Department Of No Answers (Yet), Just More Questions
Moiself calls it The Milestone Blues. I spoke with my friend SSB two weeks ago, who seems to have a case of it.
Sometimes the milestones of your life can seem more like millstones around your neck. This can happen even as you try to appreciate the fact that – as SSB reminded himself and moiself after we attended the memorial gathering for Dr. Sarah Elizabeth Hawley (written about here) – others have not had the privilege of living long enough to reflect upon the downsides of growing older.
There have been many revolutions over the last century, but perhaps none as significant as the longevity revolution. We are living on average today 34 years longer than our great-grandparents did — think about that. That’s an entire second adult lifetime that’s been added to our lifespan. And yet, for the most part, our culture has not come to terms with what this means. We’re still living with the old paradigm of age as an arch. That’s the metaphor, the old metaphor. You’re born, you peak at midlife and decline into decrepitude – age as pathology.
But many people today — philosophers, artists, doctors, scientists — are taking a new look at what I call “the third act” — the last three decades of life. They realize that this is actually a developmental stage of life with its own significance, as different from midlife as adolescence is from childhood. And they are asking — we should all be asking: How do we use this time? How do we live it successfully? What is the appropriate new metaphor for aging? (from Jane Fonda’s TED Talk, “Life’s Third Act,” which you really should listen to, or at least read the transcript)
What I have personally experienced and/or seen in others, most (but not all) of these milestones have to do with aging. It can seem like a came-out-of-nowhere-surprise when, for example, you find yourself
* turning 60
* retiring from your job of 30 years
* being divorced by your spouse of 25 years
* making funeral plans for your father
* realizing you need to make assisted care plans for your mother
* helping your youngest child leave home/pack for college
* being given a Senior Discount at the movies by the ticket clerk, even though you didn’t ask for it and don’t qualify
* being told you have to start researching Medicare options
Like SSB, when I entered Life’s Third Act, [1] questions of What I have I done that “matters”…however you define that?and What can and should matter now? began to occupy an increasing amount of my limited ponderance [2] capacity.
We Thespians of Life, waiting in the wings for the curtain to rise on Act 3, [3] find ourselves wondering, What am I going to do with…
* with our lives
* our “free” free time
* the widower across the street who keeps asking if we’ll invite him to our house when our husband is gone and show him our casserole collection
* those annoying As We Change catalogs that seem to have spontaneously generated overnight in our mailboxes
* those pesky hairs – in the middle of our noses or tips of our earlobes – which keep growing, as if overnight, no matter how many times we pluck them…
Something that takes so many years to accumulate – the dilemma of reconciling, or even recognizing, the actions and feelings of a lifetime – doesn’t resolve itself overnight…nor even over a few months.
These issues can be especially vexing for those of us who’ve spent the majority of our professional lives in certain notoriously low- (or no-) paying fields; e.g., the arts; social service/public advocacy; child-reading and home management….
“…. I have seen the critical role that the arts play in stimulating creativity and in developing vital communities….the arts have a crucial impact on our economy and are an important catalyst for learning, discovery, and achievement in our country.” –Paul G. Allen, Co-Founder, Microsoft
“The rapidly evolving global economy demands a dynamic and creative workforce…. The strength of every democracy is measured by its commitment to the arts.” –Charles Segars, CEO of Ovation
Children are not a distraction from more important work;
they are the most important work. (a quote often -and falsely – attributed to C.S. Lewis; actual author Dr. John Trainer)
The importance of moms and dads… in raising the next generation,
cannot be overstated. The future of humanity depends
on the how well (parents) do…. (opening remarks of Archbishop Bernardito Auza, in his speech to The United Nations,
marking Global Day of Parents, June 1, 2018. Of course, the Archbishop himself
has no children – that we know about – nor has ever advocated for remunerations
to those who take on this work upon which the future of humanity depends.)
Our society depends on those of us who labor in these low/no-paying fields, yet pays only lip service regarding their value (have you tried redeeming lip service at the bank or grocery store?). Thus, the spouses of us low/no-pay fielders have shouldered our household’s main financial responsibility…thus also have reaped the resulting rewards, including credits toward Social Security and pension benefits, workplace connections and credibility, career experience and job continuity and keeping up-to-date technological skills and social status….
Bonus Epicurean Excursion – an original recipe: (This is from one night last summer when I felt like having Indian-spiced food,
and wanted to use up tomatoes and kohlrabi from my produce CSA farm share. I named the recipe for my father, whose nickname for me was Robbie-Doll)
Rabi-Dal (serves 4) – 1/2 t each brown mustard seeds and cumin seeds -1T neutral oil or ghee – 1 medium yellow onion, diced – 2 minced garlic cloves – minced – ½ T minced ginger root – 1 large green jalapeno (fresh or pickled), finely chopped – 1 ½ T pomegranate molasses (or tamarind paste – you want a tart tangy taste) – 1 packed t dark brown or coconut sugar – scant 1 t chili powder (New Mexico, if possible) – 1/4 t turmeric – ½ c masoor dal (red lentils), sorted and washed – 2 medium tomatoes, chopped (or canned, to equal ~ 6 oz) -3-4 med-large kohlrabi (~675 gm – 1 ½ lb) – peeled & diced small – kosher salt to taste -chopped fresh cilantro -Drained unsweetened soy yogurt to equal 1 c mixed w/2T fresh lime (or lemon) juice
-Heat 1 T neutral oil or ghee in a Dutch oven or other high-sided pan. Add the seeds; sauté until the seeds pop, then add the onions and sauté 5m.
-Add garlic & jalapeno & ginger, sauté until fragrant (30 sec – 1m). Add remaining spices (molasses; sugar; turmeric; chili powder), stir for 15 sec.
-add dal, sauté 1-2 m stirring, until it is covered w/oil & spices
-Add tomatoes and 1 ¾ c water, bring to boil then cover & simmer 20 m. Meanwhile prep kohlrabi: steam or nuke 5-6 m until tender.
-Add steamed kohlrabi to pan, simmer uncovered for ~ 10 m or until lentils are cooked through and sauce thickens, adding more water if necessary for desired consistency. Add salt to taste .
-Serve, over or along side basmati rice (brown or white),
topped with dollops of lime/yogurt sauce and sprinkled w/chopped cilantro.
You really need to cook more with kohlrabi. What’s not to love about a veggie that resembles a satellite?
* * *
May you weather your own milestone blues; May you remember that nearly everyone gets to audition for Act 3; May you discover how almost everything goes better with kohlrabi; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Famously defined by Jane Fonda in a TED talk, Act 3 or Life’s Third Act refers to the last three decades of life.
[2] Yeah, it’s a word…at least in my blog…so fuck off, spellcheck.
[3] I think this is the first (and hopefully last) theater metaphor moiself has used in this blog.
[4] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.
The real reason behind the total ban on abortion in Alabama and other backward misogynist shithole legislatures states, or so political strategists on both sides of the aisle tell us, is to set up a challenge in SCOTUS for Roe v. Wade. State legislators know their draconian laws will be struck down by state judges as unconstitutional; thus, the hoped-for trip to up the judicial ladder to SCOTUS chambers.
But so-called real reasons often leave real people and their real stories in the dustbin of history. I will share some of those stories in this post: a series of vignettes, in no particular chronological order, from my time working in women’s reproductive health care. The stories I have from those years are legion; I’ll attempt both restraint and discretion in relating a just few of them. [1]
The last one still blows my mind, all these years later. If I were to write it up as a short story I’m sure literary journals would reject it (“Contrived plot,” the editor’s notes might read), but trust me, I’m not a skilled enough writer to have made it up. Once again, reality trumps fiction.
TheBackground
From the early 1980s – 90’s I worked for a Planned Parenthood (“PP”) clinic in a SoCal county, a private OB-GYN practice in the Bay Area, and Planned Parenthood clinics in a Bay Area county.
PP clinics provided services determined by geographic need. Example: because there were several other clinics in the county which performed abortions, the SoCal PP clinic provided a range of health care but referred patients seeking an abortion to those other clinics. Because there were few options in that same county for women needing colposcopy exams, [2] that PP set up a colposcopy clinic, the patients mainly coming via referrals from the county public health system.
The Doctor (“Doc”) at the OB-GYN office where I worked (“The Practice”) shared the practice with a nurse practitioner (“NP”). Their patients ranged from Silicon Valley execs to welfare recipients (but skewed toward the higher end of the economic spectrum). Doc infrequently performed first trimester abortions (~ four per year), at an offsite day surgery center (he was aware that many more of his patients had abortions, but went elsewhere for the procedure). He told me he didn’t like performing them (“It’s a sad situation, all around”), but what he didn’t like even more was the idea of abandoning his patients when they needed help.
The Bay Area county PP had four clinics in the county, three of which offered abortions services, one to three mornings per week. I worked initially at the main site’s STD screening clinic, [3] then at their abortion (AB) clinics.
The Stories
We (The Practice’s Doc, NP, and I) developed a personal relationship [4] and had many interesting conversations on issues re women’s health care. Doc and NP were both staunchly pro-choice, Doc in particular due to his knowledge of what things were like before Roe v. Wade. He told me stories about The Bad Old Days, about how (surprise!) the rich could always get safe care, no matter what. Back in the late 50s – 60s when abortion was illegal, a Japanese airline had a clandestine (but procurable, if you knew the right people) package deal: the fare included flights to and from Tokyo from West Coast airports, overnight lodging in a Tokyo hotel, and the fee for an abortion performed by a Japanese doctor. Sympathetic American doctors whose desperate patients had no safe local alternatives would refer their patients to someone, who would refer them to someone else, who would refer them to…. [5]
One of The Practice’s OB patients, after a routine exam, asked Doc if he ever performed abortions. Although it was none of her %&!$ business (and moiself wanted him to tell her so) he answered honestly, while tactfully letting her know that he would not be steered down the anti-abortion harangue road she was heading for. After she’d left, Doc signaled to me to follow him to the office’s back room, where old/inactive patient files were kept.
As Doc searched through the files he told me about a former patient of his who’d sought an abortion, back when the procedure was illegal except for “medical reasons.” This woman had to go before a (male, of course) judge to get approval to have an abortion. Her physicians had to testify as to her mental and physical well-being, and they had lots of material: she had chronic health problems; was depressed to the point of suicide; her husband had left her and their three children…. She’d wanted to get her tubes tied after birthing her second child but could not find a doctor to do so – as per the standards of the time, hospitals would not book a sterilization surgery for a woman unless she met this weird algorithm (criteria included her age, the number of children she had, and other factors I can’t recall). She also needed her husband’s permission for the surgery, which he’d refused. [6]
The woman won her petition. At this point in the story Doc had found the patient’s chart, and showed me the transcript from her day in court. He snorted with disgust as he recalled how a grown-ass adult woman had to grovel and reveal highly personal information to male strangers who held power over her life. Doc re-filed the chart, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes absent as he said, “Don’t ever let it go back to that.”
* * *
The R- PP clinic site (Bay Area) performed abortions on Friday mornings. The R-PP had two recurrent anti-abortion protesters who hung out on the sidewalk by the clinic parking lot. They were an odd pair: an older woman with an imperious air, always impeccably dressed in a woolen suit, designer handbag matching her designer pumps, her chin-length white hair sprayed into a Doris Bay-type bob, and a tall, lanky young man with wild eyes and a shock of Conan O’Brien-ish, unruly red hair. I called them Snow Whiteand Big Red.
Dateline: A Friday am; the clinic had just opened, patients were in the waiting room filling out forms. One of the four clinic aides motioned for me and the other aides to follow her down the hallway. Looking out the clinic’s rear window, we saw “Consuela” outside, approaching Big Red.
Consuela, a native Mexican married to an American, was R-PP’s AB clinic manager. She was committed to providing reproductive care for Latinas, even as she admitted struggling with her work, due to her harsh Catholic upbringing. Consuela was kind and sweet-tempered, admired by PP’s staff and beloved by PP’s Latina patients, about whom she would tolerantly (but never patronizingly) educate us “white girl” clinic aides. She told us about the vagaries of the male-dominated culture Latina women had to endure, and the stories of her patients who’d had a horrifyingly experience common to impoverished Latinas entering the US were truly heartbreaking. The template: a woman’s husband summoned her to join him in the US after he’d found a job. He’d wired money to pay a coyote[7] to escort her across the border, and during the journey the coyote raped her. Coyotes often assaulted women and girls with impunity and threatened their lives, knowing they’d be too frightened to tell the authorities or their husbands (sadly, Consuela said, even loving husbands were steeped in their culture’s machismo code, which cast a wife’s rape as a stain upon her husband’s honor…or as a cover for an affair).
Consuela would be in a certain mood I learned to identify – anger muted by melancholy – after working with a woman impregnated by coyote-rape. I often saw her, as her patient was leaving the clinic, slip the patient some money (“For bus fare,” Consuela would whisper in Spanish). [8]
Back to the sidewalk: Sweet, warm Consuela was also very, very shy. Thus, we (her fellow clinicians, staring out the window) were amazed to see her approach Big Red, speak to him for a few minutes, return to the clinic…and holy crap, Big Redis leaving the parking lot! When the clinic was finished (~ 1 pm) Consuela told me what she’d said to him (paraphrased here):
I know you are here because you think you are doing good, but there is something you need to know. Three weeks ago, there was a no-show at our clinic – that older Latina woman you thought you had talked out of having an abortion. Actually, she left when you confronted her because she was afraid of you; she speaks only a little English, and didn’t understand everything you had to say, only that you were a stranger, who knew nothing about her, trying to intimidate her into not having an abortion. She returned last week and had the procedure.
She may be poor and illiterate, but she is not stupid. When a woman makes such an important decision she considers all her options, and when she makes up her mind she is going to do whatever it takes. All you did was make her wait another two weeks; she had to be sick and stressed and distraught for another two weeks. That may not have been your intention, but that is what happened. You caused even more grief for her.
For several weeks after Consuela spoke to Big Red, Snow White was the lone protester outside the R-PP clinic.
* * *
I’m glad those days (when abortion was illegal) are passed. But I fear the younger generations have no memories of what happened and take their rights for granted, and those of us who lived in those times are dying out, and our stories will die with us. (paraphrased, from a conversation with Samuel Greenberg, M.D., PP-M physician)
Dr. Greenberg was an older gentleman, retired from his longtime OB-GYN practice, who worked several days a week at the PP main site (“PP-M”). “Dr. G” was the doctor I most often worked with at PP, and I came to admire his expertise, experience, humor, and compassion.
We talked often; Dr. G was concerned that when he and his peers died there’d be no one left to tell about The Bad Old Days, and that people might forget…. Sound familiar? Like many Jews of his age, he’d lost loved ones to the WWII concentration camps. His family’s experiences as Jews in non-Jewish cultures was one of the reasons, he said, he felt so strongly about his work at PP –– he knew first-hand what can happen when people have their rights abridged by those of differing beliefs.
When Dr. G was a young doctor in the 1950s, doing his OB-GYN residency rotations in two different urban Catholic hospitals, he saw and treated many women who showed up in a the hospitals’ ERs, gravely ill and/or dying from botched illegal or self-induced abortions. Yet he never *once* saw the attending physicians list complications from illegal abortion as the cause of death for a patient who had indeed died from that. On one such occasion, when Dr. G had the unhappy task of writing the “cause of death” on the patient’s chart, he challenged the doctor in charge who’d instructed Dr. G to write that the patient died of sepsis from an incomplete miscarriage. But, that’s a lie!Dr. G protested. – How can we, as doctors, lie about such a thing – people need to know, and the public health statistics will never reflect the reality…
Dr. G’s boss grabbed Dr. G by the elbow and steered him to the ER waiting room, pointing toward a sofa where the dead patient’s bereft husband and children sat. He then led Dr. G to an empty hallway and spoke to him, privately and sternly, about the hospital’s non-official policy re reporting abortion-related deaths: This is a Catholic hospital, with a mostly Catholic clientele. The truth will only bring further anguish, and shame, to a grieving family; also, since abortion is illegal, the police will have to be notified, and the hospital does not want its staff to get dragged into criminal investigations….
I will never forget the patience and kindness Dr. G showed toward all of the women we saw in the clinic, but in particular, to one recovering heroin addict. Like most addicts, she was hypersensitive to pain, and howled as if she’d been stabbed when I did a simple finger prick blood test to check her iron level. She’d asked for additional analgesics for her procedure, which less than 5% of patients requested and which the doctor had to approve and then administer intravenously. Due to her years of junkiedom, Dr. G couldn’t find a usable vein to inject the medication. I waited with an impatience I tried not to show, thinking thoughts for which I was later ashamed (What a whining wimp – suck it up lady, this is all from your own doing… you’ll be out of here in 10 minutes, and nobody else begs for drugs….), while Dr. G searched and searched, and searched again, and finally found a usable spot between her toes. After her surgery Dr. G spent additional time with her, holding her hand and encouraging her not to get down on herself or let this be another setback on her road to healing and sobriety.
* * *
In the PP clinics I saw a variety of women, from a wealthy Señora from Guadalajara whose IUD “slipped” while she and he husband were vacationing in the US, to a mother of four, in her late 40s and going through a bitter divorce (who’d had been told by a doctor that she’d gone through early menopause and couldn’t get pregnant), to the proverbial teenage girls who seem as if they can get pregnant just by standing downwind from a boy.
As per the coyote story, rape/incest victims were the saddest cases to see. Those included a preteen holding onto her mother with one hand and her stuffed animal with her other hand (accompanied by a police escort, to retrieve “evidence’ of the assault, evidence they hoped to use to prosecute the family member who’d raped the girl); a woman forcibly impregnated by her estranged, abusive husband (she was told [9] by a police officer that she couldn’t press rape charges because she was still married to her rapist), girls abused by their brothers/cousins/stepfathers/mom’s “new friend”/youth pastors….
And then there were those who’d been assaulted by non-related acquaintances – scenarios given a term I despise for its downplaying of the trauma it inflicts: Date rape.
During a patient’s intake procedure we reviewed her medical history, and one of the questions we asked was, What kind of contraception were you using when you became pregnant?That question was not posed to known rape victims, and was a particularly cutting one to hear for sexual assault victims who’d not yet told anyone what had happened to them. One patient, her tough chick attitude failing to mask her nervousness, threw her hands up in the air and laughed bitterly when I asked that question. Nothing; I was using nothing! Can you believe that the guy my friend set me up with, the guy who choked me until I passed out, didn’t have the decency to put on a condom before he raped me?! [10]
* * *
Big Bad Wolves are not always so obvious, Little Red Riding Hood.
She was not my patient; I’d finished my first intake and was on my way to place my patient’s chart in the surgical queue. She stood in the hallway outside the clinic’s bathroom, holding her urine sample cup, fidgeting in a way I’d come to recognize as a woman trying to convince herself to pee when she didn’t have to go. She was dressed like a 1950s secretary, with a pleated plaid skirt and a faded, rose red cardigan sweater. She looked sweetly anachronistic, nervous, and shy.
“Let me guess,” I pointed toward the empty cup she held. “It seems like you have to go every five minutes, then when you need to go, you can’t?”
Exactly! She flashed me a puppy-eyed look of gratitude. Kelly, my, uh, intake lady, left me here; she needed to talk with a nurse or something. It might take awhile before I can…she looked askance at the empty cup in her hand.I shouldn’t have gone at my mom’s, before we came here.
I offered to get her a glass of water, and as I walked her back to her intake room she told me how out of place she felt. I can tell I’m the oldest girl here. It’s so embarrassing.She lowered her voice. I’m twenty-seven.
“I’m thirty-one,” I said. “I win!”
She blushed, and told me she hadn’t meant the age of the staff, but rather “the girls”she’s seen in the waiting room, whom she assumed were, like her, there for an abortion, but unlike her, were probably not virgins… I mean, were virgins, until….
I stopped before entering the intake room, where her mother sat. Sweet Twenty-Seven-Year-Old-Former-Virgin looked at me imploringly. Can you come in and talk with me?
I said I’d love to, and asked if it would be okay to talk in front of her mother. She assured me it was. I sat down with the two of them, and STSYOFV began to spill her guts.
STSYOFV had flown out from Kentucky, where she’d gone to college and where she lived now. Her mother was helping out, paying for the abortion – STSYOFV didn’t want to have it done where she lived, in case any of her friends and especially her church friends found out…well, I really don’t have any friends besides church friends…
As STSYOFV told it, her life revolved around an evangelical church where she was a member of the choir. STSYOFV ‘s mother discretely shook her head and gave me a look.
STSYOFV said she loved choral music; her church choir met for practice several times a week…and what they would think of me, if they knew where I was now. I know what I’m doing is wrong in their sight, but my they’d disown me if I was pregnant out of wedlock and I know all my options and everyone here is so nice about reminding me but I wish they’d stop asking I don’t need adoption or pregnancy referrals I know what I’m doing and I can’t bear being pregnant it would destroy me and how could I be was so stupid and ignorant and naïve to stay a virgin until 27 and then get pregnant the first and only time…I feel felt guilty but I’m going to do it anyways, I tried a few home remedies, even thought if I threw myself down the stairs…
My eyes widened at the remark, and STSYOFV’s mother gasped. STSYOFV assured us both that she’d chickened out; I made her laugh when I told her that a miscarriage caused by falling down the stairs only happens in the movies.
Lawdy, Miss Scarlett!
My eyes flitted back and forth, from STSYOFV to her mother, who mostly remained silent while her daughter talked. The mother’s unwavering love for STSYOFV was evident to me, as was her disapproval of the church her daughter had gotten involved with.
STSYOFV said she hadn’t even intended to have sex…I hope god will forgive me but I am going to do this, or if he can’t forgive me, at least I hope he won’t hate me. If they only knew…they all think I’m a nice person….
“Then that’s one thing they’re right about – you are a nice person.” I placed my hand over STSYOFV’s. She grasped my hand with both of hers, her eyes moist with gratitude. Although a (closeted, at that time) non-believer, I attended a liberal Christian church, and knew what STSYOFV needed to hear. I assured her that her god, that no one, could ever hate her.
STSYOFV smiled at me through her tears.I wish you would be doing my intake, and be with me during the procedure. Kelly is nice, but she’s so young.
Actually, Kelly is 26, I thought to myself. I also thought about how STSYOFV, with her gentle, desperate naivete and high voice, seems like a 12 year-old in a 27 year-old’s body.
I told STSYOFV I had another patient to help, but promised I’d check on her after her procedure. She hugged me, and said she’d like that.
STSYOFV was the last patient to see the doctor, and when she was out of the recovery room she, her mother and I had a heartfelt conversation before they left the clinic. I assured STSYOFV re how much she had going for her – she was young, strong- spirited and good-hearted, with a wonderful mother who loved and supported her…
She is the best.STSYOFV gazed lovingly at her mother. And she says she won’t let me pay her back, for lending me money for the plane tickets and everything.
“Speaking of which…” I hesitated. “What about the guy who got you pregnant? Why isn’t he helping you with this, or at least paying?”
Oh, no, that would ruin him.STSYOFV shook her head, sadly yet vehemently. While her mother’s mama bear eyes blazed with rage on behalf of her daughter, STSYOFV told me that the man who’d seduced her was her choir director. He was older, married and with children, and active in the church’s pro-life demonstrations. When she went to him with news of her pregnancy he warned her to not to tell anyone, and told her to “take care of it,” and so STSYOFV had swallowed her pride and telephoned her mother….
* * *
Department Of This One Takes The Cake Aka If I Hadn’t Seen It With My Own Eyes….
I lost track of how many times an AB clinic patient laughed and said, “Until it happened to me, I was against abortion. That” – the patient would indicate the clinic’s entrance, referring to the protesters outside – “might have been me a couple of months ago.” I’d smile, say, “We hear that a lot,” and do my best not to reveal that I didn’t find her admission – that she’d have supported taking away other women’s autonomy until “it” happened to her – to be amusing.
PP-M had a semi-regular group of protesters who demonstrated outside the clinic’s front entrance. (I never saw them; I parked in the employee lot at the back of the clinic and entered and left through the back door.) Other PP-M employees became quite familiar with the protesters, who were part of some Catholic group led by a perky blond in her mid-thirties. The Vice President (“Veep”) of PP-M went out of her way to befriend the protesters. Veep was an ex-Catholic, and would go outside and chat with the protesters during her coffee breaks, sometimes joining them in reciting The Rosary. On sweltering summer days Veep carried cups of water out to the protesters – one day she even brought them lemonade – and on more than one cold winter morning I heard a fellow clinic aide good-naturedly grouse about how She ( meaning, Veep) is out there, serving them hot cocoa, can you believe it?
Dateline: one memorable Monday, ~ 8 am, at the PP-M AB clinic. As I reached for the first chart in the intake pile, “Cindy,” the clinic’s assistant manager, whisked the chart out of my hand. “I don’t believe this,” Cindy hissed. She motioned for me to follow her to the reception office, where she and the receptionist stared through the bullet-and-sound-proof plate glass window to the waiting room, and traded incredulous remarks back and forth:
I don’t believe it – can you believe it? That can’t be her…no, it is her…this is got to be a joke…a plant…a set up…no – look at the chart, it is!….
I asked, What’s up? Cindy told me that Perky Blonde Anti-Abortion Protest Leader was in the waiting area, with her 15 year old daughter, whom she’d brought in for an abortion.
“I am doing this intake,” Cindy announced. As her WTF?!?! expression morphed into that of Compassionate Health Care Worker, she opened the door to the waiting area and called PBAAPL and her daughter back to an intake room.
It was a busy morning; I didn’t get to talk with Cindy until after the clinic was over, when all four of us clinic aides gathered around Cindy to ask, What the heck….?Cindy told us that she’d started the intake as usual – she led PBAAPLW and her daughter back to a private intake room, then asked the daughter to give a urine specimen. While the daughter was in the bathroom, Cindy introduced herself to PBAAPL, and the following conversation (paraphrased) ensued:
Cindy: I need to tell you something. I recognize you, from the protesters outside. If this makes you or your daughter uncomfortable, you can request another…
PBAAPL: Oh no; thank you. You’ll be fine.
Cindy: Okay. Uh…now I’m speaking for me, personally, not on behalf of Planned Parenthood. I can’t help but wonder, what are you doing here?
PBAAPL: Well, my daughter got in trouble, you know? And you people here are all so nice, I knew you’d take good care of her.
Imagine, if you will, the sound of four jaws simultaneously dropping to the clinic’s tile floor.
PBAAPL skipped the protests for the next two weeks (there were a few demonstrators who showed up, and only for one day, during PBAAPL’s absence). After she brought her daughter in for the girl’s post surgery exam, PBAAPL returned to leading the protests, trying to deny other women’s daughters the “good care” she’d sought for her own.
The excursion returns next week, having been temporarily grounded this week, due to the appetite-quashing political upheavals which prompted this post.
* * *
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] We didn’t have HIPAA laws then; still, I’ve altered all names and a few geographical details for privacy’s sake.
[2] A colposcopy is a procedure to closely examine a woman’s cervix for signs of disease, using a special instrument (colposcope). The procedure is most often done due to the woman having an abnormal pap smear, and may be followed by a cervical biopsy.
[3] I worked primarily at two PP clinics in the county, and twice at a third PP clinic.
[4] Which continued after I left the practice and which exists to this day.
[5] I later heard about this same service from another doctor who was Doc’s age.
[6] Yep, that’s right – he knocked her up a third time, and then abandoned her and their children.
[7] A coyote is a man who makes a living smuggling migrants across the US-Mexico border.
[8] Consuela and her husband ( who was still in college) were far from wealthy, and had two children of their own to support. It probably violated some kind of clinic policy to give money, even your own, voluntarily, to patients; I always saw her look around furtively when she did so.
[9] Erroneously, I believe, although I don’t know the status of the marital rape laws in California at that time.
[10] I stopped the intake immediately and got the patient to speak with someone from PP’s counseling/education department. She was over 18; we couldn’t force her to go to the police, and she refused our advice to do so (she said she’d known someone that had the same thing happen and “was raped again by the cops” (i.e. they didn’t believe her ). After her procedure we set her up with referrals for individual counseling and a rape crisis center…I have no idea if she ever followed through with those contacts.
[11] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.
Innumerable thanks to friend MB for sending me this cartoon by the immeasurably spot-on Roz Chast, under the subject of Happy Mother’s Day/Unappreciated Author’s Day:
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Department Of Wait A Minute – Did He Just Sing That?
One advantage of occasionally listening to an oldies station is occasionally having reminders of how much I loathed the songs of Gary Puckett And The Union Gap.
In the songs GP & TUG which were most known for – “Young Girl,” “Lady Willpower,” and “Woman, Woman” – lead singer GP expresses a recurrent and overriding concern: girls and women should have sex with him.
There’s nothing like pastel, faux-Civil War uniforms to put the ladies in the mood.
In Lady Willpower he’s frustrated that Lady W won’t sleep with him. He promises he’ll be nice to her if she does, but warns their relationship will end if she doesn’t. By Young Girl he’s been so successful in his entreaties that the ladies apparently want them some GP lovin,’ but one in particular…well…he doesn’t want to go to jail for statutory rape. In the power balladWoman Woman, GP has gotten at least one woman to sleep with him, only it’s not going the way he planned – he suspects she’s checking out her other options. Woman Woman‘s claim to The Equal Rights Hall of Shame ® is its third verse, arguably one of the more patronizing misogynist set of lyrics of its time (and that’s saying a lot):
A woman wears a certain look when she is on the move and the man can always tell what’s on her mind (lyrics from Woman, Woman ,written by Jim Glaser and Jimmy Payne,
recorded by Gary Puckett & The Union Gap)
Of course, the years those songs were popular (late 60’s – early 70’s) was a time when rock music – and just as important, rock radio – was experiencing a new freedom in terms of what bands could sing and DJs could play on the air. Translation: a lot of sexuality, implied and overt, was being expressed – and a lot of it was really good. Remember subversive delight of listening to the Kink’s “Lola” and figuring out what was between the lines, so to speak (and celebrating the face that the Kinks had snuck one past your parents, the radio censors – The Establishment in general)? In fact, gems like Lola (along with the saucy dialog from early movies, from Mae West to the Marx Brothers) are one reason I’m in favor of something admittedly controversial – not censorship per se, but certain general “decency” guidelines for art. I truly believe that such lines-not-to-be-crossed inspires or even forces artists to greater heights of creativity, in that they must find ways to cross those lines and cleverly imply what they cannot overtly say or show….
Which is a subject worthy of its own day/post. Digression over. Returning to subject:
GP & TUG were not the only ick offenders; it (lovelorn/horny guy trying to get his girl to have sex with him) was a popular topic of the times. Even a group like Bread, known for its soft rock hits (“If,” “Baby I’m-a-Want You,”[1] “Everything I Own,” “Sweet Surrender,” “Guitar Man”) had a song called “Let Your Love Go,” their all-but-forgotten early hit, which I liked at the time (and still do [2] ), as its melody and catchy rhythm outweighed (for moiself) the leering silliness of its girl-you-need-to-have-sex-with-me-right-now-trust-me-it’ll-be-good-for-you lyrics.
Moiself is aware of the pitfalls judging the art of yesterday by the standards of today, but that’s not what I’m doing here: I strongly remember thinking the GP & TUG songs ick-creepy at the time of their release, no matter what my peers thought. [3] Don’t take my word for it, look up the GP & TUG sons yourself, if you have no life the time and are curious. They are unintentionally hilarious in a way that transcends time and social norms. Also, the band’s costumes are just plain goof-worthy.
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Department Of My Favorite Wrong Number
I answered our home phone other day and it was a wrong number…which almost never happens anymore. What with the various forms of telephone screening available, I bet that rarely happens to you, either.
Moiself (almost) never picks up the phone if I don’t recognize the number/if caller ID doesn’t tell me who it is. The Other Day ® was one of those occasions that puts the almost in almost never: I was expecting a call from someone and didn’t know how their business might be identified. Usually when I make that kind of exception – answer the phone even though caller ID can provide no specific information – it turns out to be or one of those annoying sales or political robocalls which somehow managed to attach themselves to a legitimate business number. [4]
But the call I received The Other Day ® was an actual wrong number!! Dialed by a Real Live Person ® !! Whom I got to inform (after asking the number they’d intended to dial) that this was indeed a wrong number as they had transposed two digits in the number they’d intended to dial!! And for some reason, this made me happy!!
And for some reason translation: This Brain of Mine ® reacted to the event by recalling the story of My Favorite Wrong Number. [5]
Please, do tell.
One evening, a long time in a galaxy far, far away, [6] I answered the telephone in the rental house I shared with two other women. The caller, whose voice indicated she was an elderly woman with a black urban/southern accent, asked to speak with Raymond. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “There’s no one named Raymond here. You must have dialed a wrong number.”
Instead of apologizing for her misdial, the woman insisted that I put Raymond on the phone. I told her there was no one in the house named Raymond; she refused to believe me. She had dialed Raymond’s number and wanted to speak with him. This back and forth continued for about four rounds of There is no Raymond here/you dialed the wrong number from me, and This is not the wrong number and I want to speak with Raymond from her. Why did I keep the exchange going? I’m not sure – I do remember getting some petty pleasure from her obstinate refusal to concede her error…or perhaps I just didn’t want to hang up on an old lady. Finally, my amusement faded to annoyance, and the approximate conversation took place:
Moiself: Okay. Why don’t you tell me the number you meant to dial?
Caller: I know I dialed 415-8671!
Moiself: Ah, here’s the problem: our number is 415-8617. You transposed the last two digits.
Caller (huffing with indignation): I did no such thing! I’ve been dialing that number for years.
Moiself: Well, tonight you dialed it wrong.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds, during which I anticipated a sheepish apology followed by a quick hang up from the caller.
Caller (after a dramatic pause): If this is a wrong number, then why did you answer?
For a moment there, she stunned me into silence by the sheer existential WTF-ness of her accusation-framed-as-question. Yeah…so…why did I answer a wrong number?
Moiself (sputtering with astonishment): Look, lady, you called me!?!?!?
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Department Of Is CBD A BFD?
Is it just my imagination, or is it inevitable that every store in Oregon, [7] from those selling hair gels to orthotic shoe inserts, will soon be offering CBD products for sale?
Nope; looks like it’s not just me:
The flood of CBD products has become so overwhelming that the U.S. Food and Drug Administration recently stepped into the fray. The agency has whipped out a flurry of warning letters to companies marketing CBD products, telling them to stop making unfounded health claims for the substance. Companies have falsely claimed CBD can stop cancer cells, slow the progression of Alzheimer’s disease, ease nerve pain and fibromyalgia, and curb withdrawal symptoms for people undergoing substance abuse treatment, the FDA letters state. (The Controversy Over CBD Oil Health Claims, Newsmax Health)
Across the nation there are growing concerns re the overblown claims of the health or medical benefits of cannabidiol (CBD) – which, BTW, due to what medical school professor Marcel-Bonn Miller calls “the legally murky status of marijuana,” is produced without regulation as to strength or quality. (“It really is the Wild West,” Bonn-Miller said. “Joe Bob who starts up a CBD company could say whatever the hell he wants on a label and sell it to people.”)
When it comes to marijuana-related products there is much exaggeration from all sides, and it is hard to weed out (sorry) the possible help from the probable hype…but most of what I’ve read and seen has raised my instinctive, “miracle cure” antenna. This happened most recently on Tuesday, when I was driving past a pet shop in downtown Hillsboro whose signboard suggested pet owners stop in and check out their “CBD oil for pet pain relief.”
“Say what?”
For a moment, I was tempted to delay my errand, park my car, enter the store, point to the signboard and ask the clerk if their CBD oil would work for reptiles in distress. You see, RuPaul, my red-tailed boa constrictor, appears to be in pain from an abcessed tooth. I would wait for the inevitable, “Oh, of course…” sales pitch, which I would interrupt with,
“So, you’re saying you have no qualms about selling me snake oil?”
* Creamy Cauliflower and Celery Root Soup With Roasted Shitakes * Steamed Greens with Zesty Flax Seed Dressing
My ratings:
For the soup: I liked it enough to give it the standard two thumbs up, but the recipe’s addition of a topping of roasted sliced shitakes elevates the rating to:
Headlines along the lines of, Prolife Congressman Resigns In Disgrace After Revelations He Asked Mistress To Abort Pregnancy had their 15 minutes of media attention ~ 18 months ago, when Pennsylvania Republican congressman Tim Murphy’s text messages with his extramarital lover were leaked, revealing that he’d asked her to “take care of” her pregnancy by him.
A politician actively working to block all women’s access to a medical procedure while he covertly suggests his illicit lover seek out the same procedure? Imagine that.
Rep. Murphy gave the customary weasel-worded, non-apology resignation statement (my emphases):
“After discussions with my family and staff, I have come to the decision that I will not seek reelection to Congress at the end of my current term. In the coming weeks I will take personal time to seek help as my family and I continue to work through our personal difficulties and seek healing. I ask you to respect our privacy during this time.”
I know, I know.
Holy crap – bickering five year olds on the schoolyard playground know the rules. Gee, Congressman Murphy Pecksniff, [10] let’s make a deal: we’ll respect yours if you’ll respect ours.
How does this lying, cheating, turdsack of hypocrisy have the shriveling oblivious cojones to ask for privacy for himself, when he supports the government having the right to stick its nose in a woman’s uterus very personal healthcare decisions?
I was thinking of the Congressman Murphy stinkbomb as per what’s going on those inbred backwater shithole states – yeah, Alabama, excuse me, TALIBAMA, I’m talkin’ to you – whose legislatures are working to restrict or ban outright abortion. This is as much as I have the stomach for right now. There will be more, yes, much more about this, in next week’s blog.
* * *
May you be WTF wary and check the FAQ about the OMG claims of CBD; May you have a Favorite Wrong Number story (and if you do, share it with moiself); May our paths never cross at a Gary Puckett and The Union Gap Karaoke Fest; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[3] One male friend said he thought the GP & TUG songs “romantic.”
[4] The most recent one I received, which turned out to be a partisan political survey, was identified on my caller ID as “Hillsboro Clean Water Services,” which is an actual city service.
[5] Real phone numbers disguised to protect…something.
[7] and the other 29 states which have legalized either recreational or medical marijuana products.
[8] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.
Dateline: Sunday, May 5. A gusty but magnificent spring afternoon in the Bay Area, on the grounds of the stunning Filoli Gardens . In a gathering which mutual friend MM as so accurately described as “heartbreakingly beautiful,” friends, family, and colleagues gathered to pay tribute Dr. Sarah Elizabeth Hawley.
Heartbreakingly beautiful – just like our memories of Sarah, I thought later.
Sarah is whom I wrote about earlier this year – the “…remarkable young woman whose life was recently and unexpectedly cut short .”[1] Iin several posts (including here, here, and here) I mentioned the horror, grief, overwhelming shock, and gob-smacked confusion felt by her friends and family when Sarah was murdered on January 27.
As is my usual policy re this blog, I do not use the full names of people who have not chosen to live their lives in the public eye (e.g., politicians or celebrities). In previous posts I referred to Sarah using her initials. I will use her name now, because her name and her life – the way Sarah lived, not the way (or the fact that) she died – deserve to be known.
Filoli Gardens near Woodside, CA
It was difficult to find the right words to compliment Sarah’s family on the memorial gathering they organized for her. Certainly, one’s ability to host any kind of funeral/celebration of life gathering for your loved one is a skill no one wants to employ. Still, it was gracious and lovely event, and a moving tribute to Sarah (as well as, I imagine, an emotionally exhausting – and yet necessary – milestone for her family to have passed).
We gathered to honor and remember Sarah’s life. The tributes to her, from childhood buddies to medical school friends and colleagues (even the Dean of admissions of her medical school!) were articulate, heartfelt, inspiring, filled with warmth and good humor…and also mind-boggling (for moiself at least), in that they made me consider how Sarah, in her way-too-short lifespan, managed to amass such a large and brilliant group of people who cared so much about her.
Sarah, like her family and mine, [2] was inspired to do good and walk joyously in this life because of life itself – her worldview was humanity/humanely-based, and religion-free. Sarah believed in living and loving and doing what you can to make life better for others in the here and now, and few people have done it better. Whether or not you hold ideas/beliefs “going to heaven” or other mythological/supernatural/post-mortality destinations which no one has seen or proved to exist, there is one afterlife we’ve all experienced, whether or not we recognize it as such: how we remember those we know, after they die.
For someone as spirited and beloved as Sarah was – as she IS – her words and deeds live on to impress, refresh, and inspire our lives, and will continue to do so. Welcome to the after-life, Sarah.
As Sarah herself might have said, with the heel-clicking, jump-in-the-air enthusiasm she was known for…
Dr. Sarah Hawley was a strong supporter of women’s rights, particularly with regard to health care and reproductive choices. If you’d like to honor Sarah’s life and legacy please consider donating in her memory to the Planned Parenthood Association of Utah, here.
The University of Utah, home of Sarah’s medical residency, has established a memorial fund focusing on Sarah’s interests of women’s health, pediatric care, and wilderness medicine. Donations to the Dr. Sarah Hawley Memorial Fund can be made here.
Dateline: Tacoma, Wednesday and Thursday, visiting daughter Belle, who works at the newly opened McMenamin’s Elk’s Temple. A whirlwind, last minute visit (Wed-Thurs are Belle’s “weekend”), but after the weekend’s memorial trip…I just wanted to see my daughter, you know?
Trust me, y’all gotta get y’alls selves up/down/over/under, whatever direction works for you, and visit this place. As with all McMenamin’s hotels it is a beautifully restored historical property with the McM magic touch, including at this location a Spanish tapas bar and cafe, a “secret” vault bar, a game room (with pinball!), an amazing ballroom (for concerts – there is music nightly), a doc’s bar, and…wait for it…a tiki bar to die for. [5]
A much classier venue than the Disney attraction, and you won’t leave it singing that damned song (unless, of course, you’ve had too many mai tais).
* * *
May you, again and always, remember to love ’em while you got ’em; May you persist in making the fun recipe even after you’ve mucked up a key ingredient; May you remember that there are (arguably) never “too many” mai tais; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[2] As in, the “immediate” family consisting of moiself, MH, Belle and K. My and MH’s our extended families have religious believers as well as and those who are religion-free among their numbers.
[3] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.
[4]
* Two Thumbs up: Liked it * Two Hamster Thumbs Up : Loved it * Thumbs Down – Not even Kevin (a character from TheOffice, who would eat anything) would like this. * Twiddling Thumbs: I was, in due course, bored by this recipe. * Thumbscrew: It was torture to make this recipe. * All Thumbs: Good recipe, but I somehow mucked it up. * Thumby McThumb Face: This recipe was fun to make. * Thumbing my nose: Yeah, I made this recipe, but I did not respect it.
[5] Just ask the bar’s stuffed cobra and mongoose and hyena, who apparently did so.
Department Of What Almost Makes Having Seasonal Allergies Worthwhile
That would be having an excuse not to tackle the enormous dandelions (with the size and temperament [1] of a rabid Rottweiler) infesting our yard.
I’d love to do some weeding, honey, but (sniff sniff sneeze wheeze….)
* * *
Department Of Don’t Believe Everything You Think
Dateline: Monday; morning walk; circa 7:05 am; listening to the latest This American Life podcast. The episode begins with the host listing of the variety of ways “The Ten Commandments” label has been used to brand lists of qualities, suggestions, actions or requirements considered essential to certain professions and/or activities:
* The Ten Commandments for Gold Miners * The Ten Commandments of Umpiring * Ten Commandments of Tractor Safety * The Ten Commandments of Cell Phone Etiquette * The Ten Commandments of…Bilingual Blogs; Working in a Hostile Environment; Communication with People with Disabilities; Being a Math Teacher….
As with all TAL episodes, this intro segues to stories which will be related to the episode’s theme/title. This particular episode’s stories illustrate, as the host says, situations “…where people are grappling with these old, primal rules for life. With that in mind, we’re devoting today’s program to the Ten Commandments, the real ones.”
As soon as I heard the phrase, the real ones, I realized moiself was in for a hair-pulling moment. Is it too much, I wondered, for me to expect the show to at least mention if not genuinely address the fact that there are no “real ones” when it comes to (what people think are) the so-called Ten Commandments?
“Yes, that is expecting too much of a culture which has supported 23 seasons of ‘The Bachelor.'”
“Now different denominations attach different numbering schemes to the commandments, to which commandment goes with which number, though the commandments are always the same….” (Ira Glass, narrating This American Life podcast The Ten Commandments)
WRRRRRRRONG!
Now then. Ahem. I realize this particular show’s premise is not The TC per se; rather, the TC is meant to be a unifying theme to the wacky stories presented within. [2] Still….
Ira, dude – your show has a staff of writers and investigators. You can do better than this. You could have at least given a nod to accuracy and reality, and said something like…
“There are in fact three different versions of The Ten Commandments found in the scriptures used by both the Jewish and Christian religions – and here they are ( either citing the biblical books and verses or reading them aloud)– but for the sake of familiarity, we are going to use this particular set of ten.
…and continued on with your stories.
But, nooooooo.
There are three versions of the TC in the Jewish scriptures (referred to by Christians as The Old Testament) which are used by both Jews and Christians (all references here use the KJV translation).
It takes time to plow through this, but plowing through this is the point: the point being that almost no one actually plows through this, including religious believers – for how else to account for their ignorance what the TC actually say, or that there are different versions?
This differs slightly from the Deut. version, in phraseology and “explanatory text” (most evident in commandments #5 and #6). This difference, however, is ( or should be) highly problematic for those fundamentalists who believe and preach in their scriptures being the literal word of their god, for if that were true, there should be no textual difference at all.
Then we have the gift to Skeptics, Freethinkers, and Atheists everywhere: Version 3.
Version 3, from Exodus 34, begins with the Hebrew god’s instruction to Moses:
Hew thee two tables of stone like unto the first: and I will write upon these tables the words that were in the first tables, which thou brakest.
Okay; a claim of straight dictation from the Almighty…except that these commandments are vastly – and in some cases, weirdly – different than the first two versions. Although, like the first two versions, the writing claims it is “the LORD” speaking. Christ almighty, guess “the LORD” forgot what he’d said the other times?
It’s interesting – imperative, even – to note that this version of the TC is nevercited when what I think of as the Unholy Trinity of Ps (priests, pastors, politicians) cite The Ten Commandments. [3] And yet this version is the only one referred to in scripture as the “ten commandments.” (my emphases, from the last verse. Have fun with the rest).
For thou shalt worship no other god: for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God:
Lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and they go a whoring after their gods, and do sacrifice unto their gods, and one call thee, and thou eat of his sacrifice;
And thou take of their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters go a whoring after their gods, and make thy sons go a whoring after their gods.
Thou shalt make thee no molten gods.
The feast of unleavened bread shalt thou keep. Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, as I commanded thee, in the time of the month Abib: for in the month Abib thou camest out from Egypt.
All that openeth the matrix is mine; and every firstling among thy cattle, whether ox or sheep, that is male.
But the firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a lamb: and if thou redeem him not, then shalt thou break his neck. All the firstborn of thy sons thou shalt redeem. And none shall appear before me empty.
Six days thou shalt work, but on the seventh day thou shalt rest: in shearing time and in harvest thou shalt rest.
And thou shalt observe the feast of weeks, of the first fruits of wheat harvest, and the feast of ingathering at the year’s end.
Thrice in the year shall all your men children appear before the LORD God, the God of Israel.
For I will cast out the nations before thee, and enlarge thy borders: neither shall any man desire thy land, when thou shalt go up to appear before the LORD thy God thrice in the year.
Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leaven; neither shall the sacrifice of the feast of the passover be left unto the morning.
The first of the first fruits of thy land thou shalt bring unto the house of the LORD thy God. Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk.
And the LORD said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel.
And he was there with the LORD forty days and forty nights; he did neither eat bread, nor drink water. And he wrote upon the tables the words of the covenant, the ten commandments.
And some of y’all want to us in the 21st century to heed this Iron Age hog twaddle?
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Department Of Things I’m Supposed To Like But Don’t
From Executive Producers Lorne Michaels and Elizabeth Banks comes Shrill, a comedy series starring Aidy Bryant (Saturday Night Live) as Annie, a fat young woman who wants to change her life — but not her body. Annie is trying to start her career while juggling bad boyfriends, a sick parent, and a perfectionist boss.
It sounded promising to me: three names I associate with quality comedy, and the teasers I saw and read hinted about an amazing premise (for a TV show): a fat heroine who refuses to be fat-shamed…
Except that she doesn’t.
Half way through the first season (episode 3 of 6) I realized I’d been expecting/hoping for just a wee a bit more…empowerment? gumption?…from the protagonist. And I was surprised by how…sad…it made me feel. How long do I want to watch her flounder in an emotionally abusive relationship? Oh, yeah, that would be, NOT ONE MORE SECOND.
* * *
I may be anthropomorphizing (vego-morphizing?) here, but a cauliflower always looks to me as if it is keeping a secret and can’t wait to tell you about it.
Dateline: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… [6] I am having lunch with a writer friend who is dissing the Twilight book series, at least one of which she actually has read all the way through. She asks if I am aware of the series; I confess that although moiself is aware of their existence I’ve no idea who the author is nor what the books are about, other than…maybe…teen vampires in the Northwest?
Writer Friend giggles as she begins describing the books’ unbelievable sucky-ness. She particularly loathes the author’s liberal use of adverbs (” ‘he chuckled darkly ‘ ?!?!?! “). Our ensuing conversation goes something like this:
Moiself: “Okay, so they’re poorly written. But, what are they about? In a nutshell (which is where they probably belong), what’s the story?”
Writer Friend: “Teenage girl falls in love with a hundred-plus year old vampire; lots of steamy scenes of longing but no sex before marriage as per the vampire’s wishes, so she marries him when she’s 18, gets pregnant, and gestating the half vampire fetus almost kills her but she refuses to have an abortion….”
Moiself (interrupting with derisive snort): “What is this – Mormon soft core porn?!”
Writer Friend (giving me an incredulous look): “Uh…the author is a Mormon.”
* * *
May you be aware of how many assumptions you make when you think you and another person are discussing the same thing; [7] May you never pretend to like the things you think you are supposed to like (but which you in fact do not like); May you anthro- or vego-morphize to your heart’s content; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Yes, dandelions can have a temperament. And if you take issue with this assertion you obviously haven’t spent enough time weeding.
[2] And the first one – about a Jewish boy attending Hebrew school who faces the dilemma of having one of the Jewish god’s alleged 72 names (the boy’s name is Shalom) and thus, according to his Jewish teachers, he cannot write his own name without “taking the Lord’s name in vain” – is quite entertaining.
[3] You think they wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to use the phrase, “go a whoring,” or talk about the religion and political ramifications of boiling a kid (baby goat) in its mother’s milk.
[4] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.
