lesbian people civil rights, then everyone's going to want them!", a sentence that makes me laugh every time. Oh, to be sure, they're still there...the "next thing you know people are going to want to marry their pets" or "children are going to be taught the mechanics of homosexual sex in public schools". I bask in their extreme absurdity, which only weakens the stance of those who oppose equality.

The one thing that may have changed, though, is the public rhetoric. You see, the other side is aware of the irony as well, and they have shifted the discourse over the year, or, more to the point, they have dressed it in a more universally acceptable vocabulary (of course, the vitriol lies beneath a thin surface, but it's awfulnice of them to coat it with frosting so it takes a wee bit longer to burn one's ears off, gosh thanks.). You know the ones. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Some of my best friends.... What people do in their own homes is their own business, I just don't think the government should sanction it.

So, every once in a while, when someone really lets loose and speaks the words that blatantly and transparently expose that this is truly about fear, and about wholly irrational fear at that, it's really quite refreshing. I'm really all for honesty, so it's all good.

In this case, I am speaking of the defendant in the Prop 8 case that hid his tails between his legs, turned, and ran today, one Hak-Shing William Tam. He's withdrawing, well, because people are being mean to him. He says that he's starting to be recognized, and that's a problem because he gets harassed--it was so much better (yeah, this is actually what he's saying) when he was basically anonymous. Poor guy. Coming out of the closet can be rough. Don't we know it. So, he's going back in. Hey, it's happened before.

But get a load of this. This is it. The big tomato.

When speaking of the reason he felt it was important that California not legalize gay marriage, he said: ""Every child, when growing up, would fantasize marrying someone of the same sex." EVERY CHILD? Wow. (I know, I just can't stop saying it). You mean there are NO children who have a natural heterosexual orientation? Wow.

I have to say, I did not know this. I did not know that underneath, everyone, everywhere, secretly wants to be gay or lesbian, and that all they need is a little permission from somewhere--anywhere--and it's a done deal. I didn't know, really! I didn't know that heterosexuality was so inherently unappealing that the slightest temptation or opening (no pun intended) would turn the tables so that the 10% (or so) would be shifted to the other foot, so to speak, with the enormous majority being queer. Wow. And again, I saw Wow. That is interesting, no?

Next time I see my mom, my sisters, my in-laws, nearly all the folks I have worked with, my neighbors, I'm gonna ask them. I mean, I'd like to put all their (and their children's!) eventual coming out dates on my calendar. Wouldn't want to miss it or anything.

Tell ya what. Some of those very same purportedly heterosexual people are reading this, right here, right now. Just so you know, my door is open. There will be a prolonged amnesty period, don't worry about it. You know what they say, admitting it is the first step. Feel free to use the comments section. I'm here for you.

Oh, and 100 points (and valuable prizes) to the man who comes out as Mr. Tam's longtime or childhood crush. I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself. Stay tuned, more wows to come.

As the Crow Walks

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 17:54:00 +0000

Some days, you need a reminder that the fastest way isn't always (or ever) the best way, that not all who wander are lost.

Some days, metaphors just appear, right in your front yard, just to make sure you get the point. Like a personal delivery service. Kinda handy, I gotta say.

I don't know exactly why I love this so much, but I do.

En-Couraging

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 00:31:00 +0000

Mary Daly died yesterday.

This wouldn't be my blog if I didn't write about her passing, and so here I am, doing my best to ignore the internal tug that would pull this blog out (waaaay out) of the sorts of things I usually write about and into the intense tension that is radical feminism. Yup, I could go there. Quietly, I do. Most of the people I know don't know that about me, that I could happily live and breathe the air of that discussion. I choose not to, probably because I am too sensitive to withstand the fight without crumbling, which does not mean I can't or don't or won't stand up for myself.

Most people know her as the woman, the theologian, who taught Feminist Ethics at Boston College, a Jesuit institution, and was eventually fired because she would not allow men to attend her course (she did offer them separate independent study). Actually, it's a little bit (or a lot) more complicated than "she was fired" but you can read the story yourself, so I won't belabor the details, except to say that the spark that lit the flame came from the hands of two male students who enrolled in her course not out of interest or desire to learn, but expressly to challenge her policy (neither had fulfilled the course prerequisite). One of the students was backed from the start by a right-wing conservative think tank, which proceeded to sue BC. 'Nuff said. And let's not even get started on the irony therein.

I thank her for her objection (vociferous, ever, always) to the term "forcible rape", as if there is any other kind.

I thank her for the deep humor expressed in Websters' First New Intergalactic Wickedaryof the English Language. I was a young woman when it was published, and I heard her read from it at Mama Bear's Books in Oakland, California. I was transfixed. Yeah, these days we all talk about "reclaiming" words, but I had never heard anything like it. Her discussion of dis-ease, gyn/ecology, and sin-tactics made me laugh, made me wonder, made me think. They still do. I gotta dig up my copy of that book.

Oh, yes, I know that she was and will continue to be immensely controversial, that many disagree with her, that she was criticized for her omission of people of color and for her negative statements about transsexualism. She wasn't afraid of critique. I admire her courage. As she said: "...courage is like -- it's a habitus, a habit, a virtue: you get it by courageous acts. It's like you learn to swim by swimming. You learn courage by couraging."

You learn courage by couraging. Who else could have said that?

The thing that strikes me most about her writing and thought is that it embodied a movement, an era, of which I was a part. A place that no longer seems to exist, or if it does, it is deafeningly quiet. She said unpopular things, but she said what she thought. That's what fierce means to me.

You know, we joke about "political correctness". We think we've transcended it, so many of us. We think we (and our politics) are progressive, sometimes even radical, and we are happy to flash our credentials through our use of "code words", our adoption of inclusive labels that reproduce like rabbits, our marches. And while all of that is going on, we have private conversations. I've been privy to many of them. Conversations that reveal that, individually, there are many of us that have problems with things we 're not supposed to have problems with. Few of us will say it out loud. We smile, we nod, we say "absolutely", we protest for the "right things" . We'd be outcasts, within our own communities, no matter how thoughtful the analysis or commentary.

Like someone else we know, eh?

Light a fire for her. And while you're at it, light one for truth and courage, too.

"There are and will be those who think I have gone overboard. Let them rest assured that this assessment is correct, probably beyond their wildest imagination, and that I will continue to do so."

All we ever get is Gru-EL!!

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 15:24:00 +0000

No, this picture isn't what I made. I wish.

So, if I post twice in four days about food, does that make me a culinary blogger? No, I didn't think so.

My friend Jane's blog, now that's a food blog. And then, of course, there's that one that sparked that little movie about Julia Child. Oh, I think we can safely call that one a food blog too. What? You mean all of our blogs are not going to be turned into multi-million dollar films? Sure.

But today, I just feel compelled. So here goes.

So, the other night, I was feeling all ambitious-like, and I thought I'd make some thai food. In the past, I've made some killer good peanut sauce, which is important because I am one of those people who judge thai restaurants based solely on their peanut sauce, which, honestly, is really crappy about 90% of the time. I've rarely had a great one. One time, I made a great one myself, but it was through experimentation. A little of this. Taste. A little of that. Taste. It was kickass great. But of course I didn't measure anything and I don't even know what the this or that are anymore because I don't even remember which recipe I started from, which wouldn't really matter anyway since I didn't follow it. It was good though. No. It was Good.

Maybe it's that I love Asian food. A lot. And I'm really working on cooking more and saving money, so I figure I'll make it myself. Mostly, I was spurred into action a couple of weeks back (and a couple of weeks before that) when the holiday craft cooperative of which I am a member (I make jewelry) closed up for the season. Oh. I guess that was just last week. Well, whatever. It doesn't really matter because this isn't about the gallery (well, then why did you mention it Robin? Well, I'll tell you!). It's about the Chinese restaurant next door to the gallery.

On opening day of the gallery this year, which was back in early November, I had a customer who I liked a lot. She is an artist herself, making these fabulous things with eyes in them...oh, never mind, it's too hard to explain. But she was great, as was her husband. They came into the store, as did many people, while they were waiting for a table at the restaurant next door. I asked her if it was good, and she said it was pretty good, but that there was one standout item that I had to promise her I would order because it was the best one in the universe. I promised her. When it was time for me to leave the gallery that evening, I stopped in next door. And did I order what she told me to order? No. Of course not. What does she know from Chinese food? Please. So I ordered something else. It was so-so. I stepped on to the get-over-myself train just as it was leaving the station, figuring that my so-so food was punishment from the gods for breaking my promise to this anonymous customer who liked my jewelry, so she must have good taste in everything. I should have thought of that.

The next time I went in, I ordered them. I had to. I'm bold, but I don't really like to tempt fate too many times, ya know? Oh. My. God.

Thank god the gallery was open for almost two months. I was ready to trade shifts...hell, to volunteer to take shifts at the gallery even when they didn't need me...just so I could be there more often so that I could order the chicken dumplings in peanut sauce. This may have been the closest I have ever been to being a junkie. Oh. My. God. I know, I said that before. But it's now been more than a week since I have had them and I just can't be responsible for what I say anymore.

Oh. This isn't what I was going to write about. Oh, well.

Now, the location of the gallery this year is not somewhere that I typically frequent. It's not really close to home and there's just not that many reasons for going there....other reasons, I mean. And the gallery, which moves around from year to year, might not be there next year. So this is it. Me and the dumplings. We're through.

I'm just not that strong.

I figured I'd better learn how to make them. I figured out (I think), through an internet search, that they are called Hunan dumplings. Not at this place, mind you, but in general. They're kind of like the Szechuan dumplings in oil that I've had in New York, but they're in peanut sauce, which I think the ones in oil are, too, which doesn't really make any sense, but there you go. I researched, I found what sounded like a good recipe. I bought the ingredients, made the dumplings, put them in the fridge because I had to run my daughter to some activity, and they sat there for a few days because things got hectic and busy and then I was worried about the chicken and disease, so I threw them out. Yes, I know people are starving in India, but that doesn't justify salmonella.

I never even made the peanut sauce. I know, I didn't know this was going to be such a sad story either.

So, what I'm saying is that I had peanut sauce on the brain. And I thought of that other great peanut sauce I made way-back-when sometime that I also don't know how to make, and I got the great idea to make thai food for dinner. I'm actually known as a pretty decent and adventurous cook, so this isn't as out there as it sounds.

I made the peanut sauce. Not the dumpling one. The satay one. It was bad. And too spicy. I made genuine sticky rice, which turned out great with a couple of exceptions. I made a chicken in lettuce cups-larb kinda thing with basil which was yummy. I made some fried wontons for the girl, as a nod to the whole dumpling idea, and because she loves them. And I made some broccoli, because we love veggies. It was ambitious. It was so-so. But let's get back to those couple of exceptions in the sticky rice department.

Making real sticky rice like the restaurants serve is a big process. It involves a lot of soaking, steaming, and cheesecloth. I soaked too much rice, so after I filled the steamer, I still had some left over. I had read on the web that some people made their sticky rice in rice cookers, so I thought well, hey, I'll just make the rest in the rice cooker and see what happens. This is where the plot thickens, so pay attention.

I'm not going to go into the part where the cheesecloth that was hanging on the outside of the steamer basket caught on fire. Yeah. Fire. I'm not going to talk about that, except to say that it was handled so suavely that the kid in the next room never knew about it. Point for me.

The sticky rice (the sort of traditionally steamed one) was good, though it stuck like crazy to the cheesecloth, which I don't remember happening before. Did you know that little tiny threads of cheesecloth are indistinguishable on the palate from sticky rice? Now you do.

The meal was not memorable, but it was a good effort.

But I bet you're wondering, hey, Robin, how did that sticky rice in the rice cooker turn out?

Well, lemme tell ya.

In the true spirit of world community and true friendship and cooperation between nations, let me tell you that the result was a fascinating (Euphemisms R Us) blend of mochi, risotto, polenta, and congee. Mmmm. I threw it in a rubbermaid container and put it in the fridge.

Remember how, at the beginning, I said that I'm trying to cook more and save money? Yeah. I am. So I can't just be throwing out an entire pot of rice (or what was rice when it went in, anyway). I'll make something out of it! Again, to the computer. What do people do with....let's just say overcooked rice. (Oh, important detail: This is Thai Glutinous Rice. Not sushi rice. Not brown rice, not basmati rice...with the emphasis on the Glutinous, just so you know). One guy on some site said "Turn it into risotto"! It was the most palatable-sounding idea I had encountered. I know how to make risotto, I like risotto, I have all the ingredients.

Here's what happened:

And here's what it looked like coming off the spoon:

Yeah. I ate it. What's it to you?

For some unknown reason, I sang songs from Oliver all evening.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with the leftovers. Anyone?

Feel THAT Power!

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 20:06:00 +0000

I'm not sure exactly what it is about this story that I just love so much. I mean, it's not every day that I post something from CNN, that bastion of the liberal elite media, owned and run as they are by messes of Republicans. All I've got to say is: any company that would hire or retain Nancy Grace (aka Satan) has red flags flyin' all over the place. So shoot me, this one's a good piece, watch it.

Is it that, in this era of instant fixes and short memories and action films, a significant portion of a third grade class from 1990 remembered this specific time and date, and went out of their way to show up and greet their teacher?

Is it that, in this time when the promise of a good job, the promise of till-death-do-we-part, the promise that no one in this rich country will go hungry--in this time of relatively empty promises, this teacher made a class of 8 & 9-year-olds a promise, kept it clearly in his mind for twenty years, and showed up, with faith that students would appear, even when he had no actual evidence that any of them would remember?

I don't think so. I'm not certain, but I think it's about the place that genuine loving kindness plays in a child's education. While we're so busy worrying about standardized scores and international competition, while we're so busy worrying about male teachers hugging students (yes, that is still an issue), while we're concerned about the fact that kids are always texting and "just don't read or write anymore" (isn't texting writing?), we forget about the role that love and admiration and respect play. Facts are one thing. Motivation is quite another. There is no question, in watching this video, that these now-almost-30-year-olds love their teacher, and that he feels the same. Who do you have in your life that knew (and respected) you in third grade and can still reflect that pride back to you?

And I think it's about the power of a great teacher. I have wracked my brain today, and I can't think of a damn thing more powerful than an amazing teacher. That's right. Nothing.

I bet you had one. Or maybe you have one now. It doesn't have to be a school teacher, of course. It could be a mentor, a guru, someone who taught you how to live through loss, a foster parent, a mom who made you feel like you could do anything, a friend who stood by you through thick and thin, teaching you what it means to have a real friend. Teachers come in all stripes.

Which brings me...you guessed it...to something I don't get. Words. As Enemies.

As you know if you have read my blog, I'm not, in general, a big fan of traditional schooling (yes, even alternative models). I'm not a fan, in short, because I have seen very little evidence of children being encouraged to think and direct their own learning rather than to meet some sort of arbitrary standard, be it standardized or generated by one person's view of "how things should be".

In that vein, I am a big fan of unschooling. I belong to several unschooling listserves, have attended an unschooling conference, and am still convinced that it is a phenomenal, if not the best, way to grow and learn and develop. That being said, there's one thing that bugs me. Many of the people on the lists that I read thoroughly reject (avec nausea) the verb "to teach", in all its conjugations. They seem unable to separate the word from its traditional form, which, come to think of it, could be a result of their not being encouraged to think critically or reclaim words. Hmm. I mean, a word is just a word, isn't it? For example, someone once said to me that, through our actions in relationships, we "teach people how to treat us". All socio-economic-political arguments aside for a moment, it's an interesting thought to consider. Unless, of course, you jump up in alarm, scream "No! We don't teach!!!". I don't get that. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sorry. I do that.

I have had a few great teachers.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Corbett, taught a first/second grade "split class". Her mother used to stop by--I don't remember why, but she greeted us warmly. In that age of times tables and Little Red Book/Little Green Book/Little Blue Book readers,

there were hands-on toys galore, a dress-up area, a zither with pages of tunes that one could pick out, and a 1950's counting abacus, which I have just got to say is aesthetically stunning.
I remember them like it was yesterday. I can feel those little round plastic discs in my hands, the nice little click they made when you moved them over to the other side (come to think of it, they were probably bakelite, and would make some darn fine jewelry....hmm....note to self). I remember the freedom to get up from your desk and go use them if you needed help figuring out a math problem. We had a patio (it was California) and we built an entire airport out of wood. My assignment was to bring in tinted cellophane for the windows on the control tower. And I built a plane. Yes, with real wood and nails. Yes, I was six. I gave Mrs. Corbett mints from Chicago that my dad brought home from business trips, with his suit smelling of airplanes (which I now realize was the smell of cigarettes) and his pockets full of tiny Chiclets boxes, the kind that used to be in those marvelous little dispensers.

She made us all gifts at the end of the year. I remember that either me or my friend Dea got a special ruler, I think it was in a felt case. She took us in. She loved us.

I brought Mrs. Corbett mints every year at holiday time for years, even all through high school. Everyone I knew who had had her as a teacher at White Oaks Elementary felt similarly. I said "I want to be like her when I grow up". When I was 14, I started working with young children. Several graduate degrees and almost 40 years later, I have never had any other career. I owe that to Mrs. Corbett. And it wasn't because she taught me how to read.

There are others, to be sure. Tom Brown, my history teacher in high school, who I had the privilege to help when I was a candystriper and he was in the hospital. Shirley Eglington, who was our faculty chaperone at Yosemite Institute when I was a freshman in high school, and who treated me as a peer. Jane Welker, who helped me challenge the system to remain working with children in college and who taught me more about observation of young children than I ever imagined possible--I can't overstate the importance of that skill. And last, but far from least, Judy Singer at Harvard Graduate School of Education, who in one semester repaired 20 years of "I'm no good at math", erased forever my D in undergraduate statistics, and made me feel smart for the first time since elementary school.

And those are only the "school" teachers. There have been and continue to be many others, no less important. They are irreplaceable.

Maybe that's what it is about this video. You can see it in their faces. He was irreplaceable.
And they were irreplaceable to him as well. The power in that gift is...well, phenomenal.

Do me a favor. You know you had one. We all have at least one. My daughter may even have one this year--I can see it in her eyes. See that "Leave a Comment" section? Tell me about a teacher that changed your life. Write as much as you want.

And think about that. Making a promise for 20 years out. A day, a time. Wow.

Blowin' in the Wind

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 03:36:00 +0000

So today I found out that it isn't only my skin that has gotten loose and old, and subject to blowing every goddamn which way like it's not even attached, like it's not even mine, as it sits on my hand (just for fun, apparently) under that snarky little "Feel the Power" arrow on the evil hand dryer at Target. Yeah, I went there today, and I used that dryer. I did it for you, because I wrote about it last night, and I just kept thinking about it, and wanted to touch base with reality, have the real gale force wind blowing across my skin rather than just trying to wrap words around it. Okay, that's not true. I did it because I happened to be at Target (yeah, I know they're politically incorrect, but they're not quite as politically incorrect as WalMart, where I NEVER shop, and not quite as hey-this-is-cute-let-me-wear-it-for-two-days-before-it-falls-apart as KMart, so there). Okay, that's not really true either, because it sounds like I went there by accident, which I surely did not. Geez, this truth stuff is taxing.

The real reason I happened to subject myself to the torture of the Xlerator is that there is a powerful phenomenon that has taken root since we last spoke (or whatever it is that we do). Target keeps me regular. There. I said it. And Jamie Lee Curtis isn't even sitting on my couch (damn).

I know! I don't understand it myself. When I shop at Target, I unfailingly need to go to the bathroom while shopping. Sometimes more than once. I know, I know, this is way more than you needed to know. But hey, I'm just trying to explain why I dried my hands, give a girl a break. At least I'm not pontificating about the many things I notice in public bathrooms, though come to think of it, that's a good idea for a future post, thanks for bringing it up.

That's what you get for wondering.

Anyhow, back to what I learned today. I learned that skin ain't the only thing that blows around in this "season of life", let's call it. All kinds of things blow by, whoosh around, vanish completely while we look the other way, even disappear right in front of our eyes. Yesterday's post was one of those times.

I had it all worked out, this re-entry thing. Like I said yesterday, this coming back in is not the simplest of feats. Witty. That's the ticket. That's what I told myself. I wrote and wrote (in my head, mind you, you didn't miss anything) for several days, experimenting with my first post back. And guess what? They were ALL about the blue moon that we had last night. I posted on facebook that I was returning, and people asked me when, and I said yesterday, December 31. And the REASON I was coming back on December 31 was because there was a blue moon and there was something poetic about that "once in a blue moon" thing and the fact that I had not written here in several months, and boy howdy, I was gonna take advantage of that, you know, tie it together real pretty with a purple ribbon. I had it all written. It was witty, I tell ya. I was all ready to go, and I sat down for my first post back, and what did I write? Roy Rogers, hand dryers, relationship pitfalls, and fully shame-indoctrinated cartoon rabbits. Not a damn thing about the blue moon. Whooosh. There it went.

(I gotta say, I am thoroughly impressed with myself. Only one day back and I'm into full judgment mode again. Wow, that was so easy. And they say that it takes a while to get back into the groove. Pshaw.)

The blue moon was cool, though, wasn't it? Happening on New Year's Eve and all? Portentious, kinda. I mean, I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. I made a blue moon cake (green cake inside, bien sur) for the occasion. Here it is, even though there's not a darn thing that's witty (or portentious) about a green cake with bluish-grey frosting. Yummy, though.

As for resolutions, well, you know that old story. No need to put undue pressure on myself (which explains why I signed up for Nablopomo, I guess, yeah?). I dunno. Become less bitter? Write every day? Find a kernel of something to write about every day that is fit for public consumption so that I can once again seat myself comfortably and happily in this blog? Figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up? Eat Froot Loops (which have fiber now, in case you haven't heard, just to tie the whole post together, doncha know) more than once a year just for the heck of it?

Sure. Those'll work.

It's going good ("it's going WELL, Robin!") so far.

Hi Ho Silver!

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 03:49:00 +0000

It's as good a time as any, this eve of a New Year, what with resolutions, new starts, and all that. So I'm figuring....what the hey, get back up on the horse and ride off into the sunset...or maybe the sunrise, since it's already dark and the sunrise will officially be that new year full of promise and resolutions and great plans and unforeseen adventures. Whatever. I'm back.

As you may notice, I have even gone so far as to sign up for Nablopomo, that little devil on my shoulder that keeps me going. I know, I know, I shouldn't be so dependent on external motivation, I should write if I want to write and not if I don't, adoring fans be damned (of course, I don't mean you), not that I don't appreciate adoring fans, 'cause man I really do, but even in my really-doing, it doesn't get me to write.

You may wonder why I left, why I've stayed away, what happened, was it the proverbial writer's block, did someone piss me off, did someone scare me, did I really have nothing to say for five months (fat chance), blah de blah. Yup.

It's been an interesting time. Every time I sat down to write, and believe me, I did, especially when thinking of my fellow bloggers with whom I had forged such warm connections, I was stuck. I was mostly stuck because, as irreverent and goofy and irrelevant as this blog may sometimes be, it's really never been about anything but the truth. My truth, that is.

Hot tip: If you are a new reader, and the hair stood up on the back of your neck when you read those words "my truth", and you're pawing your hoof in the dirt getting ready to leave me a comment about relativism and how morality is absolute, let me just say more power to you, but just fair warning, this blog is gonna piss you off pretty much every day. If you're into that, by all means feel free to stick around. Just don't say nobody warned you, k?

And the truth, at least for the past several months (I can hear you saying, Robin, you don't have to explain yourself, but I feel like I do, in the same way that it's difficult to come back when you've run away from home (not that I've ever thought of running away from home, oh, no, that doesn't sound like me at all) or re-enter a room when you have just vanished for an indeterminate amount of time. Come to think of it, that's one of the things that is most annoying to me, that has been the death of me (and some relationships)...that is, people who renew relationships and conversations as if a breach one of sort or another has not occurred. That bugs me. In the spirit of integrity, then, I feel like I gotta say. Okay?

Which is not to say that I wasn't dying to write about a gazillion things that happened, because as you know by now, there's a lot of things that I don't get. Don't think I didn't want to rant about that new hand dryer they have now at Target (and elsewhere, I'm sure) that offers you the oh-so-special reminder of our mortality (which is something you definitely want to do while in the bathroom) by blowing all that skin around that you coulda swore was attached, but you now realize otherwise. I might still write about that in the coming days, so go try it out if you haven't yet, 'cause I love them comments, they're infusions, keep 'em comin. And don't tell me you won't have something to say about them. That's just impossible.

But here's the thing. There was something in this time span that just wouldn't allow it. When my fingers get going, they pretty much say what they want to say, and as any of you who are writers know, those digits have a little independent connection of their own to the mind and heart, which is a good thing, a fine thing for journals, but not quite as swell in blogs, at least in my view.

I sat down to write. I did. And then I heard it.

So I guess what I'm saying tonight is that I'm over that now, with full awareness that that might mean that I now have nicer things to say (ya think?). Or maybe I've just decided that Thumper is full of shit. I'm not sure which one.

I figure we'll find out, right? Stick around.

Adhesives, Fasteners, and Other Tools of the Evil Empire

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 18:34:00 +0000

Lest you be concerned that I have, in my ventures into the deep world of contemplation, cogitation, and M&Ms, forgotten the true spirit and original intention of this blog, here is my offering for today:

Here's what I don't get. I don't get why they put adhesives that would stick a wing onto a 747 well enough to last a polar route flight from the west coast to Europe on the back of labels on food containers. It's not like other adhesives don't exist. We've all gotten those products where you reach for the label, grab a corner, and peel and that nice little "riiiiip" sound accompanies the easy and complete removal of the label. Niiice. And then we've probably all bought nice little salad containers (or something kind of like them) like the above where the label is just tucked inside the container--not adhered AT ALL. What a concept. You just take it out, throw it in the recycling (you do put all your paper in the recycling, right?), wash the container, and then you're all set. And then you have this. Yeah, the this in the picture. The label that will never come off. Not with that goo-gone kinda stuff (not that I love using that nastiness anyway). Not with soaking in hot water. Not with the dishwasher. The print just fades and fades and years later you've still got a thin paper coating around the outside of the container. What the hell is that adhesive they're using? And for the love of god, WHY do they use it??

Which brings me to bread ties. What's up with the bread ties? Yeah, I own those clippy things, probably a hundred of 'em. I even know how to use them. So there. But you know, you get that nice loaf of bread home, and you want to open it up and make yourself a yummy piece of toast, and you look at it, and dammit, it's got this thing on there:

I don't get that at all. Common denominator, anyone? Adhesive!!

What is with putting this kind of tie on a loaf of bread (or in this case, Portugese raisin English Muffins, ohmygodyum)? It's not even a tie. It's a little adhesive tag thing that is not possible to separate and nearly impossible to cut off, so you inevitably end up ripping the bag open just to get the tag off, so now the bag is not only not recloseable but also the contents has to be put into an entirely new bag that can be resealed for freshness. Like I've got money for ziploc bags growing on trees. Whatever happened to those little impale yourself so you need a tetanus shot paper over a little wire twist ties? Or even those stupid little plastic things that are on bread from the grocery store (I don't really get those either, but all things are relative, and they do reclose bags, if poorly, so they've earned their omission from this rant)? You'd think the person or company who made the baked goods would actually like us to get into the bag so that we could enjoy the fruits of their labor, rather than simply admiring the baked goods from the other side of a semi-impermeable barrier, no? Or maybe their only real interest is in our buying it--once we get it home, it's none of their concern ("let it rot, see if I care"). Capitalism. Sheesh.

Glad I'm back? :)

Me too.

Well.....Hi. Here, have some M's.

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:37:00 +0000

I've been away. Maybe you've noticed.

I've got a lot to say about why I've been away, why I stopped writing, what stopped me, and what I learned from it. For the moment, let's just say: A lot. Okay?

The good news (at least on my end, can't speak for you) is that this is one of those things. You know. It's like jumper cables. Once I've started again, I'm back (at least I think so, that's the way it usually works, we'll see). I hope so.

At the moment, I just have to sit and shake my head and wonder at the utter irony of what is actually bringing me back to this space, right here, right now. The thing, the huge thing, that got me to write again. Because you know, there have been a lot of close calls. It isn't like I haven't had things to write. I have. Every day. I've had a "ooh, that's a great post for today" feeling every day. But I haven't been able to get myself to get here and write. Until today. And so this day, this motivating event, carries with it some sort of heft. What is it that could move me so?

M & M's.

Yeah. Really.

Well, and a little irony, too. I love irony. Can't claim to know it had jumpstarting powers, but hey, there are plenty of mysteries remaining in the universe that elude our understanding. Can't know everything.

So. M&M's. I have always known that M&M's had some sort of deeper role to play than simply being a snacky delicious good thing that melts in your mouth not in your hand, which is not really quite true, but it was a catchy slogan. I always knew, since my childhood days in which, whenever I got my grubby hands on some M&M's, I would arrange them in little pyramids by color, which I know will prompt you to wonder if I am that anal about everything, which will prompt me to tell you that I am the least anal, like the-other-side-of-the-world-from-anal, person you have ever met, it's just that I really like to line up M&M's in little pyramids especially on the little glass table in the TV room in my parents house, and now I'm going to stop using the word anal because it's starting to really gross me out when I'm trying to focus on the deliciousness of M&Ms. I will say, though, that the brown ones are always the base of the pyramid because there's the most of those in a package, which really isn't right, but there are some things in life you can't control, and that's one of them. I will also say that when you make pyramids, you sometimes have to go back to the bag to get a few more M&Ms so that you can complete the pyramid neatly and symmetrically, which I think is kinda self-reinforcing for making M&M pyramids. I'm not sure, but I think so.

Now, mind you, this was in the days before blue M&M's. And there was even a time when there were no red M&Ms (I'm wondering if I'm making a serious faux pas capitalizing the M, when they are more lower case kinda things, but I'm in over my head now, so I'm sticking to it). And there certainly were no buy one color that you like or print your goofy little wedding logo on an M&M kind of things. There were just the regular old colors. And when they brought in blue, well, I just didn't think that was right. But, trusting in the gods as I do, I knew they must have a reason. So I didn't send them a letter or anything, even though I would have preferred purple.

And now, here we are today. July 28. And the mystery has been revealed. If you wait long enough, it always happens. I think it's called faith, although I think for most people faith and M&M's are really two different conversations. Their loss.

This morning, I was bopping around on facebook like I sometimes do, and I took a look at an article that a friend posted about the false goodness of Vitamin Water. I like Vitamin Water, especially the new 10 calorie kind, which is really 25 calories if you drink the whole bottle, which you obviously do, but still. So I read it, and basically, I thought they were going a little overboard comparing it to Coke (which I also love but very rarely drink and which, coincidentally, I used last week to get rust off my daughter's old bike). I cogitated a while on the extreme reactions of people these days to additives and artificial stuff and the return to locally grown goodness, all of which I think is important and a good thing, but is kind of a turnoff when people are hysterical about it rather than informative. And you know, one of the things people are most hysterical about are food colorings. That's why the red M&M's disappeared. Red Dye #2. And they've got a good point. There's plenty of evidence that food colorings seem to be associated with behavior issues in kids, which is really interesting and is a REALLY good reason to monitor them more carefully and, when possible, avoid them.

Which brings us to the headline I witnessed as I continued to bop around the web.

Warning: If you are an ardent animal rights advocate who cannot tolerate the idea or any images of animals used for medical research, you should probably not go on, because there's a picture and a description you really won't like. And if that scares you because you think there's gonna be terrible pictures of disfigured animals so you don't want to go on even if you aren't an AARA, don't worry. It's not that bad.

Today, my friends, we are talking about Brilliant Blue G (aka BBG), which is very similar to the food coloring compound used to color those newfangled blue M&Ms.

Come on. You knew it too. You knew that M&Ms were gonna save the world. Admit it.

So (drum roll please)...it turns out that BBG, administered promptly (it has to be given right away, it's just given by IV) after spinal cord injuries, produces a powerful and significant benefit. In rats, it restored mobility. It allowed them recover and walk again.

The only side effect is that the rats temporarily turned blue, which, if you can get past the animal research thing, is actually kinda cute and it's temporary anyway. (Would I trade turning temporarily blue for being able to walk? You betcha.)

There is currently no, I repeat NO, standard treatment available for people who arrive in an emergency room for a spinal cord injury. This one is hopefully going into clinical trials shortly. And the reason that they thought of trying it out in the first place is that BBG is similar to the coloring in blue M&M's (Ii already said that, but I thought it bore repeating) and so has been approved as safe.

How does it work? Well, of course you should read one of the articles, either the summary on CNN or, for the nerds among us, the abstract of the actual study, (and actually, if you visit the site of the journal, you'll also get to read a really cool article in the latest edition about why dinosaurs were big). It's really interesting, but just in case you don't wanna do it, here's the deal.
Because you should be informed. Yeah. You should.

So when there is a spinal cord injury, ATP (adenosine triphosphate), which is like the molecular currency of energy between cells, rushes to the site of the injury. ATP kills healthy motor cells, which makes the injury even worse. Our spinal cords have a lot of molecules called P2X7, which allows the ATP to latch on to motor cells and send messages to kill those cells (including the healthy ones). BBG (the colorant) blocks the function of P2X7, so the ATP can't find a home where it can destroy cells.

Aren't scientists cool?

(which prompts me to give a special shout out to my friend and chorus sister Emily, who is both a scientist--see above--and who also sorts M&Ms by color, thereby offering indisputable proof of said coolness)

Damn. Now I gotta go out and get some M&Ms and a Vitamin Water. See? That's why I haven't been writing. Blogging makes you fat.

The Wormhole Called Starbucks

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 18:38:00 +0000

Ya know, it's not every day that you discover a portal to a parallel universe.

In Starbucks, no less. I had to fight off four guys in black suits and military IDs just to let you know, but that's how devoted I am to you, the readers of this blog. You're welcome.

Here it is.

I know, it looks harmless. Just a simple chair. But here's a tip. Don't sit there. Unless you're really up for some kind of adventure. I mean, I can't testify, I didn't try it. I'm not sittin' there. But I am a witness, so I wouldn't advise it. Just sayin'.

So here's what happened. There I was, all set up to work for a couple of hours at one of my many local Starbucks. No, I don't drink Starbucks coffee. But I have largely succumbed to the fact that they are everywhere, and they have free wifi and comfortable chairs, so I found something I like there (though I still haven't found a single food, including desserts--to which I am generally favorably inclined--that I find appealing) and sometimes I camp out there to work. They don't throw you out, and I can carry a card so if I can't, er, find any money, I'm all set for awhile and that's enough for me.

Today I went to the Starbucks with the notoriously stupid parking lot. It's the only one like it. I don't get it, but it was nearby. It was a beautiful day today--it's about time, so I thought about sitting outside, but the only seating outside was taken, and I had a lot of loose papers to deal with, so inside it was.

I was lucky to snag one of the Comfy Chairs (despite being unwilling to confess to heresy by three counts: thought, word, deed or action), and I settled in for a bit of work. And here's where it gets interesting.

In the two hours that I spent in the aforementioned Comfy Chair, a series of six people (including two Starbucks employees) came and sat in the other, adjacent, Comfy Chair. Apparently, this other chair (not mine, thank god) is a portal to the netherworld. Because three of the six people who sat in it (in a row, mind you) proceeded to talk extensively to themselves. Or more likely, to some invisible beings, because they were not mumbling, they were taking turns, laughing, definitely carrying on a conversation.

Now, as you and I know, our assessment of people talking to themselves has been altered significantly by the proliferation of those tiny little phone headsets that people can wear almost invisibly. Don't' tell me you know don't know what I mean. You remember how it used to be. You'd be walking down the sidewalk, and you'd see someone approaching, talking away, and you would think okay, that person is hearing voices, and you'd have whatever response you had to encountering people who hear voices--hopefully, compassion, and frankly, sometimes evasion or discomfort. Well, that's out the window now, because now everyone and their brother talks out loud to themselves. It seems like a good thing, actually--puts people with associated disabilities in a more normative position. But there's no doubt about it, we're getting used to it. I'm willing to wager that once or twice, you have looked to see if they have a little wire running down their shoulder. Come on, admit it. I sure have.

So when this happened once, then twice, then three times in a row, especially with the degree of animation and turn-taking present in the conversations, I presumed that they were simply on the phone. And then it turned out that none of them were.

I've been trying to figure this out (not that there's anything wrong with it, it just defies statistics, and I'm interested in those kinda things). Maybe there is a group home or a treatment program that is located very nearby that Starbucks, and maybe their clientele prefer the comfy chairs. I know I do. Maybe that's it. Maybe there was some kinda energy over in my part of the store. It's been known to happen before. For now, in the absence of information, I'm just going with the most likely explanation: a wormhole.

And besides, they were playing Hawaiian music. It was coming out of a speaker right above my head. I ask you, who does that in Boston? When I went to ask the ever-helpful manager what it was, he said "Oh, the playlist is in the back somewhere, but I can't find it" (was he looking?). I asked "Well, is this the playlist playing in all Starbucks stores (thinking I could just look it up online)?" His reply? "If they have the same player as we do, then yeah, but I don't know.". Very helpful. Now, is that the aloha spirit?

I tell ya, there's something weird going on here.

Glimmers

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 13:45:00 +0000

The littlest things make me cry.

I used to think that was a weakness, a negative trait. I would look it up on the web (hint: don't do that) and see the dire reports of people who were experience severe depressions or blossoming menopause (pick me! pick me!) or best of all, discussion threads in which someone expresses concern that they cry at the littlest things, and a reasonable share of respondents see fit to give their sage advice, which is something along the lines of "you need to toughen up". Bullshit.

I don't do that anymore.

See? There is evidence that I do, in fact, learn from experience.

Now, when I say I don't do that anymore, it doesn't mean I don't surf around the web, searching for the malady du jour that I might possibly have. I'm human, after all. I mean that I don't take it quite as seriously as I might once have, which, as Martha Stewart says, is a Good Thing.

I've been thinking the last couple of days about Boston, about the fact that I have lived here for a staggering fifteen years (bet those people to whom I said "I'll be right back!" are wondering where I am), about the fact that it is a very difficult place, at least for someone from California--or at least for this person from California--to make a new "home", about the deep and nearly constant offense taken by friends who are from New England when I try to talk about that difficulty (because I like to talk things through, dontcha know), about which parts I can identify as home and which parts, sadly, will never bear that title. And I've come to a realization. I think that Boston (and by Boston I mean the whole area around Boston, maybe the whole northeast, maybe New England, you get the idea) is like a bad relationship. And like any bad relationship, sometimes it takes a while to figure out that you're in one.

Here's what I'm thinking.

This morning, I dropped my daughter at drama camp (channel it....channel it...), walked to Harvard Square, and walked in the front doors of Gutman Library, at Harvard Graduate School of Education. I came here to work for the day, as I do many days when I have time. It's my alma mater, it's a very quiet and sparsely populated library (especially in the summer) and the resources are plentiful. It also has exactly what I need to complete the project that is launching my independent business. Another Good Thing.

To get into Gutman, you have to show some sort of ID. I show my alumni card. Except at the moment, I don't know where it is (this is a recurring problem), so I was asked to step over to the desk and sign in. No prob. The guy at the desk misunderstood what I wanted, thought I was wanting to check out a book (maybe later), and tried to look me up in the computer. After I spelled my last name four times (it's okay, I'm used to it), I was able to clarify that I just wanted to sign in. We both laughed. He said well, if you do want to check out books later, just come by, I can look up your card number. I smiled and said "thanks so much", because you know, people aren't always this helpful these days. And then he said, "Oh, no problem. This is your home."

That's when I cried.

No, not in front of him, and not a blubbering dab-your-nose kind of cry, just a vigorous tearing up on my way to the bathroom.

It made me think about so many things, and in such a short time. When I moved to Boston from Honolulu, it was to attend this very graduate school, study in this very library, live among this community. This is my first home here. He's right, in a way, although he didn't know.

It made me think about how none of us really know, on a daily basis, the little things that we do that touch another's heart. This man has no idea that I have not felt at home in fifteen years, and that on this day, his comment made me feel grounded and welcomed and calm and happy. He didn't say much. But, of course, he did. It's great support for that whole practicing random kindness thing.

It made me think about my decision to leave this particular school to pursue a more advanced degree elsewhere, which I did not end up finishing. While I do not have regrets, this is a subject that is unsettled in my core, and it forced me to recognize once again the extent to which, despite its downsides (and there are definitely downsides), I felt real community here, which in turn makes me wonder whether there is or should be a way to fit this place back into my life.

And it made me think about that whole "bad relationship" thing that has been swirling in my head for a few days now (you know, the time that I haven't been writing). It goes like this:

Note: To my New England friends who are tired of my "complaining" about this stuff, I have two bits of advice. First, you could stop here. Just click on that little button up there in the corner. Easy. The second alternative is to breathe deep, and seriously consider the notion of reading about a relative newcomer's experience and see it as just that, their experience. How 'bout it?

In a healthy, good, loving, relationship, when one person feels as if they are not getting what they need, when they feel as if their partner's priorities consistently lie elsewhere, when they feel excluded or overlooked or simply would like to be included more often, when they feel a need for connection, they say so. And in a healthy, good, loving, relationship, the partner listens. They take it in, with any luck they express either sympathy or empathy, and they move toward solution. They might ask a question like "What do you think would help you to feel more included?", listen to the response, and then gauge whether any of those actions might be something they could integrate and use. They might ask what they could do differently. They might assure the other that it was not their intention to offend, and try to pay more attention to these dynamics to see if the other person might in fact have a point. They might take direct action, and make some plans so that they will have some uninterrupted time together now and again. They might do almost anything. But hopefully, they do something that acknowledges and validates and addresses the concerns that have been expressed. Yes, of course, it might also indicate that the person who is feeling badly is more sensitive that most, or has difficulty in some situations--that can be lovingly acknowledged as well. That's what a good relationship looks like to me, anyway.

What I'm saying is that community is the same thing. A big relationship. Similar dynamics. Similar needs for communication. Similar processes.

And what I'm saying is that my experience is, about 90 percent of the time, when I talk about these things with people here in Boston--yes, for fifteen years now--the responses I get back fall into one of a few categories. The first, we can call "Maybe you should move back where you came from"--pretty self-explanatory. The second is something along the lines of "Clearly you aren't able or willing to try to fit in here--maybe you should change." (which of course, is true--all relationships require mutual effort--though it does imply that effort and/or change has not been made). The third is "Yeah, I've heard other people say that/Yeah, I've spent time in California and you're right it's really different/Yeah, I know it can be a difficult place to break in", which is lovely and thoughtful and is also the beginning, middle, and end of their interest. And the fourth, my personal favorite, is basically (not in these exact words, at least most of the time) "Shut up, stop complaining, it's great here, this is the best place I've ever lived, if you can't see that you're a loser". Yeah. I'm not kidding.

For fifteen years, I have tried to make sense of that quartet of responses, and particularly why they bother me so much.

And just this week, I have realized that I have been operating for all this time like we had a good relationship here, like the other half of this relationship wants to be in this relationship. This is a valuable piece of information. I get it now.

And yes, I'm "going back where I come from" one of these days. At the present time, it's not in the plans. Life is complicated.

I am reading this and realizing that it sounds as if I am saying that, for fifteen years, I have been miserable. It sounds like I am saying that I don't have friends, I don't like my neighborhood, I don't have people and activities and places that I really enjoy, I don't go out. None of that is true. Life is good. Really. This is not about unhappiness. I don't talk (and write) about this repeatedly to complain. It's about trying to make sense of the water in which I live and breathe--I talk about it and write about it because, well, I often don't get it. I talk and write because I struggle. I talk and write to figure things out. I'm like that.

It's really not as black and white as it might appear. It's not about mutual exclusivity. It is possible, in my world view, to have all of these good things, and to also wish that you lived in a place where when you had a singing performance, all of your friends would attend because well, they're your friends, rather than deciding if they have time or like that kind of music. It is possible, from over here, to be basically content and happy with your life, and to also wish that people just dropped by or wanted to just hang out. It is possible to have a full and rich life, and to also wish to have more friends who are not so heavily scheduled and obligated. It is possible to feel happy walking on a sunny day, and also wish that people would smile back.

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm beginning to get it. It's about time.

Although, I will admit, there is one thing that I will never get. And no, I'm not the only one to notice it--far from it. I will never get the concept of "I have enough friends". Not having time for more. Rationing. The adult version of "cliques" where attendance must be limited to that particular subgroup. I don't get that--I thought that was over in high school.

Oh, and I don't get the family thing at all either (I know. I said one thing. It happens.). But I'm from California, so that explains that. That was easy.

So you can see how the glimmers make me cry.

"This is your home".

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It was enough for today. More than enough.

More on Words

noreply@blogger.com (42pennies) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 13:45:00 +0000

Yesterday, I wrote about words being too restrictive. About their inadequacy to communicate what we mean in the deepest sense.

Today, I want to talk about the flipside.

It seems to me that the whole mess is made ever more complicated by the power that words hold. The power that we give them. The right words in the right moment are priceless. The wrong words in the wrong moment can be devastating. Which brings me to something I don't get.

For one thing, I don't get the primacy of the physical body. As if it isn't commanded, engineered, and operated by the same organ (which I have to say we don't seem to know anything about, even as we know more about it than ever before) as everything else. Losing control of motor function in one's hand, for example, is really not all that different from losing word retrieval; yet, the former evokes sympathy and the latter, ribbing. Does that make sense to you?

Stick with me. This does have something to do with words. I promise.

Some years ago...well, a whole lot of years ago...at a time when I was struggling, someone said to me "Isn't it amazing? If you are physically sick, people send you cards, they bring food, they mow your lawn, they send flowers and cards. And if you are emotionally sick, people stay away from you.". So maybe there's an evolutionary purpose for somaticism after all, huh? I really don't get it.

Which brings me, albeit in a roundabout way, to my point (as Ellen Degeneres says, I do have one). I've been waging a bit of a campaign for years now, but I have to admit, it's been a little lonely.

It began with a professional (and yeah,okay, a bit personal) passion of mine, and the subject of much of my graduate work. Invisible children. No, not the Virginia Bruce or Claude Rains or even Ralph Ellison kind of invisible. Children who are not noticed, not mentioned, passed over. They're everywhere. Any teacher could tell you about them, as much as we don't like to admit it--when you get to the end of your day, there is always at least one child that you just can't say what they were doing, and sometimes whether they were even there. I know, it sounds sad. But it's true. Maybe it's a malady, maybe it's a strategy, maybe it's something else altogether. Whatever it is, it's not the only kind of invisibility.

There's invisibility in being different. In being gay. Or lesbian. Or gender nonconformist. Or being a child of divorcing parents. There's invisiblity in being shy. Or out of touch with the current media or electronic culture. And yes, there's that kind too. And by "that kind", I mean whatever kind you're thinking of. Yup.

But none of those are what I mean. (see what I mean about words?)

My interest is, and has always been, in children whose experience is overshadowed by the experience of others around them, most markedly those who are bystanders to violence and trauma. I am painfully aware of their absence, not only because of the lack of humanity in their invisibility, but also because of the way in which their omission translates into a nearly complete inattentiveness to their unique needs.

But the first step is in words. In changing words. In respecting the validity of other types of pain or violence other than physical. And the first step in making that happen is in changing our language. Words. Words. Words.

Like I said, sometimes it gets lonely. And sometimes I get tired. And sometimes I think I am the only person in the world who notices this stuff--or objects to it. And then I forget about it for a while. Because I have the privilege of doing that. I am both grateful and sorry that that happens. Fortunately (and yes, I mean fortunately), I can never stay out of touch with it for that long, because just when i get lackadaisical, it happens again. Like yesterday.

Perhaps you read the story of Byrd and Melanie Billings in the news yesterday. This is them, with their twelve children:

In case you didn't read about it, I'll give you the Reader's Digest version. Byrd and Melanie lived in Pensacola, Florida. They had 16 children, 12 of them adopted, six with Downs Syndrome, others with drug exposure and sexual abuse histories. On Thursday, both parents were shot and killed in their home, apparently as a result of a home invasion that occurred in the evening. News reports vary, but there were at least eight [possibly sleeping) children in the home at the time of the murders. Now, I'm not making any assumption about the murders--there is a lot of speculation swirling. It doesn't really matter. What I am objecting to are the following news reports:

"The children, who ranged in age from infant to about 11 years old, were unharmed"

Sgt. Ted Roy, Escambia County Police spokesman, CNN

"Eight children were in the home at the time of the shooting, but none were harmed"

Pensacola News Journal

"eight of the Billing's children were home at the time fortunately none of them were hurt"

WEAR-TV, Pensacola

(and just to put the requisite icing on the cake, the spokesperson from the chronically scandal-laden Department of Children and Families says that that DCF "will, in a little bit of time, after the shock is over, reach out to the caregivers of these children and offer them what we call post-adoptive services". Ah. After the shock is over. I see. Florida. Ain't it grand?

So, here's my question. Would it kill us--all of us, including the media--to put the word "physically" in front of the word "harmed" or "hurt"? Of course they were harmed. Of course they were hurt. Probably irreparably, especially for some of them. They just didn't sustain physical injuries.

Sure, you can say "Oh, we know that they mean that they weren't physically hurt". Well, sure we do. Just like the archetypal dismissal of feminist objections, "Oh, when we say men, we mean women too!". Yeah. Sure you do.

You can say "that's just nitpicking." But words are powerful. And knowing what they mean doesn't make it okay. We demand that people are careful with other words that hurt. Why not these?

It's one word, folks. Just one lousy word. "Physically". That's it. How much would it take for us to relearn how we say and write about events like this? We have taught ourselves to say "firefighters" instead of firemen. We have taught ourselves (well, a lot of us anyway) to use the word "disability" rather than handicap. We have taught ourselves to say "African American" rather than any one of the myriad of labels that have been used to describe the people of color whose ancestors are from Africa (which is kinda all of us, but that's a whole 'nother discussion). We do learn. We do change. Can't we train ourselves to put that word in there?

The primacy of physical well-being over emotional, spiritual, mental well-being has reached the end of its useful life. Let's put it to bed. With one small word. Could anything be easier?