The Blog I'm Not Writing

 

Department Of That Which Warms The Cockles Of My Heart

 

However, years ago moiself  made a pledge about equilibrium (and not acquiring excess stuff); thus, two cookbooks from my library   [1]   will have to be rehomed.

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Department Of War Is Hell

Dateline: last week, post dinner, watching a streaming “based-on-a-true-story” movie about a young woman who joins the US Marine Corps in 2003, as they are preparing to go to Iraq post 9-11.  Young Marine Woman gets trained as a bomb-sniffing dog handler.  MH joins the viewing about 35 minutes in; I try to get him up to speed when he expresses confusion about what one marine, recently returned from Iraq, says to the soon-to-be-departing marines.

Moiself:
“He warned the dog handlers that bomb-building materials their dogs have been
trainedto detect are”…different from the IUDs they’ll encounter in Iraq…
Uh… make that, the I  **E**  D s.”

MH:
“The IUDs are probably different as well.”

 

Can you detect the difference?

 

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Department Of Two Obscure Words You Will Come To Know
If You Do The New York Times Crossword Puzzle

Uta  and Hagen.

Actually, the two words form a proper name.  Thespian nerds know of Uta Hagen as an influential theater actor and acting teacher.  Non-theater nerds who are budding word puzzle nerds aficionados should know that you will, eventually, encounter either Hagen’s first or last name (and sometimes both) as an answer to a crossword clue,   [2]   whereas previous to your interest in the puzzling life, upon hearing or reading Uta Hagen you may have thought that it was some kind of Teutonic greeting:

“Uta Hagen, Fraulein Schimmel.  Sprechen sie käse?”

 

Many otherwise obscure words – aka, crosswordese – are found frequently in crossword puzzles.  The phenomenon even gets its own Wikipedia entry  [3] :

“Crosswordese is the group of words frequently found in US crossword puzzles but seldom found in everyday conversation. The words are usually short, three to five letters, with letter combinations which crossword constructors find useful in the creation of crossword puzzles, such as words that start and/or end with vowels, abbreviations consisting entirely of consonants, unusual combinations of letters, and words consisting almost entirely of frequently used letters. Such words are needed in almost every puzzle to some extent. Too much crosswordese in a crossword puzzle is frowned upon by crossword-makers and crossword enthusiasts.”

 

 

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Department Of Older Age Is Just A Number
(A Larger Number, but….)

The store where I do most of my grocery shopping has two days each week where shoppers in a certain life category get a 10% discount on their purchases: on Tuesdays, the discount is for active or retired military personnel; on Wednesdays, the discount is for those shoppers formerly known as Prince formerly referred to as “seniors.”  I first became aware of the latter discount ~15 years ago, when I happened to shop at that store on a Wednesday (which was not my usual grocery  shopping day).  I entered the store and went straight to the produce section, which the store was in the process of reorganizing.  After picking some lettuce and mushrooms, I paused, looking around to see where they’d moved the lemons and limes.  I got a strange feeling, and looked around some more.  Every person in sight was evidently quite older than moiself.  Every. One. It  seemed like a strange coincidence.  I pushed my cart down the refrigerated items aisle – more oldsters.  I didn’t see another person under age 50 until I’d perused two more aisles.

At the checkout stand I saw two signs by the credit card machine, signs I’d previously and apparently paid no heed to, which announced the store’s two discount days.

 

 

Flash forward:  The first time I received that store’s senior discount was not because I claimed it.  I was at the checkout counter; it was a Wednesday; the Very Young Checker ®  announced my total, then told me what the senior discount was.  “Oh, that’s nice of you,” I said, “but technically, I’m not eligible.”  She blanched, lowered her voice, and apologized so profusely (for guessing that I qualified for the discount) that I felt bad for her.  “My ‘qualifying’ birthday’s in two weeks,” I reassured her. “So, you were close.”

There were no customers in line behind me; thus, I thought it safe to take a minute to ask her about the policy.  Are checkers supposed to ask customers, or look at them and assume/estimate, or wait for the customers to ask for the discount, or….?   The checker said that she wasn’t sure, and that, in her opinion, the policy could be problematic for checkers.  She never quite knew what to do; when she asked people if they wanted to claim the senior discount, some of them got offended that she thought they looked “that old.”  I told her no harm meant/none taken; also, the age ranges I’d seen for “senior” discounts, for places that offered them, varied so much, from beginning at age 55 to beginning at age 67…and why do people get offended by someone trying to save them money?

A mere two weeks later (a day or so after my birthday), moiself  was back at the same store – this time purposefully on a Wednesday, to reap my discount reward.  When I got to the checkout counter I saw that the sign for the senior discount had been replaced:  the new sign proclaimed Wednesdays as, “Wisdom discount” days.

Moiself  (to the checker, as I gesture toward the new sign):
“Wait, ‘wisdom’ discount?  Seriously?  I mean, I qualify for it, but…seriously?”

Checker (eyes rolling in empathy):
“Yeah, I know….*someone* thought it was a more respectful term than ‘senior discount,’ which seemed to offend some…well…some seniors.”

Moiself:
  “If you’re giving a discount for wisdom I should have qualified forty years ago.
If I bring in my old receipts can I get all those missed wisdom credits?”

Checker (laughing):
“I’ll see what I can do.”

Moiself:
“This is great.  Now instead of offending people by trying to judge their age, you can offend them if you don’t think they are…
wise enough?…
to qualify for the discount?”

Checker:
“Well, yeah!  Oh, and you know, I wouldn’t have thought you were old enough — “

Moiself  (cutting her off, gently, as I cringe to think about the ageism implicit in her
intended complement, that I Do*Not* Look Old Enough To Qualify For A Senior Discount® ):
  “Trust me, I am just old enough.  And wise enough.  Or, wise-ass enough.”

 

 

When I and my siblings were younger, for some reason my parents did not want us to know their respective ages.  I knew that Dad’s birthday was August 8 and that Mom’s was June 30, and that Dad was four years older than Mom.  But I didn’t know the years of their birth dates. I asked them once – first Dad, who declined to tell me.  When I approached Mom and got the same evasion, I loudly announced, in the righteous indignation only a fists-on-hips, grade-schooler can muster, that IT’S NOT FAIR.  Grownups know how old kids are – in fact, adults ask kids about their age all the time, as if it is their right to know.  Even strangers who are introduced to you, what’s the first thing they say?   “It’s so nice to meet you, Robyn.  And how old are you?”

Yeah, my parental units agreed, it seems unfair.  But, tough toenails, what’s your point? I kept asking, every month or so. They wouldn’t budge.

One Saturday afternoon, a few months into my parental-age obsession, my father was sitting at the kitchen table, filling out a small, just larger than postcard-sized, dark pink form.  I asked him what it was; he said it was an application for a safety deposit box.  He got up from the table and left the room for some reason; I scurried over to peek at the application, looking for his birthdate.  As I heard his footsteps returning to the kitchen I backed away from the table, trying to hide my GOTCHA exultation.  I didn’t have time to see the line which asked for his birthdate, but I’d had enough time to glean the information I sought.  On the top line of the form, next to his name, was a blank for his age, which he’d filled in as “39.”

I burned that into my memory.  From that day forward, for years before I knew their actual birth years, I always remembered my parents’ ages.  But I waited for what I considered to be a safe amount of time (a few months) before finding a moment to announce one night at the dinner table, “By the way, I figured out that Dad is 39 and Mom is 35.”

 

 

Fast forward ten years.  I was in high school, accompanying my mother on an errand wherein, for some reason I cannot recall, another adult asked my mother her age, and my mother declined to answer.   When we returned home I challenged her on that.   [4]

Moiself:
“Why didn’t you answer the question?
Adults ask children their ages all the time, and…”

My Mother:
“Yes, I remember how much that used to bother you.”

Moiself:
“Still does.  The issue is still the same – what’s the big deal?  And, as I was trying to say, it’s just a fact.  Like your name.  And you told her that.  It – being asked your age – doesn’t bother children, so why should it bother you?”

My Mother:
“It’s different.  Children and teens are young; they don’t mind their age.
They’re even proud of it.”

Moiself:
“So why shouldn’t adults be as well?” 

My Mother
(she shrugged off a non-answer)

Moiself:
” ‘Children don’t mind their age’ implies that adults do.  You’re fitting into that stereotype, of  women not wanting to reveal their age.”

 

 

My Mother:
“Because you are judged by your age, especially for women.
People hear a certain number and they think, that is who you are.  Your age limits what people think you can do, or what they think you are capable of or interested in.  They treat you differently.”

Moiself:
“Well, then that’s a stereotype.”

My Mother:
“Right.”

Moiself:
“One that you apparently think is wrong, at least for you.
So, you’re never going to refute that stereotype unless you break it.”

My Mother:
(Shakes her head and smiles condescendingly)

Moiself:
“OK, so maybe some people by age 40 are more likely to…act or feel or think a certain way, while others do not, or some people act like they’re elderly when they are in their thirties but other people don’t seem like they’re old until they’re 85….
But unless everyone is open about their age, there will only be the stereotypes, and the prejudices.  And why is that the stereotype for women?”

My Mother:
” It just is.”

Moiself:
“Yes, I know there’s more prejudice against women regarding aging.
But don’t you ever think about why there is, and how we can change that?”

My Mother (starting to get cross with me):
“I don’t know.  *I* didn’t start it.”

Moiself:
“But you resent it, yet you’re not going to try to help stop it.  You’re not helping to break the stereotype.  I don’t just mean you, I mean most women.  By wearing makeup or dying their hair or other age disguising attempts alternations – by going along with it, by acting like your age is something to hide instead of just a natural part of life, you’re…aaarrrghhh.
It’s so pointless; such a waste of energy and resources.  Besides, people are not going to think you’re still in your late twenties if just decide not to tell them you’re 45….”

My Mother:
“You don’t understand.  It’s different for women.”

Moiself:
“And that’s unfair, isn’t it?”

 

 

It’s likely that, somewhere during that conversation, I assumed the fist-on-hips posture of ten years previous, my indignation and frustration growing as my feminist sensibilities ran straight into the wall that was my mother’s passivity…or whatever it was, it was the opposite of introspection and activism.  Still, I kept at it, repeating my pitch for total honesty, followed by her repeating her mantra that the standard for women and aging was indeed unfair, but that’s what it was, and that I was still too young to understand.

Looking back: the thing is, we were both right.  I was right about the necessity of challenging stereotypes and living truthfully, and about the ultimate futility of trying to hide or alter a biological reality.  Growing older is a privilege   [5]   as well as an inevitability.  The 57-year-old actor who dies her hair to the shade(s) it was when she was 35 and has the Botox and the fillers and lifts and the stitches will not look like she is forever 32, nor will she be offered the roles going to the 26 year old actors; she will look like a 57-year-old tinted, pulled and stretched, de-animated version of a picture of herself from long ago.  But by her futile and desperate “anti-aging” machinations she contributes to the prejudice against women aging naturally.

But my mother was also right, about the treat-you-differently thing.  I’ve seen it, and am experiencing it moiself.  On the few times when my age has been a relevant question and I’ve stated it, every effin’ time, the reactions have been that of receiving a reassurance I neither need nor seek (“Really?! You don’t look ______  [6]  !”).  On most occasions and encounters there isn’t any reason to state your age, but the obviousness of my presence – I don’t dye my hair, so it is slowly but indisputably going gray, and the family wrinkles which I’d hoped my elderly aunts had taken to their graves seemed to have, overnight, made themselves at home in every inch of my skin north of my shoulders   [7] – gets me the ma’am treatment from restaurant seaters, et al.

With regard to the host of workers in grocery marts, pet supply and hardware stores, cafes and other service industries – who tend to be decades younger than moiself – I, and my age-peer female friends, have reached that point of the invisibility of older women, re how we are noticed and treated (that’s if you are even noticed at all).  And it’s *not* that the Home Depot aisle wandering employee (“customer service specialist”) has an overt, rude, “I’m going to ignore this older person and help the younger one,” attitude.  It’s like they don’t even see this older person until you fling a box of drywall screws at their feet.

Not getting prompt and respectful service from a customer service specialist is one thing, but don’t think for a moment that this phenomenon – women aging into invisibility – is a matter of vanity, or that it is trivial.  This prejudice is across the board, including (and perhaps most dangerously, in terms of women’s economic security) in the workplace.

 

 

Invisible woman syndrome can make aging hard
“A not so funny thing happened to me this summer.  I turned fifty.  And unlike some of those Instagram #fitfab50 women you see, I was not feeling fit or fabulous. In fact, I was feeling pretty crappy about myself and I went into a funk, big time….

how could I be feeling so bad about something so superficial as my aging visage?  Who was this woman and what had she done to the smart, confident daughter my mother raised?  And the fact that I consider myself a feminist just added to the insult of my perceived injury. It felt wrong on so many levels….

Then this happened.  A man I had never met told me I was beautiful and congratulated my husband on marrying so well.  And for a moment that compliment made me feel good about myself again, which then made me mad. Then this happened.  I decided to stop coloring my gray hairs and aside from the horror of the women at the hair salon, the response that annoyed me the most was ‘what does your husband think about that?’  Say what?  I assure you no one has ever asked me what I thought about my husband going bald.  And just like that I was out of my funk.

Aging isn’t easy on anyone, but there is a well-known social phenomenon called Invisible Woman Syndrome that can make it particularly hard on women….  At the half century mark, men are typically viewed as being at the zenith of their professional and personal lives, often leading organizations and companies and are viewed as accomplished and experienced.  This is in contrast to women whose main stock in trade is assumed to be their physical appearance, which we’re sold and told should be youthful and appealing to the male gaze….

Be it the maturation of our physical features, an empty nest, or being ignored or overlooked in public and social settings, there is an overwhelming feeling of being invisible and irrelevant for many women over 50.  But here’s the kicker, the invisibility and irrelevance that these women feel, is actually backed up by numbers, actually one number, 49.

It turns out that lots of data, including metrics on health, employment, assets, domestic violence, and sexual abuse stop at age 49.  The explanation for this limited age framework is that it stems from a focus on women of reproductive age.

At this intersection of middle age, sexism and ageism are parallel roads that many suggest disproportionately impact women. Studies reveal that women today strive to achieve aesthetic ideals because they recognize the correlation between beauty and social standing… ‘most women agree [report] that good looks continue to be associated with respect, legitimacy, and power in their relationships.’  In the business world, hiring, evaluations and promotions based on physical appearance push women to place the importance of beauty above that of their work and skills.
In a recent study…researchers from The National Bureau of Economic Research reported that ‘physical appearance matters more for women’ since ‘age detracts more from physical appearance for women than for men.’ ”

(excerpts from “Invisible woman syndrome can make aging hard,”
By Julie Hunter , Pennsylvania coalition to advance respect )

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Freethinkers’ Thought Of The Week     [8]

Pix: make it stop, no just no, etc. caption: “Women are not forgiven for aging.  Robert Redford’s lines of distinction are my old age wrinkles.”
( Jane Fonda, American actor, author, activist )

 

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Parting Shot:  I love it when/I hate it when…

I love it when I get an idea for scoring the loaf of whole wheat sourdough bread I’m going to bake, but as Ithree slices in I realize that I’ve made the leg cuts of the cicada pattern I’m going for too big to add other legs, and, being an homage to a cicada,    [9]  I should add more legs because, a cicada being an insect likely has more than four legs…and then there are those dang antennas…never mind, this loaf has got to get into the oven…and it ends up looking and tasting good anyway.

 

 

But not looking as good as Belle’s cicada tattoo. 

 

*   *   *

May you become acquainted with the crosswordese list;
May our homemade breads be tastier than a cicada;
May you remain visible;
…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

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[1] Sixty-four, at last count.

[2] This department was in spired by MH doing the Monday NYT crossword.  He was proud of himself for remembering “Uta” as an answer to a clue…but couldn’t quite recall why he should know it

[3] Big whoop, right?  One of these days, everyone and everything, including my late Aunt Erva’s Aunt Jemima toilet paper roll cover, will have its own Wikipedia entry.

[4] Although it is probably unnecessary to do so, I will note that the following conversation is reconstructed, not verbatim.

[5] One that is denied many, who die “too young.”

[6] Insert whatever euphemism for, that old.

[7] Except for my earlobes.  I assume those are next?

[8] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. 

No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.”  Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org

[9] This is a special year for the cicada emergences, as there are cicadas with the 13 year brood cycles and 17 year brood cycles, and or the first time since 2015 a 13-year brood will emerge in the same year as a 17-year brood, and for the first time since 1998 adjacent 13-and 17-year broods will emerge in the same year.