Monday, June 02, 2014
College didn't teach me how to file things
So, we moved our offices around on Monday, because the work flow and storage issues were greatly improved. Now I'm in an office by myself down the hall from the main office suite, and it's great. Quiet. WARM. Unlike the storage closet/Arctic freezer in which I previously worked.
But there are all these boxes in my office that are leftover from the move. And they're filled with... stuff. Just random stuff from the old office. Papers and other things, and I don't even know what is IN these boxes. Do I need the things in the boxes? All the things? Or does the fact that I cannot name a single item in any of the boxes negate the need for me to retain them? Can I just toss them out all at once?
The fact is that I struggle with maintaining a useful filing system. I can do anything on a computer that you want, but those old "secretarial school" courses like Philosophies of File Maintenance, or whatever - they just aren't taught anymore.
I can b.s. a research paper on the themes of loss in Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse;" I can identify the parts of a cell under a microscope with 90 percent certainty; I can mostly tell you how World War I started and how it relates to current tensions in the Baltic states... maybe? I can at least Google it fast enough so you won't realize I don't know. As long as we're texting about it.
But I never learned how to touch-type properly; how to create and maintain a physical filing system; how to track an office budget; how to handle interoffice politics; or how to take and organize correspondences and meeting notes.
I learned those things via internships and trial and error (except for the filing system, obvs). Unlike my mother. After graduating from Jacksonville State University, and obtaining her teaching certification, my mother taught these skills to adolescents and adults for much of her life.
Who has two thumbs and didn't listen to her mother? THIS GIRL!
Anyhoodle. So I have boxes in my office. Lots of them. If anyone needs me, look for me in one of them. Where I will probably be taking a nap.
I can b.s. a research paper on the themes of loss in Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse;" I can identify the parts of a cell under a microscope with 90 percent certainty; I can mostly tell you how World War I started and how it relates to current tensions in the Baltic states... maybe? I can at least Google it fast enough so you won't realize I don't know. As long as we're texting about it.
But I never learned how to touch-type properly; how to create and maintain a physical filing system; how to track an office budget; how to handle interoffice politics; or how to take and organize correspondences and meeting notes.
I learned those things via internships and trial and error (except for the filing system, obvs). Unlike my mother. After graduating from Jacksonville State University, and obtaining her teaching certification, my mother taught these skills to adolescents and adults for much of her life.
Who has two thumbs and didn't listen to her mother? THIS GIRL!
Anyhoodle. So I have boxes in my office. Lots of them. If anyone needs me, look for me in one of them. Where I will probably be taking a nap.
Sunday, June 01, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Responses to post are unoriginal
However, I've received some comments that I won't approve for posting.
Commentators, had you left any identifying characteristics, I'd have reported you to whoever had jurisdiction and actually gave a darn. But your keyboard courage wasn't strong enough to prompt you to leave your digital curtain, was it?
Just as a general response, I don't mind being called a feminist lesbian. I wouldn't mind being a feminist lesbian. But, alas, I'm just me. I'm currently dating a very fine man. So, thanks for your interest in all the things you want to do to parts of my body for which I have since learned a few new synonyms. But, no thanks. And in case you missed it, when I say no, I mean it.
Your responses were expected, typical, and did nothing but prove my point. Please go be a cliche somewhere else. Preferably an entirely different planet.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Shootings should encourage us to rethink attitudes towards women
When I read about these (Elliot Rodger and Keith Binder) and similar killings (Marc Lépine, George Sodini, an unnamed 16-year-old boy), like many women, I reflect on my own experiences. Because it is all about me. No, just kidding. Because shocking tragedies should absolutely make us stop and take stock of ourselves, our communities, and our culture.
The fact is, there are certain members of the population who cannot handle rejection, and who lash out in verbally and physically violent ways. Like Elliott Rodger did. When those people are bigger, stronger, richer, or more powerful than you are (or crazier, in Rodger's case), it is intelligent to think defensively. And the necessary truth is this: rejecting a man's sexual advance is scary.
Yeah, you heard me. I'm a 40-year-old mother, and I find it frightening to tell a man no. Why? Because it's dangerous. Check out this Tumblr on the subject: http://whenwomenrefuse.tumblr.com.
"The final solution to triumph over my enemies was to destroy them, to carry out my Day of Retribution... against all women for rejecting me and starving me of love and sex," Rodger wrote in his manifesto. Click here to read the self-indulgent, sociopathic and terrifying manifesto of Elliot Rodgers.
I don't let a man pick me up for a date at my house. I don't even let him know where I live ("Oh, I live in West Augusta... near the thing... you know..." I don't even live in West Augusta.) until I've been seeing him for time enough to gauge his crazy as best I can. But once I'm out and about, it's hard to tell a man no in a safe and socially acceptable way.
Women are often nebulous in their rejections - "I'm busy, I have plans, I am working a lot lately, I have a headache," etc. - as opposed to being clear as day - "I am not now, nor will I ever be, interested in you." And men often complain about this and say that women "send mixed signals," or "play games." Because to a male observer, a woman demurring to a man's attentions by laughing off crude jokes, not addressing violations of personal space, and enduring boorish conversation, looks like consent.
Look harder. Appeasing, placating and enduring the attentions of men in whom you have no interest is a rational form of self-defense to avoid inciting an aggressor. "Letting a guy down easy" isn't just to avoid hurting his feelings. It's also to avoid getting hurt. And these days that doesn't just include physical attacks. It can also include threats, online attacks, reputation smears, etc., that can impact a woman socially and professionally.
"If I can’t have it, I will destroy it. I will destroy all women because I can never have them. I will make them all suffer for rejecting me," Elliot Rodger wrote in his manifesto.
Let me give you a recent personal example:
For a very brief period of time, I dated a man I suspect has never heard the word "no" in his entire life. He is a trust fund baby who behaves like a gentleman - opens the car door, insists on paying for dates, sends flowers, etc. It's Old Hollywood kinds of flattering, and made me feel like a respected lady.
But he comes from towering privilege. And that has instilled in him feelings of righteousness that played out in his "affection" for me in bizarrely controlling behavior - ordering for me in restaurants, complaining about my male friends, and expressing concern that I was "too nice" and "too funny" around other people.
We did not have a physical relationship. But after breaking it off with him, and agreeing to be "just friends," for the first time I allowed him in my home. We were planning to watch a movie. But when his behavior culminated in me rejecting his physical advances permanently, he lashed out at me. Pushed me down on the couch. Yanked down my workout pants. I kicked out at him with both legs, yelled at him to leave. After a moment of hesitation, during which I can only imagine he was assessing my ability and will to fight him off (here's a hint), he left without saying another word. It was maybe 20 seconds of my life. But it shook me up a lot.
Later, he called and texted to tell me that he was sorry, that he was in love with me and just wanted to show his undying affection. I did not feel loved. He could not understand why.
But he comes from towering privilege. And that has instilled in him feelings of righteousness that played out in his "affection" for me in bizarrely controlling behavior - ordering for me in restaurants, complaining about my male friends, and expressing concern that I was "too nice" and "too funny" around other people.
We did not have a physical relationship. But after breaking it off with him, and agreeing to be "just friends," for the first time I allowed him in my home. We were planning to watch a movie. But when his behavior culminated in me rejecting his physical advances permanently, he lashed out at me. Pushed me down on the couch. Yanked down my workout pants. I kicked out at him with both legs, yelled at him to leave. After a moment of hesitation, during which I can only imagine he was assessing my ability and will to fight him off (here's a hint), he left without saying another word. It was maybe 20 seconds of my life. But it shook me up a lot.
Later, he called and texted to tell me that he was sorry, that he was in love with me and just wanted to show his undying affection. I did not feel loved. He could not understand why.
My recent experience is obviously an encounter with a bizarre individual who holds strange attitudes towards relationships - right?
Wrong. Did you not see this above?
If you think this is the first time I've encountered a man who was aggressive about getting what he wanted, you'd be wrong. If you think these kinds of instances are rare and could never happen to someone you know, or only happen to certain "kinds" of women, then you are deluding yourself.
Check out the Twitter hashtag #YesAllWomen.
I can list statistics here, like the fact that 3.4 million sexual assaults went UNreported last year - but someone would just call me a liar and/or a slut. So let's bypass that whole dynamic and you all take a moment to read some stats for yourselves:
Many of the men I know have some of the same (but much lesser) entitled attitudes towards women and dating as the man I kicked out of my house. I've heard them complain that a woman is "making me wait so long" for sex that they suspect they have been "friend-zoned." I've heard them complain that a woman is "too easy" after not making him wait long enough. They complain that the sexual experience due to them, by sheer right of being a heterosexual male, has been denied in some way. Raise your hand if you've heard another guy friend express this kind of thinking. Have you ever just nodded your head? Yeah. I'm tired of arguing about it, too.
Question: What's the perfect amount of time to "make a man wait" for sex?
Answer: Shut the F@#& up.
Guys, no one is making you wait. Women who are "making you wait" are actually waiting for themselves. To feel comfortable. To feel valued. Don't care to wait? Move on. There are plenty of women out there, with varying attitudes towards sex. Some wait, some don't. Or you can choose to value that woman for reasons other than how much access she's willing to give you to her vagina.
I've heard educated, intelligent men refer to a "promiscuous" woman as a "chewed piece of gum." I've heard other clichés reinforcing this (the master key/lock one, primary among them) about a billionty times. Define "promiscuous," please. Where is the Too Much Sex chart? And why doesn't it apply equally to men? Because it's a ridiculous concept that ties a woman's sexual experiences to her worth as a person.
Wrong. Did you not see this above?
If you think this is the first time I've encountered a man who was aggressive about getting what he wanted, you'd be wrong. If you think these kinds of instances are rare and could never happen to someone you know, or only happen to certain "kinds" of women, then you are deluding yourself.
Check out the Twitter hashtag #YesAllWomen.
I can list statistics here, like the fact that 3.4 million sexual assaults went UNreported last year - but someone would just call me a liar and/or a slut. So let's bypass that whole dynamic and you all take a moment to read some stats for yourselves:
- Female Victims of Sexual Violence, 1994-2010
- Rape and Sexual Assault: Reporting to Police and Medical Attention, 1992-2000
- Sex Offenses and Offenders
- Statistics About Rape, Abuse, and Incest
If you're not so much into the reading thing, or if you think those pesky scientists are all part of a global conspiracy, you can listen to Louis C.K. speak some truth:
Many of the men I know have some of the same (but much lesser) entitled attitudes towards women and dating as the man I kicked out of my house. I've heard them complain that a woman is "making me wait so long" for sex that they suspect they have been "friend-zoned." I've heard them complain that a woman is "too easy" after not making him wait long enough. They complain that the sexual experience due to them, by sheer right of being a heterosexual male, has been denied in some way. Raise your hand if you've heard another guy friend express this kind of thinking. Have you ever just nodded your head? Yeah. I'm tired of arguing about it, too.
"Women should not have the right to choose who to mate and breed with,’’ Elliot Rodgers wrote in his manifesto. “That decision should made for them by rational men of intelligence."
Question: What's the perfect amount of time to "make a man wait" for sex?
Answer: Shut the F@#& up.
Guys, no one is making you wait. Women who are "making you wait" are actually waiting for themselves. To feel comfortable. To feel valued. Don't care to wait? Move on. There are plenty of women out there, with varying attitudes towards sex. Some wait, some don't. Or you can choose to value that woman for reasons other than how much access she's willing to give you to her vagina.
I've heard educated, intelligent men refer to a "promiscuous" woman as a "chewed piece of gum." I've heard other clichés reinforcing this (the master key/lock one, primary among them) about a billionty times. Define "promiscuous," please. Where is the Too Much Sex chart? And why doesn't it apply equally to men? Because it's a ridiculous concept that ties a woman's sexual experiences to her worth as a person.
"The ultimate evil behind sexuality is the human female. They are the main instigators of sex. They control which men get it and which men don’t...They think like beasts, and in truth, they are beasts. Women are incapable of having morals or thinking rationally," Elliot Rodgers wrote in his manifesto.
It's an age-old conundrum. Men will deride the character of a woman for exercising her choice to say yes to a sexual advance, and complain about her exercising her choice to say no. They're saying, "Sexually adventurous men are okay; sexually adventurous women are not - unless they're being adventurous with me, on the schedule I have predetermined but not communicated, and about which no one is allowed to judge me, because bros." Or something. That's not a direct quote. This attitude allows men who don't have as much sex as they please to paint themselves as faultless victims and to blame women for their loneliness and celibacy.
"Their behavior towards me has only earned my hatred, and rightfully so! I am the true victim in all of this. I am the good guy," Elliot Rodgers wrote in his manifesto.
But therein lies the mind-bending confusion about dating for anyone not specifically saving themselves for marriage: Many men (Not all men! I get it, gentlemen; this is not a personal attack) feel entitled to sex. And denying them makes a woman a frigid bitch who is unappreciative of his attention. Because any woman should be flattered that he turned his gaze to her, right? But saying yes automatically reduces a woman's worth as a person. (Unless it doesn't, because not all men are asshats. But there's no guarantee.)
But back to the point. ALL of these sexual double standards, tied directly to the worth of a woman, contribute to a larger culture that values women only for their contributions to sex-related roles. It's the age-old "virgin-mother-whore" triangle of womanhood.
Least respected among these - the whore - is a resoundingly negative stereotype, due to her proximity to heterosexual sex (whether or not she comes with a heart of gold). And the worth of the two positively stereotyped characters in our national mythology are both centered on their character being distanced from heterosexual sex. Virgins are prized for their purity, above all else. You can be mean, stupid, and unethical in other ways, but if you're a virgin, you're considered moral and praiseworthy because you have not yet been sullied by the touch of a man. Mothers are prized for their loving self-sacrifice, but even if they meet that expectation to perfection, it is still not allowable for them to pursue personal pleasure (or even time enough to pee alone, amIright, ladies?) if their children still need or desire something from them.
Least respected among these - the whore - is a resoundingly negative stereotype, due to her proximity to heterosexual sex (whether or not she comes with a heart of gold). And the worth of the two positively stereotyped characters in our national mythology are both centered on their character being distanced from heterosexual sex. Virgins are prized for their purity, above all else. You can be mean, stupid, and unethical in other ways, but if you're a virgin, you're considered moral and praiseworthy because you have not yet been sullied by the touch of a man. Mothers are prized for their loving self-sacrifice, but even if they meet that expectation to perfection, it is still not allowable for them to pursue personal pleasure (or even time enough to pee alone, amIright, ladies?) if their children still need or desire something from them.
"I started to frequently ask my mother to seek marriage with this man, or any wealthy man for that matter. She always adamantly refused... I told her that she should sacrifice her well-being for the sake of my happiness, but this only offended her further," Elliot Rodgers wrote in his manifesto.
Modern dating is slightly more forgiving to women. These days, men categorize women in a quadrangle of womanhood: "virgin-mother-slut-bitch."
Woo. Look at all the choices.
The fact is that none of these are true representations of womanhood, which is to say, true representation of being a real person who also happens to be female. Feminine personalities simply should not be viewed as a rigid dichotomy - either moral, maternal, and lacking sexuality or immoral, neglectful, and sexual. Because neither our being nor our worth are centered around our sexuality. Our worth is ZERO PERCENT PENIS, people. I measured. Worth of a Woman multiplied by Value of the Number of Penises With Which She Has Come Into Contact = Absolutely Nothing Percent Correlation. That is the answer I got. Feel free to check my math.
"My hatred and rage towards all women festered inside me like a plague. Their very existence is the cause of all of my torture, pain and suffering throughout my life," Elliot Rodgers wrote in his manifesto.
Women are not the reason that some men are lonely or celibate. And we don't owe our bodies to anyone, for anything. But it's still difficult for us to say no. Because we feel scared. Because we feel unsafe, no matter the precautions we take. Because we don't have the support of men to stop it.
Both women and men have the right to be valued for their compassion, intelligence, kindness, work ethic, honesty, patience, courtesy, tolerance, trustworthiness, and vision far above their sexual experiences or sexual orientation.
The only way that we'll be able to stop it is if we work on it together. I'm going to use a word many people have ceased to understand, so don't let it turn you off. Feminism (gasp!) is not just about liking women; it's about viewing them as equals. But you have to fight next to women to make them your equal. Our goals have to be the same goals: equality, for all, in all areas. Because everyone loses when inequality festers.
That means sexual equality, too. Women have to say no more clearly, have to be supported when we say no, and have to feel safe from retribution. And men have to feel as though their masculinity doesn't depend on their physical strength and sexual conquests. This cooperative agreement will free everyone from repressive sexual morays that devalue both men and women, and undermine our ability to experience pleasure and to provide pleasure to one another. When our culture stops objectifying women as sex objects, forcing us to fight back, and when our culture stops short-changing men by narrowing the range of masculine normalcy, we'll all have better relationships. And better sex.
Let's get it on.
Final thoughts: First, this deal entirely with heterosexual relationships, solely in an effort to keep my usual long-winded ranting somewhat streamlined. But this dynamic impacts the LGBTQ community, too, because homophobia and sexism are intrinsically tied together.
Second, In no way do I expect a blog post by yet another mom-blogger on a lonely corner of the Internet to change a single mind. And the awareness this post will raise can be measured in the number of F#@&'s I give about whether or not you think I'm right. More likely, any conversation will follow this well-documented formula.
Third, maybe I'm wrong. I've been wrong before. I'm comfortable with it. But, maybe you read this and thought, "I'm so glad I am not a sexist/misogynist/total jerkface." You don't think you're part of the problem. I get it. But take just a few moments to read back through this obnoxiously long-winded post. And every time you see the word "women," "us," or "we," substitute "my daughter," "my mother," "my wife," or "my sister," and see if that changes the way you feel. If you feel differently when these situations relate directly to the women you love, you have some work to do.
As do we all.
#YESALLWOMEN #NOTALLMEN
Women are not the reason that some men are lonely or celibate. And we don't owe our bodies to anyone, for anything. But it's still difficult for us to say no. Because we feel scared. Because we feel unsafe, no matter the precautions we take. Because we don't have the support of men to stop it.
Both women and men have the right to be valued for their compassion, intelligence, kindness, work ethic, honesty, patience, courtesy, tolerance, trustworthiness, and vision far above their sexual experiences or sexual orientation.
The only way that we'll be able to stop it is if we work on it together. I'm going to use a word many people have ceased to understand, so don't let it turn you off. Feminism (gasp!) is not just about liking women; it's about viewing them as equals. But you have to fight next to women to make them your equal. Our goals have to be the same goals: equality, for all, in all areas. Because everyone loses when inequality festers.
That means sexual equality, too. Women have to say no more clearly, have to be supported when we say no, and have to feel safe from retribution. And men have to feel as though their masculinity doesn't depend on their physical strength and sexual conquests. This cooperative agreement will free everyone from repressive sexual morays that devalue both men and women, and undermine our ability to experience pleasure and to provide pleasure to one another. When our culture stops objectifying women as sex objects, forcing us to fight back, and when our culture stops short-changing men by narrowing the range of masculine normalcy, we'll all have better relationships. And better sex.
Let's get it on.
Final thoughts: First, this deal entirely with heterosexual relationships, solely in an effort to keep my usual long-winded ranting somewhat streamlined. But this dynamic impacts the LGBTQ community, too, because homophobia and sexism are intrinsically tied together.
Second, In no way do I expect a blog post by yet another mom-blogger on a lonely corner of the Internet to change a single mind. And the awareness this post will raise can be measured in the number of F#@&'s I give about whether or not you think I'm right. More likely, any conversation will follow this well-documented formula.
Third, maybe I'm wrong. I've been wrong before. I'm comfortable with it. But, maybe you read this and thought, "I'm so glad I am not a sexist/misogynist/total jerkface." You don't think you're part of the problem. I get it. But take just a few moments to read back through this obnoxiously long-winded post. And every time you see the word "women," "us," or "we," substitute "my daughter," "my mother," "my wife," or "my sister," and see if that changes the way you feel. If you feel differently when these situations relate directly to the women you love, you have some work to do.
As do we all.
#YESALLWOMEN #NOTALLMEN
Friday, May 23, 2014
News flash: Dating is a challenge
This is not a bad thing, because the combination of jammies, wine, and a comfy sofa is a beautiful thing.
But sometimes it seems as though men in their forties aren't much different than the men we dated in college. There is still a lot of beer to be purchased - although much of it is now "craft" beer. There is meat in large portions - although it's more likely to be prosciutto or pork belly than bacon and burgers. And there are video games - although, at least, their xBoxes and Playstations can double as DVD and Blue Ray players. Personally, I like video games. So there.
But one thing has perplexed me. One would imagine that men in their forties would be more informed. Having likely enjoyed long-term sexual relationships, and even having produced children, the female anatomy should not be such a mystery anymore. But that's not necessarily true.
Recently, an intelligent man in his forties recoiled at the mere mention of a menstrual cycle. "Gross!" he replied, when the subject arose. "I don't want to hear about that!"
Did you just call women's bodies "gross?" Unacceptable!
We're not made out of toxic materials. While menstruation isn't the most convenient part of our lives, it's really not a huge deal. Twelve times a year, for between 30 and 40 years, give or take, we require a little extra maintenance.
This guy, though, just couldn't conceive of women being "clean" or "sanitary" during their "time of the month," as he so humorlessly put it. He didn't understand the process or the purpose of women's menstruation, which tells me that he doesn't understand women's bodies.
Low-end estimates are that a woman will menstruate for at least 1,800 days in her life. That's almost five years. High-end estimates bring that number up to 3,400 days of her life. That's almost 10 years. Don't you want to know what your spouse is doing for five to 10 years of her life? Something in this guy's perception of women just doesn't jib with reality.
Ladies, if a 40-something-year-old man does not understand what your vagina is doing for 5-7 days every month, frankly, I wouldn't allow him to come near it the remaining days.
Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Too much Lisa Frank in grade school
"Mama? Would you like to be a unicorn?" Emerson asked me."Heck, yeah, because then I could stab bad guys with my head," I laughed.
"Dat's not berry nice, Mama," she chided, and then grinned: "But it IS funny."
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Emerson responds to the death of Neil Armstrong
Me: "Aw, so sad. Neil Armstrong died."Emerson: "Oh, that is sad. He was one of our first moonwalkers."
Me: "Yep. Do you remember what he said on the moon?"
Emerson: "No...?"
Me: "He said, 'That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
Emerson: "Wull, that's not cool. Why couldn't he say womankind?"
LMAO!
So I tried to explain the definition of mankind, and she just shook her head.
"He could have said 'humankind,' and that would have included everybody."
There was no point in trying to explain poetic license. She was having none of that.
Monday, August 05, 2013
Downtown stupidity
Me: People downtown Augusta are stupid as all get out at 2 a.m. How had I forgotten
this?
Coworker: I don't
really think there's any place where groups of people aren't stupid at 2 a.m.
Me: A Mensa
convention?
Friday, July 19, 2013
Multiculturalism might have missed him
Me: She's from Brazil, but her parents are Japanese.
Co-worker: So, French, basically.
Me: Or... not at
ALL French.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Get off my... square of land that has no grass whatsoever
I just called the cops on a couple of college students signing people up for newspaper subscriptions. Thanks, Morris Communications, for unleashing their legendary entitlement issues on my sick-at-home Saturday.
I don't buy from Morris, because they won't stop leaving the completely useless "Augusta Shopper" in my driveway. On top of that, I have some sort of stomach thing going on, and I am kicking it like a pimp on my couch in my jammies, when this girl banged on my door and wanted me to sign up for their FYI publication (the name of which they stole from either "FYI Magazine" at Fort Gordon or re-runs of "Murphy Brown," because they know they can get away with it, being Morris, and all).
She got really agitated and I said goodbye and closed the door. Then she started yelling obscenities in my window! I was like, "Are you kidding me? Please leave." And she kept on, so I ACTUALLY SAID "Get off my lawn!"
People, I don't even have a lawn! It's a 5x5 bit of trees and shrubbery and those wood chips they put down because they think they're decorative but they actually look like a 1970s McDonald's playground was hit by an alien laser beam. Anyway, the cops came and told them to leave the neighborhood.
But all I need is a wife beater shirt and a porch from which to glare at children, and I can go all Boo Radley on this neighborhood.
Friday, May 24, 2013
I am jealous of my 8-year-old's life!
Mom: So, what did you do today?
Emerson: "Wull, I won four awards at school, because I am like a PRO at that, and then we went to tha store, then we went to tha ribber, and I climbed aaaaaalll ober da waterfalls and dunked in tha wadder, an' I fell down and made a AWESOME bruise on my knee, and now I'm lyin' on tha couch eating French cheese, naked."
Her life is EPIC.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Imaginary friends are the best kind
Alice: "You doing anything tomorrow night?"Me: "I might manually declaw my cat. Why?"
Alice: "Want to come to my book club?"
Me: "Sure. What book should I pretend to have read?"
Alice: "'Run,' by Ann Patchett."
Me: "Cool. I need to do more pretend reading."
Friday, May 17, 2013
The Homeless Man in My Attic - A True Story
So, last night, I went to wake Emerson as part of the new no-bed-wetting ritual. It was 2 a.m., and she was like a furious bunny, hopping around in anger. That was fun.
Between her and the now-excited cat, I was wide awake. So I started to go downstairs... only to notice that the attic light was on.
I haven't been up in the attic in weeks. In fact, I've only been up there once since we moved in.
Holy shit. Someone was living in our attic.
I'd heard some weird stomping footsteps a couple of times this last week. I figured it was the cat - except earlier yesterday evening, when I heard them again and both Emerson and the cat were snugggled up against me. Then I figured it was our new neighbors.
Just then, I realized what happened. One day in December, we came home and found the back door open. I called the police, who examined the house and gave us the all clear. But someone HAD gotten into the house. And when we showed up, they hid in the only place they knew: the attic.
Since we never go up there, it's been a good hiding place for that person. A lot of little things have gone missing around the house the last couple of months. A dollar. A steak knife. A container of leftovers I could never locate. Now, it all made sense.
I was too scared to go up there, and didn't know how to call the police and say, "I'm afraid, because my attic light is on. Can you come check it?"
So I sat on the top step ALL NIGHT, with my new battery-operated weed whacker, keeping watch. You know. In case of crabgrass. Whatever. It's the only thing even close to a weapon that I own.
When it was light, and Emerson complained of a sore throat, I made a production of leaving very loudly.
"Let's go, Emerson. The doctor's office will take AT LEAST TWO HOURS!!!!! THEN WE'LL BE HOME AGAIN, AAAAALL DAY!"
Emerson winced at me. "Why you yelleeend, mama?"
I figured, if he hasn't killed us yet, he's just camping out up there. I'll give him a chance to leave, then change the locks so he can't get in again.
And when we got back (she had strep, BTW), I made a big production of putting the Christmas decorations into the attic VERY LOUDLY. "WE ONLY USE THEM ONCE A YEAR, SO THEY'RE JUST TAKING UP CLOSET SPACE, EMERSON."
Of course, Emerson totally didn't give a crap.
Finally, I opened the attic steps. The light glared down at me. But no homeless-man-smell followed. Of course, he could have been using my shower all this time... but when I peeked up over the flooring, no homeless man.
The light was still on. I couldn't find a switch.
"Emerson....? Do you remember where the light switch is for the attic....?" I yelled down to her. She was the one who had so gleefully explored the tall storage space last time.
"Oh, yeah, mama, iss right der." She pounded up the stairs from the kitchen... and flipped the switch on the plate in the hallway by her door. The one for which I could never figure out the purpose. Ugh. Must have flipped it by mistake.
I'm going to need someone to come by the house and deliver my good sense. I seem to have left it somewhere.
Between her and the now-excited cat, I was wide awake. So I started to go downstairs... only to notice that the attic light was on.
I haven't been up in the attic in weeks. In fact, I've only been up there once since we moved in.
Holy shit. Someone was living in our attic.
I'd heard some weird stomping footsteps a couple of times this last week. I figured it was the cat - except earlier yesterday evening, when I heard them again and both Emerson and the cat were snugggled up against me. Then I figured it was our new neighbors.
Just then, I realized what happened. One day in December, we came home and found the back door open. I called the police, who examined the house and gave us the all clear. But someone HAD gotten into the house. And when we showed up, they hid in the only place they knew: the attic.
Since we never go up there, it's been a good hiding place for that person. A lot of little things have gone missing around the house the last couple of months. A dollar. A steak knife. A container of leftovers I could never locate. Now, it all made sense.
I was too scared to go up there, and didn't know how to call the police and say, "I'm afraid, because my attic light is on. Can you come check it?"
So I sat on the top step ALL NIGHT, with my new battery-operated weed whacker, keeping watch. You know. In case of crabgrass. Whatever. It's the only thing even close to a weapon that I own.
When it was light, and Emerson complained of a sore throat, I made a production of leaving very loudly.
"Let's go, Emerson. The doctor's office will take AT LEAST TWO HOURS!!!!! THEN WE'LL BE HOME AGAIN, AAAAALL DAY!"
Emerson winced at me. "Why you yelleeend, mama?"
I figured, if he hasn't killed us yet, he's just camping out up there. I'll give him a chance to leave, then change the locks so he can't get in again.
And when we got back (she had strep, BTW), I made a big production of putting the Christmas decorations into the attic VERY LOUDLY. "WE ONLY USE THEM ONCE A YEAR, SO THEY'RE JUST TAKING UP CLOSET SPACE, EMERSON."
Of course, Emerson totally didn't give a crap.
Finally, I opened the attic steps. The light glared down at me. But no homeless-man-smell followed. Of course, he could have been using my shower all this time... but when I peeked up over the flooring, no homeless man.
The light was still on. I couldn't find a switch.
"Emerson....? Do you remember where the light switch is for the attic....?" I yelled down to her. She was the one who had so gleefully explored the tall storage space last time.
"Oh, yeah, mama, iss right der." She pounded up the stairs from the kitchen... and flipped the switch on the plate in the hallway by her door. The one for which I could never figure out the purpose. Ugh. Must have flipped it by mistake.
I still don't know where that missing stuff went. And last night, I
came home and the electrical breaker box door was open. So now I think there's a homeless man living in MY CLOSET.
I'm going to need someone to come by the house and deliver my good sense. I seem to have left it somewhere.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
The colonies are quite rowdy today
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
Re: England is pissing me off
I do not understand how your counties and stuff are put together. What is an "ex," and why are there esses and wesses of them? And what's the difference between a shire and borough and a hampton and a cester? Which one has real hobbits? Why aren't your media outlets set up around population centers, and instead seem to report on areas based on historical borderlines long gone?
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
Oh my gosh, it is so simple! The shires are all over the place, the country is overrun by hobbits and all anyone ever does is sit around, drink tea and fight the Germans. Doesn't matter what anything is called, since the Tories are making a pig's ear of it all anyhow.
Don't know about media outlets - historical borders still exist, so I'm not sure. Only difference is the people in chain mail and similar fighting garb tend to be there only for reenactments as opposed to actually defending the land.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
I love that phrase, "making a pig's ear!" You're the only other person I've ever known who uses it! We are meant to be bosom friends! Wait... that's Anne of Greene Gables, who is Canadian. Oh, you foreigners all look alike!
I'm working on a graphic showing how our metros dovetail with media metros there. Only I have NO IDEA. Because I don't know who is reading publications in the Lake District and the Peak Life District, since no one seems to actually live there.
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
You can fit 40 UK's into the US so we don't need major "defined population centres." UK only switched entirely to digital in 2011; prior to that there were only 5 terrestrial channels. TV here is still dominated by BBC, who still dominate the radio channels, too. Of course, none of that matters now with the internet as EVERYWHERE is INSTANTLY connected on any medium.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
That DOES help! Thank you, the size difference really puts it into perspective.
Um, also, y'all need to get some more land space. Why did you stop invading and colonizing other places? How come America has to do this for you, now?
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
I think we ran out of money - and need - and tea - shortage of tea was always a problem but then India/China/Africa said they'd just sail it over, rather than us having to go to the trouble of taking it ourselves.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
Well, that was nice of them. Let us know if they give you any trouble. We'll go free them from tyranny.
To: British Beauty
Re: England is pissing me off
I do not understand how your counties and stuff are put together. What is an "ex," and why are there esses and wesses of them? And what's the difference between a shire and borough and a hampton and a cester? Which one has real hobbits? Why aren't your media outlets set up around population centers, and instead seem to report on areas based on historical borderlines long gone?
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
Oh my gosh, it is so simple! The shires are all over the place, the country is overrun by hobbits and all anyone ever does is sit around, drink tea and fight the Germans. Doesn't matter what anything is called, since the Tories are making a pig's ear of it all anyhow.
Don't know about media outlets - historical borders still exist, so I'm not sure. Only difference is the people in chain mail and similar fighting garb tend to be there only for reenactments as opposed to actually defending the land.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
I love that phrase, "making a pig's ear!" You're the only other person I've ever known who uses it! We are meant to be bosom friends! Wait... that's Anne of Greene Gables, who is Canadian. Oh, you foreigners all look alike!
I'm working on a graphic showing how our metros dovetail with media metros there. Only I have NO IDEA. Because I don't know who is reading publications in the Lake District and the Peak Life District, since no one seems to actually live there.
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
You can fit 40 UK's into the US so we don't need major "defined population centres." UK only switched entirely to digital in 2011; prior to that there were only 5 terrestrial channels. TV here is still dominated by BBC, who still dominate the radio channels, too. Of course, none of that matters now with the internet as EVERYWHERE is INSTANTLY connected on any medium.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
That DOES help! Thank you, the size difference really puts it into perspective.
Um, also, y'all need to get some more land space. Why did you stop invading and colonizing other places? How come America has to do this for you, now?
From: British Beauty
To: Stupid American
I think we ran out of money - and need - and tea - shortage of tea was always a problem but then India/China/Africa said they'd just sail it over, rather than us having to go to the trouble of taking it ourselves.
From: Stupid American
To: British Beauty
Well, that was nice of them. Let us know if they give you any trouble. We'll go free them from tyranny.
Friday, February 15, 2013
The IT Crowd
IT Genius: Haha, sounds good. I think email hell week is almost over, so we can get back to database updates soon.
IT Genius: It's almost like you have a hidden camera back here.
Me: I knew it! :-)
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Can openers are essential office supplies
Me: Well, since I donated that to the office, I say it's fine. I give you permission.
A.A.: Oh, cool. I don't have a can opener at home.
Me: Well, then, I gift that can opener to you!
A.A.: No, I'm going to bring it back! I'm going to buy one, I just-
Me: You know they have them at the Dollar Tree for, like...
A.A.: A dollar?
Me: Thereabouts.
A.A.: No, I'm going to bring this back.
Me: I have more at home. I'll just bring in another one.
A.A.: Why do you have more at home?
Me: I really, really like opening cans.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Walking (in circles) Dead
I think, by now, my love of the zombie genre of everything is well known. So I thoroughly enjoyed the second season of The Walking Dead - although I'd have tied Carl to his bed if I was Lori. Stop wandering off, kid!
But at the end of the second season, the group of survivors - having enjoyed some relative peace at Hershel's farmhouse - has now been reduced and scattered by a large roaming horde of zombies. The barn has burned, the property is overrun, and lots of people got killed or eaten - so long, Dale, Shane, and those random relatives in the farmhouse, whatever your names were. Also, goodbye to innocence. Your time is up.
Season three of The Walking Dead starts this Sunday. And I'm stoked. Because I hear there will be blood. At the beginning of the episode, they group should still be camped out in an old grist mill. Shortly, they'll discover a nearby prison - which, as fans of the comics know, does not actually turn out all that well for the group. Not everything deadly is a zombie, ya know?
('ello, Guvnah!)
This prison, once cleared of zombie former prisoners, probably seems like it could be a fortress to them. High walls. Secure entrances. Shelter. Most likely, a food supply in storage. But it is, at best, an endangered island in a sea of death - kind of like the Maldives.
In addition to the obvious dangers, there are some that aren't so apparent. We know there's a shadow government doing god knows what. We know that everyone is already infected, and will turn when they die. And we know Merle is lurking out there.
Out of those three things, Merle would scare me the most. I'm not convinced he didn't steal their van back in the city in season one, load it with zombies, and then release it on the camp site by the quarry. Merle's a bully, a sadist, and very, very pissed off. But I guess we'll see what happens.
Out of those three things, Merle would scare me the most. I'm not convinced he didn't steal their van back in the city in season one, load it with zombies, and then release it on the camp site by the quarry. Merle's a bully, a sadist, and very, very pissed off. But I guess we'll see what happens.
(Shhhh! It's a secret.)
These folks need to stop asking "Where?" while looking for a place nearby to hole up. Instead, they need to start asking "How?" while figuring out what they need to survive in the long term.
Zombies have weaknesses. They're persistent, and strong, but not smart or agile. They're also subject to environmental weaknesses, like everything else. So what should the group look for?
1. Somewhere cold. Zombies don't feel cold, but they're still made of flesh, even if it is rotting. Anywhere that drops below 30 degrees Fahrenheit is a good spot to hole up. A frozen zombie is no danger, unless you trip and fall on its teeth. So the group needs to stock up on cold-weather gear at REI and get moving north.
2. Somewhere complicated. Zombies aren't masters of fine motor skills. They don't reason or learn. So don't go for somewhere with raptor-friendly doorknobs. Don't head somewhere with easy access. Don't go to, say, an old quarry with a sunken lake that basically serves as a big people-soup bowl. Go somewhere that is an effort to get to, to enter, and to navigate. A castle with a moat, surrounded by gardens designed in a maze would be good. But as we're nowhere near Versailles, they'll have to be creative.
3. Somewhere strong. As we saw at the farmhouse, a horde of zombies can tear down a house if they want to. Wood and chain link fences are not going to hold them back (Hershel. You delusional wacko). Whatever barrier they put between them and the zombies have to hold up against a horde. And a large enough horde can push down the prison fencing. So that place is not a permanent solution. Your best bets are thick stone, wrought iron, and hard metal. Adding cinderblock and concrete walls around wherever you decide to land is a good idea. So maybe, after you raid REI, swing by Home Depot and grab some QuickCrete.
4. Somewhere high. If a ladder is your entrance, this is a pretty decent idea. Because Zombies can't climb. (No, Zombieland, they can't climb an amusement park ride) They can't scale a rock face. They can't operate heavy machinery. They can't climb a mountain, or power a boat. Look at a map and get to high ground.
5. Somewhere that will last. Zombies aren't just mindless people-eating machines. They're also machine-like people who are being eaten - by bacteria and other organisms essential to decomposition. They can't "live" forever. At best, they have about a year to 18 months. So if you can outlast them, eventually people will survive. Maybe. The mathematical models that have been completed by the scientific community don't give us much hope. In a city of 500,000, a zombie outbreak would take only three days to decimate the population.
So, it looks like my original blog post from the first season might still be on the money. Get thee to a mountainside fort: why wouldst thou be a breeder of zombies? Stone Mountain is close by and will work for a short while, with the eventual goal of making it to Brasstown Bald.
Unfortunately, no matter how many times I yell at my television, the actors can't hear me. So good luck with Ricktocracy, Sheriff. And, Carl? Stay in the freaking house.
So, it looks like my original blog post from the first season might still be on the money. Get thee to a mountainside fort: why wouldst thou be a breeder of zombies? Stone Mountain is close by and will work for a short while, with the eventual goal of making it to Brasstown Bald.
Unfortunately, no matter how many times I yell at my television, the actors can't hear me. So good luck with Ricktocracy, Sheriff. And, Carl? Stay in the freaking house.
(Bonus bad-assery)
Friday, June 15, 2012
Bats in my Belfry
So I've done things like put up bright lights, play annoying sounds, and put out bat repellent in order to drive them out. Make the environment inhospitable, and they'll want to move on, I thought.
Now there are four bats in the attic. And they're not going anywhere.
So, this Saturday, I decided it was time for them to go. Thanks for visiting; vacation's over.
Four bats. They'd be easy to deal with.
My plan was to get old towels and a cardboard box. I would throw the towel over each bat, shove it in the box, and then get the next bat. I'd take the box, drive out to the country, and let the bats go. Fly free, my friends.
Good plan. Solid plan. Foolproof plan.
I waited until my parents left to run errands. I knew they'd never agree to this because RABIES. Everything rabies. You know how parents worry.
I dressed in long pants, long sleeves, gloves and a hat. I gathered four towels, a cardboard box from the storage shed, and lowered the attic stairs. The four bats hung on a screen over the gable vent. We put the screen up years ago so that animals couldn't get in, so obviously they were entering somewhere else. But I'll deal with that later.
I approached the bats, stepping on the scattered - and ultimately ineffective - packets of bat repellent. The bats took no notice of me. They just hung there, quiet. Nearly motionless. In the soft light, asleep, with their little bat wings folded against their bodies, they looked... GROSS.
Seriously, in my mind they were adorable little furry winged pets. In reality, evil flying monkeys from Oz.
I tossed the towel over the first bat, and went to pluck it off the screen.
AND ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.
That bat sent out a high-pitched distress call that awakened the other bats - no, not just the three on the screen with it...
... the TWO DOZEN or so bats that had been hiding under the eaves!
They had been nesting, hidden, in the dark recesses of the eaves. And now they were angry. And I was surrounded.
I don't know how many bats I hit as I made for the attic stairs. I just know that my running and shrieking did nothing to deter them from repeatedly dive-bombing my head. With RABIES. Y'all. I was PUNCHING bats in the air! Like, I punched A LOT of them.
I reached the top of the attic stairs and gravity did the rest. I hit the wooden floor in the hallway, rolled like a ninja, turned, and kicked the folding stairs back into the attic opening. YOU GUYS, I KICKED THE FOLDING STAIRS BACK INTO THE ATTIC OPENING!
Then I lay on my back, on the wooden hallway floor, and shook.
Emerson came running from the living room. "WUT HAPPEN?!"
"Oh... nothing... Mommy just fell down."
Mommy fell down a flight of stairs on the run from a shrieking horde of flying RABIES.
"Oh, I he'p you up. You okay?" she asked.
I did not think I was okay. But I checked myself out. No broken bones. No sprains. No bites or scratches, thanks to my protective gear and ninja-like reflexes.
I didn't tell my parents or Emerson exactly what happened. But mom called an exterminator. He'll be out on Thursday to modify the house so when the bats leave, they can't get back in. Then he'll return in a week to trap any remaining bats and clean up whatever mess they leave behind.
I don't know if I can properly express my gratitude that such heroes exist. But the check he left with had smiley faces where the many 0's should be.
Monday, June 11, 2012
I am the moron in the scenario - big surprise
Me: "Yes."
Andrew: "So just click there to copy it."
Me: "I don't see the right code. It's just the embed code."
Andrew: "Wait - what?"
Me: "I need to link the screen shot image to the video, so people can just click through from the home page."
Andrew: "So, you don't need html?"
Me: "What? Yes, I need the code to link to the video, but all I can pull from here is the embed code."
Andrew: "So... you want the url."
Me: [blink] "... Oh. See, you're using real words that mean things, and I'm expecting you to guess what I'm thinking."
Andrew: "Right."
Me: "You should work on that."
Andrew: "Right."
Me: "You should work on that."
Thursday, June 07, 2012
City Song
I started singing Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" as I was walking - because, in a city, they only deem you crazy if you're naked and eating someone's face. Just as I reached "...like a tiger defying the laws of gravity," a cyclist in a red helmet zoomed by me on the sidewalk singing "I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva; I'm gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping meeeeeeee..."
And he cycled off down the road.
It was awesome.
Monday, June 04, 2012
Court in Juky
Mary Anne: "Holy crap, woman! Thank you, but what was this for?" she texted me.
Me: "For not telling me to shut the eff up every time I freak out about custody proceedings. And then telling me to shut the eff up when I need to hear it. Also, I watched a 'Law & Order' marathon today, so I'm TOTALLY READY for court in Juky."
Me: "I mean, July. Although Court in Juky would be an interesting band name.
Mary Anne: "Court in Juky could have hits like 'No No Briscoe' and 'McCoy and Schiff Blues.'"
Me: "OMG, that's awesome. Imma let you finish, Kanye, but Court in Juky is the best novelty act of all time! Of all time!"
Mary Anne: "CIJ 4 LIFE."
Me: "Word."
Oh, look: There's someone named Juky on the Internet. But is Juky in COURT? Or, more pertinently, is court in HER? I didn't think so. CIJ 4 LIFE, homieez.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
I'd like to set fire to her pain
I know I'm about to alienate most of my (now-tiny) readership, but I have to admit something that will make me wildly unpopular.
I'm tired of Adele.
Yes, I bought her albums. And I enjoyed them. And Emerson used to sing along with her on the car radio until one day she looked at me with big, Manga eyes and said, "Dis song make me sad, Mama."
Word. Dis song make me sad, too.
Look, I can relate to Adele's music. I own "19" and "21," and I hope that she keeps making music until "99." And I think she's fricking hilarious in interviews. I bet she's super fun to hang with. But I can't listen to her until she changes her tune, so to speak.
Because so much of what she writes (and thank god she writes most of her own songs) is about heart break. She takes every failed conversation in a relationship and picks it apart like zombies to a freshly-killed corpse (y'all thought I'd post an entry without mentioning zombies? It's like you don't even know me).
Adele wades through her failures.
She wallows in them.
She wails.
Every dang song is about how much she hurts.
Hey, Adele, everybody hurts. But the R.E.M. song "Everybody Hurts" was at least on the same album that gave us "Nightswimming," a song about happy-go-lucky skinny dipping. Balance, baby. You can't kick us in the crotch for 12 songs.
And every song on "21" was about how much Adele's heart hurts. Well, she can just shut up. Because the rest of us - those of us who didn't just buy a freaking English countryside estate on which to burn her exes in effigy, or whatever she does to quell her pain after chasing pavements all day - have to pick up the pieces of our lives and soldier on.
We schedule summer camps and do housework and worry about our jobs, the bills, the attorney's bills, new software, old laundry and the soul-sucking commute into which we willingly entered because we knew, in our hearts, that this situation was the best option for our children.
And then, while I am embroiled in that commute, trying to see out the back of my head for the Morning Asshole who thinks he's going to get to work faster by weaving in and out of traffic without proper signaling, Adele invades my car radio with her searing misery.
Adele. Seriously. Get out of my car. You are bumming me out.
I don't want to roll in the deep, or set fire to the rain, or chase pavements, or find someone like you - because "you" are a liar and a jerk.
So, thanks, Adele, but I'll sing along to something else in my car. For two hours a day. Here's my new Heartbreak-Free Playlist:
- "I will Survive," Gloria Gaynor
- "Hit the Road, Jack," Ray Charles
- "Stronger," Kelly Clarkston
- "Kiss Off," Violent Femmes
- "Respect," Aretha Franklin or Otis Redding
- "Since You've Been Gone," Kelly Clarkston
- "F*** You," Cee Lo Green
- "Hate on Me," Jill Scott
- "Heartless," by The Fray
- "My Favorite Mistake," Sheryl Crow
- "These Boots are Made for Walkin'," Nancy Sinatra
- "That's Life," Frank Sinatra
- "Song for the Dumped," Ben Folds Five
- "Outta Me, Into You," Ani DiFranco
- "Go Your Own Way," Fleetwood Mac
- "Don't Stop Me Now," Queen
- "Cry Me a River," Justin Timberlake
- "Cry Me a River," Diana Krall
- "Would I Lie to You," Eurythmics
- "Goodbye Earl," Dixie Chicks
- "Bye Bye," Jo Dee Messina
- "Tyrone," Erykah Badu
Totally unrelated: This chart made me laugh.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Why Kant I answer?
"Mom?" Emerson asked one evening, just as I was drifting off to sleep. I jerked awake.
"Yes?"
"Why ders bad guys in da world?"
I really have no idea. Why ARE there bad guys in the world? We can talk about psychopathology and antisocial disorders and just plain jerks, but I honestly do not see any benefits to being "a bad guy." I think about it for a second, but as my brain is in the process of shutting down, I've got bupkis.
"I don't know, honey. That's a question for the philosophers."
"The philosophers? ... Where are dey? Can we call dem?"
Well, no. We can't just call the philosophers. First, the philosophers I know of are dead. Second, most of the reading I have done about philosophy over the years has been co-opted by a single Monty Python song. Really, universities, if you could put all of your lessons to goofy lyrics, your students would remember them a lot better.
Anyway, I told her I would look into it. She's primarily interested in ethics, but she has also expressed interest in ontology - "What does it mean dat we're alibe on dis earf?" Side note: I originally typed that as "oncology." Totally different realm of study. Anyhoodle...
Y'ALL. Never tell Emerson you will do anything. She remembers it. She chronicles it. She demands daily updates. So I started googling things like "Greatest living philosophers" and "philosophy for children."
The first search term got me living theologians, which - while not unrelated - were not what I meant.
The second search term turned up a whole movement about which I had been previously unaware. Philosophy for Children ("P4C") seeks to teach children reason, logic and argumentation. This is something Emerson has already mastered because she regularly kicks my behind in casual conversation. I'm interested in learning more about this, but it still isn't what I was seeking. Again, bupkis.
I begin to consider calling an old philosophy professor - the one who called me stupid every day as some wacked-out experiment in motivation - then realize it would be tantamount to child abuse. My other philosophy professor died years ago. The closest I can get is a priest or minister, who may have the best of intentions, but who would also have a dog in this fight. Hee! I just remembered that "dog" is "god" backwards. Perhaps Freudian that I chose that particular phrase, but I'm going to let it stand. And, anyway, we're back to bupkis.
But... wait! I do not have bupkis. I have an eclectic mix of personal and professional contacts!
I was sharing the above story with my coworker, as moms do, when she lit up: "I have a son-in-law who is a professor of philosophy at Boston College."'
Shut. The. Front. Door.
"Are you freaking kidding me?"
"Nope."
We fired off an email to him right then and there.
Now, I'm not fooling myself. I sent an email to a Ph.D. professor at a major American research institution specifically requesting 10-15 minutes of time to speak with a FIRST GRADER about some questions she happened to ask me. This is probably not what he had in mind when he spent tens of thousands on private post-secondary study. So I can't say that I'm clicking through to Gmail every 15 minutes to see if he's responded.
Except I totally am.
"Yes?"
"Why ders bad guys in da world?"
I really have no idea. Why ARE there bad guys in the world? We can talk about psychopathology and antisocial disorders and just plain jerks, but I honestly do not see any benefits to being "a bad guy." I think about it for a second, but as my brain is in the process of shutting down, I've got bupkis.
"I don't know, honey. That's a question for the philosophers."
"The philosophers? ... Where are dey? Can we call dem?"
Well, no. We can't just call the philosophers. First, the philosophers I know of are dead. Second, most of the reading I have done about philosophy over the years has been co-opted by a single Monty Python song. Really, universities, if you could put all of your lessons to goofy lyrics, your students would remember them a lot better.
Anyway, I told her I would look into it. She's primarily interested in ethics, but she has also expressed interest in ontology - "What does it mean dat we're alibe on dis earf?" Side note: I originally typed that as "oncology." Totally different realm of study. Anyhoodle...
Y'ALL. Never tell Emerson you will do anything. She remembers it. She chronicles it. She demands daily updates. So I started googling things like "Greatest living philosophers" and "philosophy for children."
The first search term got me living theologians, which - while not unrelated - were not what I meant.
The second search term turned up a whole movement about which I had been previously unaware. Philosophy for Children ("P4C") seeks to teach children reason, logic and argumentation. This is something Emerson has already mastered because she regularly kicks my behind in casual conversation. I'm interested in learning more about this, but it still isn't what I was seeking. Again, bupkis.
I begin to consider calling an old philosophy professor - the one who called me stupid every day as some wacked-out experiment in motivation - then realize it would be tantamount to child abuse. My other philosophy professor died years ago. The closest I can get is a priest or minister, who may have the best of intentions, but who would also have a dog in this fight. Hee! I just remembered that "dog" is "god" backwards. Perhaps Freudian that I chose that particular phrase, but I'm going to let it stand. And, anyway, we're back to bupkis.
But... wait! I do not have bupkis. I have an eclectic mix of personal and professional contacts!
I was sharing the above story with my coworker, as moms do, when she lit up: "I have a son-in-law who is a professor of philosophy at Boston College."'
Shut. The. Front. Door.
"Are you freaking kidding me?"
"Nope."
We fired off an email to him right then and there.
Now, I'm not fooling myself. I sent an email to a Ph.D. professor at a major American research institution specifically requesting 10-15 minutes of time to speak with a FIRST GRADER about some questions she happened to ask me. This is probably not what he had in mind when he spent tens of thousands on private post-secondary study. So I can't say that I'm clicking through to Gmail every 15 minutes to see if he's responded.
Except I totally am.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Having THE Talk... well, almost
Emerson is a happy child, who laughs a lot. But that doesn't mean that she hasn't been impacted by the changes in our lives. She sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and peppers me with questions. Sometimes it's related to court proceedings or generalized fears. But the other night, it was a question of a different sort.
"Mama? How does the baby get out of your tummy?"
Screeeeeech!
Hold the phone.
Hold the phone.
The difficulty with this question isn't the question itself; nor even the answer. It's what happens when you follow the question to its logical origin: How does the baby get into your tummy? And then we're having THE Talk. About sex. In the middle of an acrimonious divorce.
At this point, my best option is to fake a seizure, don't you think? I would really rather spend $1,000 on an ER visit than have this conversation twisted and played back in court like my worst nightmare.
That's the real bastard of contested divorce proceedings. It restricts the decisions you make as a parent. Because I've always promised Emerson that I would tell her the truth. If the answer is available, I give it to her straight, but phrased in an age-appropriate manner. If I don't know the answer, I say so - and we look it up. If I'm not comfortable talking about it, or if it's the wrong time for the question, I say that, too.
But when I know that my discomfort with talking about a subject is in conflict with expert opinion - or is simply ridiculous - I try to push past it.
"The baby comes out of the mommy's tummy through her vagina."
"WHAT?!" Emerson shoots straight up in bed. "ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!"
I snort into my pillow. "Nope. That's how it happens."
"Ohmygosh! ... OhmyGOSH!" she laugh-shrieks. "... That is jus' blowing my MIND right now!"
She repeats that a few more times - "ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh" - and kind of hops up and down on the bed. She's freaked out, but also excited. She has learned something significant. She has glimpsed the knowledge of grown-ups, and can't decide where to settle her mind.
"This...! This...! This is... SCIENCE!" she finally exclaims.
"Yep. This is called biology, which is the study of living organisms. Part of that is how they reproduce," I explain. This conversation - this scientific discussion - I can handle. I table my idea to fake a seizure to get out of this conversation.
"So... the babies come out of their mothers' vaginas?"
"Yes, in animals that don't lay eggs, or reproduce through cellular replication - which is a whole other thing, nevermind," I answer.
"So.... did I come out of YOUR vagina?"
"Oh, yes."
She stares at me, fascinated, occasionally glancing down, much to my amusement. My promise of honesty stops long before a pelvic examination.
"How?"
"Well... when a mommy's body is ready to have the baby, everything gets kind of... stretchier," I explain, oversimplifying by about a million percent.
"Like... it opens up a little bit?"
"Yes, a little. Although not enough to make it easy, that's for sure."
She laughs, heartily. "Is it like when you poop?"
"Well, sort of. But it doesn't come out of the same place, obviously."
"Really?"
"Yes. Girls have three openings to expel things."
"And... boys only have two? One for poo and one for pee?"
"Yes."
She considers this for a few minutes. And then...
"Nothing good comes out of a boy's body, does it?"
And THAT is when I faked the seizure.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
I'm all out of stories
"Tell me a story, mama," Emerson said.
It's a nightly ritual. We read a book or we tell a story. Sometimes we share (mostly) true stories about relatives in childhood, like "The Time Mommy Fell Off Her Bike in the Middle of the Street and Cried a Lot." Sometimes she wants a "made-up" story, like "Emerson and the Tale of the Solid Gold Bootie" (an instant classic).
But last night, after 48 hours of minimal sleep due to her illness, I was tapped out.
"Let me read you a story," I suggested. "What would you like - Harry Potter? Junie B. Jones? Captain Underpants?"
"NOoooo! I want a made-up story! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeth?"
"I just don't have any ideas, Doodle," I sighed. She's 7 years old, after all. That means I've told her approximately 2,500 stories. There's only so much I can do. Not even Hans Christian Anderson had such a demanding audience!
"PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEETH!" she begged, and clung to me. And then my brain melted and I heard my mouth agree.
"Okay. But give me a starting place."
"Umm, how about zombies?" she said. This girl knows her mama.
"Okay," I agreed. "There once was a Sheriff whose name was Rick Grimes..."
Friday, May 04, 2012
Dining in a small town
Recently, Gawker gave us this awesome piece about small-town food journalism. The companion pieces are hysterical! It reminded me of growing up in a small town outside of Atlanta, Ga., and I thought I'd share my rambling memories.
I remember when the second McDonald's opened in Conyers, Ga. Up until that moment, kids' birthdays were backyard affairs - but a lucky few got to choose between a Burger King birthday party (with gold paper crowns) or a McDonald's birthday party (with a vastly superior playground).
Then they opened the second McDonald's, right down the street from Burger King on Hwy 138. This road was the main drag, the strip all the late-70s/early-80s teenagers cruised in their Firebirds and Mustangs and hand-me-down Lincolns. And even though most people in town had to drive right past the Burger King to get to the new McDonald's, every kid I know had their birthday party at that Mickey D's that year.
To the residents of Conyers, rating a second McDonald's was A Sign. It signified growth, change... perhaps even status. The town colloquially divided the two locations into "The Old McDonald's" and "The New McDonald's," and West Avenue's business appeal faded like the sun-bleached railroad ties that constructed the playground of The Old McDonald's.
Soon after, the Wendy's in the A&P Shopping Center moved to the same stretch of highway as its two competitors. Gone were the faux Tiffany lamps and newspaper-printed Formica tables. Blond wood and burgundy vinyl surrounded the all-you-can-eat salad bar. It was a dominating expanse of exotic vegetables like shredded carrots, pickled beets and chopped broccoli, over which spilled a splatter-pattern of salad dressing, reminiscent of the Spin Art toys that were so popular at the time. SAHMs of Rockdale County hated that toy. But they loved that salad bar.
Slowly, other restaurant signs winked on in the darkness: the "fancy" locally owned Italian place, with its overcooked rolls and pasta slick with cheap olive oil; the Greek pizza place, with the temperamental owner who hated teenagers and kicked us out more times than I can count; the Arby's that opened right beside the four-screen movie-theater-cum-arcade. I think I ate curly fries every day of 8th grade.
But for a "real" dining out experience, Rockdalians still had to travel to the culinary cluster surrounding the two closest malls, South Lake Mall in Jonesboro and North Lake Mall in Tucker. Y'all. We put the full weight of our proud Southern literary tradition to bear on those mall names.
At either mall-adjacent development, we could enjoy any culinary offering that mid-market suburbanites could imagine - from the exotic fried-with-sauce offerings of Main Chow Mein in the mall food court to the full 38-page menu and hanging-fern treatment at Bennigan's.
But it wasn't until I was in high school that it happened. You heard the whispers. You couldn't believe it. But then site prep started and suddenly it was real. It was The Great Coming of The Applebee's. A real Applebee's in our town! Y'all. It was a bar and a grill. The importance of this combination could not be understated. It was like the virgin run of the Reese's cup. Who put their peanut butter in my chocolate?! Doesn't matter. We're getting The Applebee's. Lo, how its light shine in the darkness. And it was good.
I'll admit that The Applebee's Bar and Grill had its naysayers. "It'll never last," they said. But it did. In fact, it thrived. And there were The Mozzarella Sticks. And though The Mozzarella Sticks were but few, a miracle occurred, and The Mozzarella Sticks did multiply and feed the masses. And the people rejoiced.
Tragically, I never ate there. I was very busy being a Sort-of Socially Conscious Person who hung out in Little Five Points, signed a lot of petitions I never read, and refused to eat meat. Dropping in on philosophy classes at New Acropolis didn't leave much time to spend money with the Proletariat. As a result, I missed a Rockdale High School Rite of Passage: That Applebee's Date Where You Tricked the Waitress Into Selling You Alcohol.
And the one time I intended to eat there - at the cast party after our high school Spring Musical - I totaled my parents' Oldsmobile on Salem Road with four other people in the car. Yea, though I walked through the scene changes of the musical with the wholesome religious message hidden amidst debauchery and gambling, I will fear no dark blue or maybe black pick-up truck that turns left in front of me when I have the light. A-hole.
I went off to college and the Conyers haute cuisine scene kept growing. Other restaurants joined The Applebee's. There was the short-lived Boston Market and some other small chains, and then the one-off local eateries that people referred to colloquially by location: That Thai Place in the Kroger Shopping Center; The Sushi Place Over By the Publix, and The Sushi Place Over On the Access Road. Finally, there was The Great Hooters Controversy. And rebels did protest the addition of The Restaurant of Sodom. But the zoning commission found no legal reason to refuse it. And the complimentary hot wings did grace the zoning commission's meetings for eons.
About 10 years ago, they opened Stonecrest Mall two exits away from the main highway. There is yet a third McDonald's across from the mall - in addition to various Darden and Brinker corporate restaurant offerings that are packed out every night. In about 20 years, Conyers/Rockdale County will probably serve as another cautionary tale of unregulated growth, a la Jonesboro/Clayton County. Though, technically, the mall is in Lithonia, but no one seems to realize that.
"The Old McDonald's" was torn down decades ago, and a Longhorne Steakhouse was built in its place. That Longhorne Steakhouse was then replaced by another Longhorne Steakhouse. In the future, aliens will visit the site and some extraterrestrial archaeology grad student will excavate the layers of construction and then write a thesis about how we built monuments to honor cows (Here's a secret: Egyptians just thought cats were just really tasty).
In time, the small town I grew up in was replaced by a traffic-choked suburban strip mall collective that is almost indistinguishable from any other of the small municipalities that surround Atlanta and transition commuters from urban center (Fulton County) to suburbia (Rockdale County) to Piedmont forestland (Newton County).
But there is a movement to preserve the "historic" Old Town Conyers, the four-block radius of two-story storefronts that adjoin the old railroad depot. There's a Thai Palace in an old historic house on Railroad Street. There's a homemade ice cream store called Creamberry's just a couple of blocks over. The old Evan's Pharmacy still offers lunch counter service and fresh lemonade.
Things are moving along in Conyers. You can get almost any cuisine you'd like. And they even have a tourist trap. The Whistle Post Tavern gives out free drinks whenever the train rumbles through Old Town. Y'all... it's a bar and a grill.
I remember when the second McDonald's opened in Conyers, Ga. Up until that moment, kids' birthdays were backyard affairs - but a lucky few got to choose between a Burger King birthday party (with gold paper crowns) or a McDonald's birthday party (with a vastly superior playground).
Then they opened the second McDonald's, right down the street from Burger King on Hwy 138. This road was the main drag, the strip all the late-70s/early-80s teenagers cruised in their Firebirds and Mustangs and hand-me-down Lincolns. And even though most people in town had to drive right past the Burger King to get to the new McDonald's, every kid I know had their birthday party at that Mickey D's that year.
To the residents of Conyers, rating a second McDonald's was A Sign. It signified growth, change... perhaps even status. The town colloquially divided the two locations into "The Old McDonald's" and "The New McDonald's," and West Avenue's business appeal faded like the sun-bleached railroad ties that constructed the playground of The Old McDonald's.
Soon after, the Wendy's in the A&P Shopping Center moved to the same stretch of highway as its two competitors. Gone were the faux Tiffany lamps and newspaper-printed Formica tables. Blond wood and burgundy vinyl surrounded the all-you-can-eat salad bar. It was a dominating expanse of exotic vegetables like shredded carrots, pickled beets and chopped broccoli, over which spilled a splatter-pattern of salad dressing, reminiscent of the Spin Art toys that were so popular at the time. SAHMs of Rockdale County hated that toy. But they loved that salad bar.
Slowly, other restaurant signs winked on in the darkness: the "fancy" locally owned Italian place, with its overcooked rolls and pasta slick with cheap olive oil; the Greek pizza place, with the temperamental owner who hated teenagers and kicked us out more times than I can count; the Arby's that opened right beside the four-screen movie-theater-cum-arcade. I think I ate curly fries every day of 8th grade.
But for a "real" dining out experience, Rockdalians still had to travel to the culinary cluster surrounding the two closest malls, South Lake Mall in Jonesboro and North Lake Mall in Tucker. Y'all. We put the full weight of our proud Southern literary tradition to bear on those mall names.
At either mall-adjacent development, we could enjoy any culinary offering that mid-market suburbanites could imagine - from the exotic fried-with-sauce offerings of Main Chow Mein in the mall food court to the full 38-page menu and hanging-fern treatment at Bennigan's.
But it wasn't until I was in high school that it happened. You heard the whispers. You couldn't believe it. But then site prep started and suddenly it was real. It was The Great Coming of The Applebee's. A real Applebee's in our town! Y'all. It was a bar and a grill. The importance of this combination could not be understated. It was like the virgin run of the Reese's cup. Who put their peanut butter in my chocolate?! Doesn't matter. We're getting The Applebee's. Lo, how its light shine in the darkness. And it was good.
I'll admit that The Applebee's Bar and Grill had its naysayers. "It'll never last," they said. But it did. In fact, it thrived. And there were The Mozzarella Sticks. And though The Mozzarella Sticks were but few, a miracle occurred, and The Mozzarella Sticks did multiply and feed the masses. And the people rejoiced.
Tragically, I never ate there. I was very busy being a Sort-of Socially Conscious Person who hung out in Little Five Points, signed a lot of petitions I never read, and refused to eat meat. Dropping in on philosophy classes at New Acropolis didn't leave much time to spend money with the Proletariat. As a result, I missed a Rockdale High School Rite of Passage: That Applebee's Date Where You Tricked the Waitress Into Selling You Alcohol.
And the one time I intended to eat there - at the cast party after our high school Spring Musical - I totaled my parents' Oldsmobile on Salem Road with four other people in the car. Yea, though I walked through the scene changes of the musical with the wholesome religious message hidden amidst debauchery and gambling, I will fear no dark blue or maybe black pick-up truck that turns left in front of me when I have the light. A-hole.
I went off to college and the Conyers haute cuisine scene kept growing. Other restaurants joined The Applebee's. There was the short-lived Boston Market and some other small chains, and then the one-off local eateries that people referred to colloquially by location: That Thai Place in the Kroger Shopping Center; The Sushi Place Over By the Publix, and The Sushi Place Over On the Access Road. Finally, there was The Great Hooters Controversy. And rebels did protest the addition of The Restaurant of Sodom. But the zoning commission found no legal reason to refuse it. And the complimentary hot wings did grace the zoning commission's meetings for eons.
About 10 years ago, they opened Stonecrest Mall two exits away from the main highway. There is yet a third McDonald's across from the mall - in addition to various Darden and Brinker corporate restaurant offerings that are packed out every night. In about 20 years, Conyers/Rockdale County will probably serve as another cautionary tale of unregulated growth, a la Jonesboro/Clayton County. Though, technically, the mall is in Lithonia, but no one seems to realize that.
"The Old McDonald's" was torn down decades ago, and a Longhorne Steakhouse was built in its place. That Longhorne Steakhouse was then replaced by another Longhorne Steakhouse. In the future, aliens will visit the site and some extraterrestrial archaeology grad student will excavate the layers of construction and then write a thesis about how we built monuments to honor cows (Here's a secret: Egyptians just thought cats were just really tasty).
In time, the small town I grew up in was replaced by a traffic-choked suburban strip mall collective that is almost indistinguishable from any other of the small municipalities that surround Atlanta and transition commuters from urban center (Fulton County) to suburbia (Rockdale County) to Piedmont forestland (Newton County).
But there is a movement to preserve the "historic" Old Town Conyers, the four-block radius of two-story storefronts that adjoin the old railroad depot. There's a Thai Palace in an old historic house on Railroad Street. There's a homemade ice cream store called Creamberry's just a couple of blocks over. The old Evan's Pharmacy still offers lunch counter service and fresh lemonade.
Things are moving along in Conyers. You can get almost any cuisine you'd like. And they even have a tourist trap. The Whistle Post Tavern gives out free drinks whenever the train rumbles through Old Town. Y'all... it's a bar and a grill.
