Those seven words are from a Clear + Vivid podcast moiself heard several weeks back. The subject was…many subjects. It’s an episode I can’t find now – which Ifindironic in that one of the episode’s topics was discerning regular/age-related forgetting v. dementia-type forgetting. The podcast’s guest explained why, for example, I can tell you what I had for dinner eight *years* ago on a warm summer evening with my daughter in Paris bistro, but I likely can’t remember what I had for dinner eight weeks (or even days) ago.
There is a science (as in, cognitive strategies) to make meaningful memories at any age. However, as C+V host Alan Alda and his guess discussed, people would rather have the science behind such discoveries lead to a Magic Pill® to boost memory (or anything else). This is because – surprise! – we evolved to be…well…effing lazy. [3]
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Department Of Mark Your Calendars:
“You keep accusing me of blasphemy all of the time,
but I cannot be convicted of a victimless crime.”
First things first: get the silly Old Testament proscriptions out of the way:
Eli, Saul – y ‘all heard? Life is great; nothing’s unclean! Shrimp rolls, anyone?
In the spirit of ecumenicism, a gentle dig at those gentle Zen Buddhists:
Get real, Grasshopper The sound of one hand clapping Sounds just like one clap
I’ll kill two birds with one stone in this swipe at a tenet of many forms of Hinduism
and Buddhism and – wait, make that three birds! – the New Age/past lives crowd:
Reincarnation? Right – get a life! But next time Come back with some proof
And of course, no Blasphemy Day contest would be complete without a California surfer’s
take on the Christian sacrilege that was heliocentric theory:
Telescope; awesome. So, like, we spin around them? Copernicus, dude!
For several years there have been Blasphemy Day t-shirt slogan contests, inspired in part by a United Nations resolution meant to pacify uber-sensitive Islamists. But that resolution was the very reason I took a “why bother/what’s the point?” attitude toward composing a Blasphemy Day slogan (or even haiku) for Islam. I mean, considering the possible reactions, who is going to wear a shirt poking fun at something that mandates death to fun-pokers?
The oft-quoted [7]Robert Ingersoll was one of the most notable orators and speechmakers and civil rights activists of his time (post-Civil War America)…yet few remember him today. Trained as an attorney, ’twas his oratory tours – speaking on topics as wide-ranging as Reconstruction period to Shakespearean literature to religion to science – that made him famous. He was…”the friend of Presidents, literary giants like Mark Twain, captains of industry like Andrew Carnegie, and leading figures in the arts. He was also beloved of reformers like Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Other Americans considered themselves his enemies, (as he bitterly opposed the Religious Right of his day. He was an early popularizer of Charles Darwin and a tireless advocate of science and reason. More, he argued for the rights of women and African-Americans. Ingersoll also praised the virtues of family and fireside. And he practiced what he preached. Contemporary sources say Ingersoll enjoyed almost idyllic contentment in family life. Opponents frequently despaired of finding anything to disparage in his personal life.” [8]
* * *
May you value your daily habits more than your magic pills; May you prize making memories over conserving energy; May your opponents despair of finding anything to disparage in your personal life; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[2] Translation: Nurture once again trumps nature, in that your lifestyle – your daily habits, from what you eat, how much you sleep, how you move through the world) are more impactful on your health and longevity than any magic pill ever will or could.
[3] “We evolved to conserve energy” – sounds more respectable, doesn’t it?
[6] “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
As a longtime reader of (select) advice columns, moiself has come to think that they can open an interesting window into human motivations and behaviors. Over the years I have noticed an irritating pattern to many of the letters sent by advice-seekers: ( trigger alert: massive generalization ahead)
* A man will report his emotions sans even the slightest modicum of introspection
( “Why doesn’t she understand how she’s annoying me?!?!?” );
* A woman will report her emotions and second-guess herself ( she reports an astoundingly annoying thing – a thing that would even piss off Mr. Rogers or the Dali Llama – which was said or done to her, yet asks, “Am I right to be annoyed by ___?” )
“Yes, you can stop second-guessing yourself, sweetie, your boss really is a flaming asshat.”
Aside from the indisputable entertainment value of kitten-bops-enormous-dog’s-nose videos, social media ‘s worth goes up a few notches when you consider how it can be an effective way of transmitting insightful observations and analyses about the politics of personal relationships. One such analysis which I recently came across online (from “The Inner Pattern” ) addressed and partially explained the roots behind the complicated advice-column-letter-dynamic moiself mentions above.
What’s the most damaging thing patriarchy ever pulled off? Convincing everyone that male anger counts as objective reality, but female emotions get filed under subjective instability.
Watch how differently the same emotion gets treated depending on who’s feeling it. He slams a door and it’s “he had a rough day.” She raises her voice once and it’s “she needs to calm down.”
His frustration gets a cause. Hers gets a diagnosis.
We grew up watching men’s reactions get treated as data — something to analyze, respond to, take seriously. Meanwhile women’s reactions got treated as noise — something to soothe, dismiss, or wait out. So, we learned early to run our own feelings through a filter before anyone else even heard them. Is this reasonable enough? Am I being too sensitive? Will this get taken seriously or will it just get me labeled?
That filter isn’t caution. It’s conditioning. It’s decades of being taught that our inner world needs to justify itself before it’s allowed to exist.
Your anger was never irrational. It was just never given the same benefit of the doubt his got by default. (my emphases, FB, first seen by moiself on 9-5-26)
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Department Of There Goes The Neighborhood
Dateline: The morning of August 5; SeaTac airport; Alaska Airline’s first-class lounge; waiting to board our flight to Iceland. Checking out the massive, multi-buffet table breakfast spread set out for the lounge passengers I see that, on the end buffet table, there is a contraption that look like a 3-D printer. This machine is labeled, “pancake printer,” and moiself alerts my family to its presence. None of us actually want a pancake, but we have to see how it works, and so I press its start button.
Five seconds after I start the pancake printer a woman walks past the side of the buffet table and eyes my family with confusion. She is dressed in that casual money style [1] and holds a plate of pastries which looked like they’d have French-sounding names. Meanwhile, my family – MH in his tie-dye tee, son K in his black leather jacket /death metal band shirt, daughter Belle in her in Pacific NW/Columbia lumberjack gear, and me in my CatZilla t-shirt – is crowded around the pancake printer.
I remain standing while the rest of my family bends forward, practically down on their knees, as they watch a blob of (ostensibly) pancake batter make its way down a series of the printer’s criss-crossing cooking treadmills. I make eye contact with the woman, and with widened eyes and a knowing nod of my head, I project (or so I intend) an amiable, joking, yeah right – like we’ve never seen a pancake before vibe. In return, her facial expression and body language…
Oh, how can I put it? So much attitude is succinctly and clearly expressed in the rolling/stink eye stare she flings toward me and mine:
“OMG, who let the Beverly Hillbillies into the first class lounge !?!”
Y’all come back now for the pancake breakfast, y’ hear?
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Department Of Yeah, The Date… September 11 Memories
Twenty-five years ago, since those horrific ( and/yet mesmerizingly cinematic [2] ) terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. So much has changed in our nation; so much of that change is not for the better, and so much of this not-for-better change has been and is attributed to needing to Get Tough On Terrorism®.
I remember the unscripted eloquence of British PM Tony Blair, who interrupted his planned speech on a domestic issue to express his profound shock and sympathy for the American people and pledge his and his country’s full support for his allies.
I remember the stark contrast of Blair’s heartfelt articulateness with the glassy-eyed, aardvark-caught-in-the-headlights expression of the clearly-not-up-to-the-gravity-of-what-lies-ahead “leader” which was George W. Bush. The only solace I had been able to take from GWB’s mistaken ascendency to the presidency was that, up until 9-11, he had seemed destined to be a one-term president.
“Uh, Dad? Dick Cheney? Somebody, tell me what to do…”
But I’ll let the pundits and historians elaborate on that. After all these years, moiself is more interested in the personal stories – select memories, from those at Ground Zero and those of us across the country and out of the country [3] – of we who were affected by the attacks. It is the stories of our reactions, the memories of that impactful, holy-shit-am-I-watching-a-movie-or-is-this-real ?!?!?! day, which we will impart to our children who were too young to remember (or who were born after) the 9-11 attacks.
Moiself will always know that September 11, 2001 was on a Tuesday, because I was in my home office that morning, getting ready to leave for my Tuesday 7 am book club. I gathered my book club items – coffee mug, [4] purse, jacket, the book the group was currently discussing – and stepped out of the office. Before I could head down the hallway to the garage, I looked up at the sound of MH’s voice.
MH was standing in the upstairs hallway, leading against the stairway railing, a confused look on his face. He said he’d been listening to NPR’s Morning Edition, [5] which had just reported that an airplane had hit one of New York City’s World Trade Center Twin Towers. I replied that I remembered reading, several years ago, that a small/private plane had collided with a large sky scraper in some big city – I found that to be an odd and accident, as you’d think the pilot could see such an enormous building in his path…
MH, still confused, said, no, this was a commercial-sized jet, and the report was that less than a half hour later another jet hit the second tower, and “…what kind of air traffic control mixup or other accident could account for…”
I gasped as I interrupted him: “TWO jets? That’s no accident.”
After listening to a few news reports I grimly drove to book group, which met in the pastor’s office of our local UCC church. [6] Every member of the book group showed up, despite or because of having heard the news. We all had the same feeling: we wanted to be together. I was one of the last to arrive, and made my entrance feelings-first:
“Well, we are ALL FUCKED. This is how wars start.”
I forget the name of the book we were discussing. The leader of the group, the pastor, obviously felt some obligation to try to steer us toward the book, even as she was glassy eyed with shock and worry (her beloved sister-in-law was a flight attendant who often worked the American Airlines route from Boston to LAX) . [7] But (of course) we spent most of the morning discussing the attacks, speculating about all that we knew and did not know, and what might happen in the days to come.
Two weeks later, when details of the terrorist plot were being revealed, the book group again set aside our book for the day and mostly discussed the attacks. One of the group members brought in an article he’d been reading, written by a foreign correspondent who’d been researching the recruiting process for Islamist terrorist groups. The article addressed a seemingly unfathomable question: given the human instinct for preserving one’s own life, how do you recruit young men for a suicide mission? The book club member began reading the article’s list of commonalities found among the terrorist recruits:
“…strong ties to hard-core religious beliefs; weak ties to their own families; political idealism; religious and cultural conservatism – and while not necessarily virgins themselves, the young men were attracted by the enticement that their martyrdom would be a righteous deed which would earn them a shortcut to heaven, where they would enjoy the sexual attentions of 72 dark-eyed virgins….”
I heard my own snorting-with-ridicule interruption as if it were coming from somewhere other than my own mouth:
“Yeah, right – that shows you what kind of mindset fanaticism appeals to. What kind of sexually ignorant, inexperienced idiots want – I mean, seventy-two *virgins*? That’s an enticement? Give them just one middle-aged woman who knows what she’s doing…”
I looked around the circle at my book comrades’ wide-eyed, Is that so? expressions, and thought, maybe middle-aged moiself should have kept that to moiself?
* * *
* * *
Department Of Not One Damn Recipe
I recently got a new cookbook, which is one of my favorite things to get. Cookbooks – moiself tends to read livres de cuisine like novels, as in, getting inspiration from more than actually following a recipe step by step. After reading through this new book I found moiself wondering, Why did I order this?
The book’s recipes concentrate on a culture whose cuisine is mostly unfamiliar to me – as do several cookbooks in my collection, so it’s not that. Sourcing many of the key ingredients would be difficult, but…see previous comment. It’s just that there was not one recipe that stood out, not onerecipe that made me think, I’d like to try that, or work up a variant moiself. My get a new one get rid of an old one policy, [8] has kept my cookbook supply steady at seventy-four. And it will remain at 74 as this new book goes into the list of sixty cookbooks I have recycled. [9]
A cigarette pack is one of the few consumer products…that practically insults its own customer. Buy a pack and you are greeted by…blunt declarations that your habit may kill you. Governments force tobacco companies to confess the danger directly on the packaging because the evidence is overwhelming: smoking causes cancer, cardiovascular disease, respiratory illness, and millions of deaths annually….
Yet the satirical image asks a deeply uncomfortable question: if cigarettes require warning labels because they can harm human beings, why do religions—whose histories include crusades, inquisitions, sectarian wars, terrorism, witch hunts, executions for heresy, honor killings, forced conversions, and systematic oppression—escape similar scrutiny?
The meme…exposes an asymmetry in moral outrage. Society treats physical harm as measurable and ideological harm as sacred.
The irony is brutal. A cigarette company cannot advertise without legal constraints, but a preacher can tell children they deserve eternal torture for doubting a doctrine and still be called a moral authority. Tobacco executives are condemned for manipulating fear and addiction, while some religious institutions have built entire civilizations around fear of invisible punishment….
Imagine if holy books carried labels modeled after cigarette warnings:
WARNING: This ideology has been linked to violence, intolerance, and persecution when interpreted literally.
WARNING: Excessive exposure may impair critical thinking and increase susceptibility to authoritarianism.
(from my supply of stickers I carry with me when I travel, in case the hotel room has a Gideon bible or other religious book in the dresser drawer.)
* * *
May you see your emotional reactions as data, not noise; May you practice the get a new one get rid of an old one policy; May you benefit from the experience of even one middle-aged woman who knows what she’s doing; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Like pornography, I know it when I see it, even if I can’t describe it…and so can you.
[2] I watched footage of the two places crashing into the towers, over and over, in a way trying to convince myself that it was real – it seemed like something out of a movie…but CGI was in its infancy then, and a Hollywood special effects crew couldn’t possibly have pulled off such an epic job.
[4] That was the one day a week that I drank coffee in the morning.
[5] Which was his Monday – Friday morning routine, before he got out of bed and we got our kids breakfast and ready for school.
[6] The church MH and I were members of for years, until we came out of the Happy Heathens® closet.
[7] She had no news about her SIL at that time, but later that day was assured that her SIL was not working that day.
[8] Which I apply to most “things,” from cookbooks to household items to clothing….
[9] As in given away to friends and/or family and/or Goodwill.
[10] “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
Moiself sincerely hopes that y’all will have a modicum of amusement with these blog reruns from Fridays of August past, while I, along with MH and our offspring K and Belle, are enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime bit of family fun.
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The Fond Childhood Memories I’m Not Reliving ( 8-28-20 )
Department Of Now I’ve Seen Everything
Dateline: Wednesday, circa 4pm, outside a grocery store. A woman who exited the store ahead of me scurries to a spot around 30 feet from the store’s exit door. She pulls a cigarette and lighter from her purse, pulls down her mask and lights up. She proceeds to take several long, desperate drags of the cigarette, pulling her mask up inbetween, in a bizarre ritual: lower mask; suck on her death sticks; exhale; raise mask; wait five seconds; repeat.
Lady, just take down your mask, go into a filthy public restroom, run your bare hands over every surface and then touch your hands to your face and mouth and rub your eyes. Get it over with.
Celebrities like Ben Affleck won’t let a pesky pandemic stop their slow suicide, so why should she?
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Department of Yep, This
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Department Of My Defund The Police Story
In the ongoing Defund the Police ® debate, some folks declare that an alternative phrase for police reform is needed. It seems that too many (white) people read or hear “defund” and lose their shit react defensively. They interpret “defund” as doing away with police forces entirely, instead of the how the term is used by reform activists: as shorthand for reallocating funds from police departments to non-policing forms of public safety and community support, (e.g. social, mental health, housing and education services).
Moiself has heard this defensive reaction explained along these lines:
White people get defensive and even frightened at that notion (doing away with police) because white people associate police with security, in ways that communities of color, because of their collective history with aggressive and discriminatory policing, do not.
Sometime in the late 1970s-early 1980s, I read a feature article in a So Cal newspaper about police officer recruitment. Police chiefs were just starting to realize that for community policing to be effective the police force needed to be representative of all members of the community. Given the rising number of Vietnamese immigrants in So Cal, local police departments were trying, and mostly failing, to recruit Vietnamese-Americans. The reason for that failure was not apparent to the majority white police staff, until a cultural liaison enlightened them:
The police forces in Vietnam, and several other Asian countries, were considered to be corrupt, and the average Southeast Asian immigrant’s contact with them had been unpleasant. Thus, young Asian men [1] who might have been interested in being recruited were discouraged from doing so by their parents, who thought policing a dishonorable profession.
There’s a very basic lesson here: your experiences color your perception.
Yep, that seems evident on a Psychology 101 level. Moiself thinks it’s a bit more far-reaching than that, and ties into the Black Lives Matter movement in a variety of ways and from a variety of perspectives…including the one I am about to share here.
Little known fact about moiself: from about my 5th to 8th grade years, I hated and feared the police. I held particular fear and loathing for men I suspected were undercover cops in unmarked cars. This is because of an experience I had….
Translation: there is a story to be told.
Key elements of this story (“The Wagner Incident”) became much beloved by my family as the years past. My parents in particular loved for my older sister and I to recall the tale, and I always obliged. However, most of my family never knew that I was actually quite traumatized by what happened.
There is (unfortunately or yee-haw! depending on your enjoyment of background information) stage-setting to be done, for this Drama of Shakespearean Importance. [2]
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, my family lived in a house on Martha Lane in Santa Ana (CA). Martha Lane extended west from a major thoroughfare down to a cross-street (Pacific Ave.) which led to the local community college. [3] Across Pacific Ave., Martha Lane continued as a cul-de-sac, where my family’s house was located. [4]
The Wagners were an older couple [5] whose house was on the main part of Martha Lane (ML). The Wagners had gained a reputation – not a good one – among the other denizens of ML. Mr. Wagner, occasionally accompanied by Mrs. Wagner, walked their massive dog twice daily around the neighborhood. They made of one or two loops around the main portion of ML (they did not cross the street to the cul-de-sac), and they let their dog defecate on other people’s lawns. They made no attempt to pick it up the droppings or at least “curb” their dog; they let him go where he wanted to go. [6]
Some of the neighbors began to come out of their houses and speak to Mr. Wagner as he made his rounds. At first they politely suggested – then, as time passed and the poop accumulated, they increasingly and more frustratingly demanded – that the Wagners’ dog should do its doggie business at their own home, and not foul other people’s property. The Wagners ignored all such requests, with Mr. Wagner on a couple of such occasions responding with strongly-worded suggestions as to what the other homeowners could do with his dog’s “business.”
Petty, inconsiderate neighbor shit, so to speak, right? Nothing either novel or earth-shattering.
There were other actions the Wagners took that, looking back, seemed almost intentionally aimed at making them the scourge of the neighborhood. It was as if the Wagners got some kind of petty pleasure in taunting their neighbors, in particular, the Young People ®. I can find no other explanation for their behavior.
As a Girl Scout, moiself had the twice-a-year fundraising duties (which I loathed) of going from house to house in my neighborhood, peddling Girl Scout Cookies in the spring and Girl Scout Calenders [7] in the fall. The Wagners did not have a no soliciting sign on their porch; nevertheless, the first time I rang their doorbell on behalf of the Scouts I received a very snooty dismissal from Mrs. Wagner, when a simple, “We’re not interested” would have sufficed. The second (and last) time I approached their house as a Girl Scout (having forgotten about the first incident, since six months had passed), Mrs. Wagner apparently saw me coming, and couldn’t wait until I set foot on her porch to reject my sales pitch. Before I’d taken three steps from the sidewalk to her driveway her front door flew open and she came barreling out of her house. Her voluminous bat wings shook along with her index finger, which she waggled at me while she bellowed about how she didn’t want to buy anything.
I fled the Wagner driveway with as much dignity as I could muster. Later, I compared stories with other neighborhood kids, whom, I discovered, had experienced similar treatment when they were seeking donations for, say, a school paper drive or other charities. The next time I had to do my GS soliciting I remembered my lesson, and as I left the porch of the house *before* the Wagners’ I proceeded on to the house *after* the Wagners’. As I did so, Mrs. Wagner once again came charging out of the house into her driveway – how strange, I later thought, as she must have been sitting by her front window, just waiting for…what? For a youngster to yell at? – and proceeded to berate me. Apparently, I was a stand-in for all the neighborhood children, as she began her rant with, “YOU KIDS….” I hadn’t even made the slightest indication of stopping at her house – I was just walking past it, on the sidewalk!
At least she wasn’t armed with a garden hose.
Sharing and comparing stories – that’s what kids in a ‘hood do. As the years passed the older kids began to compile a hefty dossier of Wagner Incidents, many of them involving the holidays. A few neighbors told about “Christmas incidents,” stories I cannot now recall, [8] and every July 4 we heard about how the Wagners did their own fireworks in the street in front of their house, then loudly complained if their next door or across-the-street neighbor’s – in particular, their neighbor’s children or grandchildren – did the same…or just yelled at teens who were walking on the other side of the street, on their way to a friend’s family’s fireworks party.
October 31 seemed to bring out the worst (or weirdest) in the Wagners. On Halloween night the Wagners always turned their porch light on and hung Halloween decorations on their front door, then were randomly and mystifyingly rude to the kids who rang their doorbell. In our neighborhood the trick-or-treaters tended to go in groups of four or more children; the Wagners would often single out someone in your group, make disparaging remarks about a costume they didn’t like, then give candy to some kids and not to others. Sometimes, as if on a whim, they would answer the doorbell, refuse to give candy (from the big jar they had on display) to anyone, and shoo your entire group off their porch. [9]
Like many grade school-aged children, I found the world of adults both baffling and boring. Unless a home contained children of my or my siblings’ ages, I didn’t pay much attention as to who lived in what house on my block. It took a couple of years for it to sink in: you don’t go to the Wagner‘s house for Halloween…or anything else.
Can you guess what kind of attitude among the neighbors, in particular among the youth of Martha Lane, was engendered by the Wagners, toward the Wagners?
“I knew you could, boys and girls.”
There were many more incidents that my older sister and her friends shared with moiself and my friends. Slowly but surely, a vendetta arose. The older kids in the neighborhood had had it with the Wagners, and conspired to tease them at every opportunity. My older sister and her friend rewrote lyrics to the tune of, “We Love You Conrad,” (a song from the Broadway musical, Bye Bye Birdie):
♫ We hate you Wagners Oh yes we do We don’t hate anyone like you When you are near us, P.U.! Oh Wagners we hate you. ♫
Yeah; I know – hardly cutting-edge satire. Still, I thought my sister and her friend were so clever when sang me that song, and they were obviously proud of themselves. They taught the song to all the neighborhood kids, and made us all vow to sing it at any Wagner-sighting opportunity.
Things escalated, as they say, from there.
Early one hot summer night a bunch of us ML kids were hanging out on the corner of Pacific and ML, negotiating which chase/tag game we would play that evening (Green Monster? Hide n’ Seek?) We spotted Mrs. Wagner up the street, identifiable from even 200 feet away by her towering, glow-in-the-dark white beehive hairdo and imperious, waddling stride. She was walking her dog, and one of us in the group – I can’t remember who but it might have been me or my older sister – had the brilliant idea to begin humming the Miss America theme song:
♫ There she is…Miss America… There she is, your ideal…. ♫
Silly stuff – hardly the material of celebrity stalking lawsuits. Even so, it apparently put a burr under Mrs. Wagner’s saddle (or that ridiculous beehive). Unbeknownst to us kids, when Mrs. Wagner returned home she told her husband what we kids had done, and he called the police and insisted they open a harassment investigation.
We hummed the Miss America song – that’s what put them over the edge? We didn’t even sing the words.
Also unbeknownst – to me, at that time – were other incidences of kids taking revenge on the Wagners. Some older teens who lived on the main section of ML had, with their parents’ knowledge and approval, saved some of the “droppings” the Wagner’s dog left on their lawn. After accumulating several days’ worth, the kids delivered shovelfuls of feces to the Wagner’s lawn. When this failed to deter Mr. Wagner from his dog walking/dumping, on July Fourth one family’s teenage son played the proverbial, flaming-sack-of-poop prank on the Wagner’s front porch. [10]
That and other incidences enabled the Wagners to convince the police to open a harassment file…or a case…or whatever it was.
” ‘Martha Lane Kids v. Wagner’? – what is this bullshit, Danno”
So. This “case” was going on, without my knowledge. Then, one day….
I’ve always wanted to say that.
The story continues, in next week’s post. ( The Saga I’m Not Ending,” 9-4-2020 )
* * *
May you get to say something you’ve always wanted to say; May you be mindful of how petty neighborhood disputes can escalate; May you bear with me until next week; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] And it was only men who were being recruited, at that time.
[4] Those two portions of Martha Lane no longer exist. Under eminent domain, the community college took over the properties in the early 1980s. In archetypical, SoCal development fashion, the area where my family house once stood is now a parking lot.
[6] Do people still use that term? For the young ‘uns who may be unfamiliar with it, to curb one’s dog involved pulling it off the curb – away from someone’s lawn or sidewalk – and making it poop in the street gutter.
[7] Anyone remember those? The Girl Scouts stopped selling them in 2008.
[8] The Wagners scared off Santa’s reindeer with a shotgun? Nothing would surprise me.
[9] But they would leave the porch light on – the universal sign of “open for business” for trick-or-treaters – and answer the doorbell when the next group of kids came by. Yep, we watched, to see what happened.
[10] He filled a brown paper bag with the Wagner’s dog’s droppings, put the bag on the Wagner’s front porch, set it afire, rang their doorbell, and hauled ass up the block. And yes, when Mr. Wagner answered the doorbell he attempted to stamp out the flames….
Moiself sincerely hopes that y’all will have a modicum of amusement with these blog reruns from Fridays of August past, while I, along with MH and our offspring K and Belle, are enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime bit of family fun.
Department Of Even Yoga Teachers Need To Be Careful What They Ask For
Backstory: A couple of months ago, when we were all new to this streaming business, my 9 am yoga class teacher held a pre-class video chat for us streamers. She told us a “yoga joke,” then said that if anyone else knew any yoga jokes, she’d love to hear them.
Dateline: Monday; circa 9:30 am; doing a vinyasa (yoga) class via streaming. The regular teacher is on vacation. As the substitute yoga teacher leads the class into Triangle Pose, my mind wanders – which *not* the point of a yoga class, I realize…
…my mind wanders to ponder the many different yoga pose names, both their English “nickname” and the Sanskrit names and translations, and as I do this, a joke begins to develop in moiself ‘sun-mindfulness-practicing mind. There are a few twisting yoga poses which are notorious for producing, in certain people, a certain bodily response – in fact, the Sanskrit name for one such pose translates as:
My joke is a play on the Sanskrit name for Triangle Pose, which is Trikonasa (TREE- kone-ah-sauna). I will ask my yoga teacher if there is a yoga pose known for inducing bladder leakage, and if so, would that pose be called, Trickle-asana?
My guess is that Trickleasana would look something like this.
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Department Of Extending The Metaphor
Yeah, hipster, since you obviously don’t care about trashing your own lungs, go right ahead and give no thought to trashing your small portion of the planet, which happens to be shared by everyone else. That’s the true American Spirit. [2]
* * *
* * *
Actually, not. Not something *completely* different, that is.
Instead, a smooth segue into….
Department Of Smoke Gets In Your Eyes… And Nowhere Else, If You’re Lucky
MH and I have two fireplaces in our house. One has never been used; the other has been used once, not long after we moved in (~ 26 years ago), and never since. This is because of moiself’s killjoy spirit high livability standards.
I have been the family spoilsport when it comes to wood fires, be they fireplace fires or beach bonfires or campfires. When on vacation, burning wood is “permissible” only if necessary – e.g., if your accommodations have a wood-fire stove as the only heating source. You see, I am one of those annoying, I-can’t-pretend-to-not-know-something-once-I-know-it kinda people, and cannot justify sitting around a pollution source sans a more compelling reason than my personal entertainment.
And yes, I have fun, sitting-around-the-campfire memories from childhood. And yes, I have been pooh-poohed for my anti-wood fire attitude ( “Oh, c’mon, it’s not really that bad…” ). And yes, I am thanking someone else for doing the legwork on the It Really Is That Bad ® statistics I once knew but have forgotten and was too lazy to look up.
That info via Someone Else ® was provided in yesterday’s Ask Amy column, wherein Amy dealt with a woman’s am-I-right-to-be-disturbed-by-this question. This (nonsmoking) woman has been accused by her (non-smoking) husband’s “big smoker” sisters of over-reacting because of the woman’s concerns about the fact that when she and hubby go for “chats and s’mores” to the sisters’ place, the sisters toss their butts and partially smoked cigarettes into the fire pit:
“…since we don’t smell any cigarette smoke as the fire burns, (the sisters claim that) second-hand smoke isn’t an issue. I feel this is second-hand smoke and a very real health concern.”
Amy lays it on the line (my emphases):
“Cigarettes aside, the backyard fire pit itself presents risks to lung health. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (epa.gov), ‘In addition to particle pollution, wood smoke contains several toxic harmful air pollutants, including: benzene, formaldehyde, acrolein, and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs).’ Cigarette filters are made of cellulose acetate, which is a finely spun plastic (not cotton, as I had always assumed). Burning plastic sends off toxic fumes. The leftover tobacco on the spent cigarettes will also release ‘second-hand’ smoke.
So yes – this bonfire is basically a flaming pit of toxins.”
“The Scoutmaster says we’re only two requirements shy of earning our Flaming Pit of Toxins merit badges!”
Are you lost in the forest in the dead of winter? Ok; build a fire. You and your friends just wanna sit beside a pile of wood and watch it burn for…oh, that warm, glowy-feeling, or whatever? There are other ways to enjoy each other’s company that don’t involve needless production of toxic waste. How about playing charades, or that game where you find clever ways to trash your hypocritical friends who make you feel guilty about, say, things like polluting for your own pleasure?
Or how about this: re-purpose some old holiday lights, and if you put them on twinkly-mode you can pretend it’s flickering flames. Imagination is good for the body and spirit.
* * *
Department Of Could The Editor Have Cut The Movie To Give You All At Least Five Minutes Before Contradicting Yourselves?
Dateline: a week ago, this evening; watching The Go-Go’s documentary with MH. One of the Go-Gos was doing a voice over about the early 1980s Los Angeles punk scene (from whence the Go-Gos was spawned); specifically, about how accepting the punks were: it didn’t matter if you were gay or straight, white or black, male or female etc. you were welcomed for however you were/whatever you were.
This kumbaya declaration was made literally seconds before the band went on to recall how the other Go-Gos demanded that their new drummer, Gina Schock, an import to LA from Baltimore, undergo a makeover when she arrived – they cut and dyed her frizzy blonde hair to short and dark, to be more suitable to the punk scene.
Confession: the picture of Gina’s “Baltimore” hairstyle that flashed onscreen during that recollection…it *was* really, clownishy, wretched, even by 1980’s hair standards. [3] Open and accepting only goes so far; I guess even punk rockers have standards.
Yep; it was worse than this.
* * *
Department Of Stopping Moiself In The Nick Of Time
Dateline: Tuesday, circa 7 am, walking north along the beach at Manzanita. There are few people on the misty beach. About 200 yards ahead of me I see three creatures walking south – a man, a woman, and their dog. The man and the woman each hold a large takeout coffee cup in their respective right hands. The dog, walking between the two, is looking up at the man. Dog pays the woman no attention; dog’s eyes stare up at the man.
As the trio gets closer I notice that the dog’s laser focus is on the man’s left arm, which the man has tightly clenched to his left side, and I get a glimpse of the halves of two brightly colored orbs the man is carrying between his upper arm and armpit/chest.
As our two groups (well, moiself is a group of one) we both do the polite, COVID-appropriate thing, moving to the side and smiling in acknowledgement and greeting. The woman says a few words to the dog, which gives no indication it has heard her – it never tears its gaze from the man and the toys he has “hidden” under his arm…and the woman sees that I have noticed this. As she gives me a What-am-chopped-liver? look and shrug of her shoulders, I stop myself at the last minute from pointing to the dog and to the man and saying to the man, “Oh, I get it – you’re the one with the balls!”
“In a just world, I’m the one with *all* the balls.”
* * *
Pun For The Day
I can’t believe I got fired from the calendar factory – all I did was take a day off!
* * *
May you enjoy the simple pleasure of wasting precious brain wattage on composing a bad joke about your favorite form of exercise; May you be the coveted one with the…uh…balls; May we all hope that the nostalgia for pre-pandemic times does not presage a return to 1980s hair; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] No no no – not *that* kind. A yogi is anyone who practices yoga.
[2] Can you make out the cigarette carton brand? Do ya get it, huh? Huh? Huh? Huh?
[3] I can provide no still picture of that hair, from the documentary – I think it would have burned the camera lens to even attempt it.
“There’s a wonderful Japanese term, for which there isn’t a precise English translation. The term is Mono No Aware ( mo no no a- war -ey ) loosely means, a sensitivity to ephemera; the bittersweet feeling of seeing things change. Mono no awareis a wistful awareness of the transitory nature of existence. Since everything we see all around us will one day be gone, we must appreciate every millisecond. According to this idea, cherry blossoms are not only beautiful despite only blossoming for two weeks once a year, they are beautiful *because* they only blossom for two weeks once a year.
When you notice yourself fearing or resisting change, perhaps you can remember the concept of mono no aware, and find harmony with the impermanent nature of all things. As Jack Kornfield [1] said, ‘Like a sandcastle, all is temporary. Build it; tend it; enjoy it. And when the time comes, let it go.’ ” ( from Daily Calm morning meditation, 7-22-26 )
* * *
Department Of Apropos Of Nothing…
…or at least the nothing that now seems so important, or at least, memorable. Recently, both a book I was reading and a podcast I was listening to, on the subject of the history of the radical undergrounds [2] in the 1970s-1980s, mentioned an incident in Chicago where the boxer Muhammed Ali ( “the most recognizable man in the world” ) joined in on an action to disrupt the eviction of a poor Black family living in a Chicago tenement. I didn’t know about that incident; while I admired his acting on behalf of that family, hearing about it got me to thinking of the impressions I carried of Ali, and still do, to this day.
My parents were not very interested in boxing. Moiself actively opposed and was confused by its very existence: why were select men given money and medals for doing something that, if they did it in the streets instead of in a sporting arena, they’d be arrested ? [3] I refused to watch any boxing matches as a matter of principle, but when it came to the Ali-Frazier competitions I – like the entire country, it seemed – was well aware of the pre-matches hype and the post-matches analysis.
When it came to that classic rivalry – the three Frazier-Ali matches known as The Fight of The Century (1971) and the rematches Super Fight II (1974) and the Thrilla in Manila – my parents, like most Whites of that era (so it was assumed), supported Joe Frazier. Joe Frazier was shy, respectful, softspoken, and humble; those traits of his were ridiculed by Ali and his supporters as being more palatable to White people whom, they sneered, saw Frazier as a Good Negro®.
I admired Ali for how he stood up for himself and was willing to go to jail for his principles. I’d never heard of a Black man talking back to White people like Ali did. It wasn’t so much that Ali talked back, it was that he unapologetically stood up for himself. I lovedthat. And I hate hate hated the way Ali talked about, and to, Joe Frazier.
Joe Frazier supported Ali ( both publicly and financially ) after Ali refused induction into the US Army and was subsequently stripped of his title, banned from boxing, and threatened with jail. Frazier even lobbied the boxing powers that were ( and President Nixon! ) for Ali’s being able to return to the sport. Here is what Frazier got in return: Ali boasted about how “pretty” he himself was, and contrasted his own handsome visage [4] with the features of Frazier, called Frazier “ignorant” and “dumb” and “ugly,” and actually compared Frazier to a gorilla.
Those astoundingly racist epithets would’ve been called out as being just that if they had been uttered by a White person instead of being brashly spewed by the self-proclaimed [5] “Greatest.” You could try to excuse Ali’s taunting by saying it was part of the boxing culture’s pre-match hype; but Frazier didn’t, and never forgave Ali for the taunting and bullying he (and his family) endured from Ali supporters.
Robert G. Ingersoll (1833-1899) was the celebrated agnostic orator of the 19th century, sparking what became known as The Golden Age Of Freethought. A Civil War officer, abolitionist, civil rights and women’s rights advocate, author, and skilled orater, Ingersoll’s lectures attracted thousands, and he was the person most responsible for the flowering of Freethought in the USA.
Although I knew *of* Ingersoll I did not encounter Ingersoll’s vow until after my own coming out as religion-free. Moiself got goosebumps, the first time I read this essay of his, to think of how the experiences of a someone of over 100 years ago so paralleled those of my own. It’s as if he was emptying my thoughts onto his pages.
The *news,* was not what Ingersoll realized he was convinced of ( e.g., the natural, not supernatural, origins of our world; the fact that religions are mythologies ) but rather of his ability – his*need,* his obligation, even – to express this openly.
When I became convinced that the Universe is natural – that all the ghosts and gods are myths – there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light, and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf, or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world, not even in infinite space. I was free –
* free to think, to express my thoughts; * free to live to my own ideal; * free to live for myself and those I loved; * free to use all my faculties, all my senses; * free to spread imagination’s wings; * free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope; * free to judge and determine for myself; * free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the “inspired” books
that savages have produced,
and all the barbarous legends of the past; * free from popes and priests; * free from all the “called” and ‘set apart;’ * free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies; * free from the fear of eternal pain; * free from the winged monsters of the night; * free from devils, ghosts, and gods; for the first time, I was free.
There were no prohibited places in all the realms of thought – no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings – no chains for my limbs – no lashes for my back – no fires for my flesh – no master’s frown or threat – no following another’s steps – no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds.
And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain – for the freedom of labor and thought – to those who fell in the fierce fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains – to those who proudly mounted scaffold’s stairs – to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn – to those by fire consumed – to all the wise, the good, the brave of every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.”
* * *
May you remember, or soon discover, the first time you realized that you are free; May you know the wistful joy of appreciating ephemera; May you feel free to spread imagination’s wings; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Jack Kornfield is a Jewish-American writer and teacher of the Vipassana style of Theravada Buddhism. He holds a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, trained as a Buddhist monk in Thailand, Burma and India, and has been teaching mindfulness meditation since 1974.
[2] The Weather Underground, The Black Panthers and the Black Liberation Army.
[4] Which, as more than one White and Black pundit pointed out, was the result of having some European ancestry in his lineage – specifically, an Irish ancestor from County Clare.
[5] “To be a great champion you must believe you are the best. If you’re not, pretend you are.” “I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was.” Muhammed Ali In His Own Words.
[6] “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
Department Of Yep, This Is It: Succinctly Brilliant Life Advice (Before The Inevitable Snark)
“You’ll regret it if you get married. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
You’ll regret it if you have kids, and you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
The following is attributed to Kierkegaard [1] (my emphases):
“Regret is inevitable because the human mind
will always romanticize the life it didn’t live.
It’s not about making the ‘perfect’ choice;
it’s choosing which regret you are willing to make peace with.”
So. Choose your path.
* * *
Department Of, And Now, On To The Snark: Could This Be The Sign; Is This The End Of The World?
Dateline: Monday morning; 7:54 AM; watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding III[2] while doing an elliptical workout. During the commercial break I behold an advertisement moiself has never see before – it’s from [3] a series of ads for Cottonelle toilet paper known as the Come Clean campaign.[4] The ad begins with a discreet shot of some guy sitting on a toilet, then we see him (after he has presumably done his business and hiked up his trousers) [5] walking into a family/TV room in a (his?) house, where friends and family wearing team jerseys and eating copious amounts of snacks are watching a football game on the room’s wide screen TV. The man has a beatific smile on his face, as if he’s just received enlightenment from a guru or had another kind of spiritual experience. Apparently, after having used Cottonelle toilet paper to wipe himself post-deuce-dropping he has the cleanest hindquarters he’s ever had. [6] He is so overcome with the bliss of butt cleanliness he decides to “come clean” with his friends, confessing, among other things, the fact that he doesn’t really “get” football….
* * *
The Saga Continues: Department Of Bodily Functions Sell Products, The Neverending Story
Back to moiself on the elliptical, continuing to watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding III (which primarily takes place in – surprise! – Greece). [7] After fifteen minutes, there is another commercial break: three ads in a row featuring products related to those pesky bodily functions:
* #1: [8] It’s one more Cottonelle come clean ad, this one featuring a woman, who, after having the tush mop of her life, comes clean to her homework-doing child about the fact that she never “got” algebra;
* #2: Yet another ad for that [9] ( “doctor-developed!” ) whole body deodorant, Lumē. And by whole body, the Lumē folk mean your entire body – including parts you maybe didn’t realize you had, much less had to worry about being…reekified.
“Anywhere you have odor but wish you didn’t….just a pea-sized amount rubbed in like a lotion…all over your body: “pits, privates, underboob, belly buttons, tummy folds, thigh creases, feet….”
Underboob?
You name it, if it’s a body part, Lumē wants to you to be concerned that it might stink.
feet; tummy folds; thigh crease…. I think they left out that space between your fingers – for which there should be a name. Actually, there is: the interdigital folds. But, moiself suspects there’s a better word for it in German, like FingerSchlitzen….
Ahem. That omission aside, the not-so-subtle message these Lumē advertisements convey is that your entire body is an odiferous swamp in need of aroma-masking. As for the bemused skeptics who ask, “Um, why not just take a shower?”
Silly geese! If you feel felt cleaner after taking a shower, they can’t sell you anything. Check here if you’d like An Expert® to explain why you’re so stupid as to think that bathing is better than using Lumē products. [10]
Just in case you’re not sure how the product should be applied to someone’s, er, privates, here are the handy instructions (found here; my emphases):
“For privates – the short story: A little goes a long way. Using fingertips, swipe onto thigh folds, undercarriage,
and sweep up between the butt cheeks to the tailbone.
For privates – the full story: Working front to back (never work back to front due to increased risk for urinary tract infections), apply to the clitoral hood & labia majora (not inside the vagina or around the urethra), continue back further to the perineum (the space between the rectum and vaginal opening), and sweep up between the butt cheeks to the tailbone.
Apply around the base of the penis and between the folds of the legs, work back to the space between the scrotum and rectum, and finally sweep back between the butt cheeks and up to the tailbone.”
Undercarriage. In all my years in health care…
… moiself never heard the word at word undercarriage – heretofore used for the structural and mechanical foundation supporting the body of an automobile or truck – to refer to human anatomy.
Listening to this insulting shill ad, moiself be getting my undergarments in a knot ( this could be a job for Lumē! ) as I consider the commercial’s underlying premise: your entire body is a stinkpit. Yeah, thanks for the empowering message, brought to us by a woman OB/GYN ( a fact much touted in the product’s various ads).
Ah; once again, moiself digresses. On to Advertisement #3, which was concerned with infant and baby number two – specifically, with the idea that not all baby BMs are manageable ( as in, containable ) – via the average disposable diaper. And this certain brand of diaper – damned if I can’t remember the name, [11] is for “…people who’ve seen some sh*t.”[12] Translation: it can handle your biggest baby’s biggest poop!
Now then: although moiself wasn’t paying close attention to My Big Fat Greek Wedding III, I’m fairly certain it contained no overt nor clandestine themes of cleaning up after defecation and/or malodorous body parts. Thus, I’m forced to conclude that the clustering of these particular ads during MBFGWIII commercial breaks was just a happy coincidence.
Notes I wrote to myself a few years ago after someone, who’d discovered my “unbelief,” tried the What-you-need-is-a-personal-relationship-with-Jesus crap on me:
What I do not need is a “personal relationship” with Jesus,
or the Christian god, or any deity.
What religious believers need is a personal relationship with reality – the same reality to which they appeal when they critique the tenets and validity of Scientology, Islam, Hinduism, Mormonism – of any faith but their own. The same reality they use when they evaluate evidence to make any important decision in their life: such as, which investments are sound, which physician to see for an illness, etc.
Oh and by the way: How is it that, for all their much-touted (but in reality, scantily practiced [14] ) reading of their scriptures, Christian fundies never seem to recognize that their “personal relationship with their personal savior” rhetoric never occurs in the Bible. Jesus is never quoted as speaking this way in the gospels, nor does the founder of Christianity, Paul, do so in his epistles. This “personal savior” piety is no older than 18th century Lutheran Pietist movement in Germany.
* * *
May we all have a personal relationship with reality; May you not romanticize the path you didn’t take; May we give our respective undercarriages the honor they are due; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[2][2] It was either that, or some May Day Airline disaster show…which I actually like – the parts about the investigations and the problem solving involved (not the crash reenactment).
[13] “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
[14] The bible is a huge collection of writings; still, it’s mind-boggling how many Christians cherry pick their readings to “the happy” or familiar, G-rated stories stuff. Most of them seemingly have no idea what is in their scriptures, from the three different version of The Ten Commandments ( Version 1: Deuteronomy 5:6-21; Version 2: Exodus 20:1-17, differs slightly from the Deuteronomy version; Version 3: Exodus 34: 14-28 – Hmmm, these commandments are wildly different than the first two versions, although the writing claims it is the LORD speaking. Guess he’d forgotten what he’d said the first two times? Also, although this list is never referred to when religious leaders and politicians talk of the Ten Commandments, this version – in verse 27- is the only version referred to in scripture as the “ten commandments” ) ,to the passages where Jesus contradicts himself, to the scriptural guidelines for killing and raping women….
Department Of Not One Damn Popover Was Ever Baked In Our Home
Moiself has nothing against popovers. I didn’t really know what they were before I got married, then had little interest afterward when someone described them to me as dinner rolls on steroids. Perhaps I had a lingering case of PPA (Premarital Popover Aversion)…?
MH’s and my wedding anniversary was this past week. Somehow, this memory popped (sorry) [1] to mind:
Dateline: However many years ago; some place in Palo Alto, CA; wedding reception of MH and moiself. I have been roped into small talk with a large man, one of the many Perfectly Nice People Whom I’ve Never Met Before And Whom MH Knows Only Vaguely Because They Are Relatives/Friends Of His Parents ® .
This PNPWINMBAWMKOVBTAR/FOHPis an older man who decides to engage me in conversation (translation: I listen to him talk about) the wedding present he and his wife got us: a popover pan.
Popover pan, sans popovers
A popover pan. This is the first time I’ve heard of such a specific piece of baking equipment (the Parnells were not a popover-consuming family). “I said, ‘Let’s get them a popover pan,’ “ this man tells me, recreating the pivotal gift-giving conversation he had with his wife. He also tells me, with evident pride in overturning the stereotypical, who-buys-the-wedding gift assumptions, that *he himself* volunteered to purchase and wrap the pan! And that he was happy to do so! Because, “I always loved it when my wife made me popovers, and I hope that MH will have the same experience.”[2]
I thank him, drain my glass of champagne in two gulps, and say, (while beaming the most oblivious-to-sexist-expectations smile that I can muster) [3] “I’m looking forward to MH learning to bake us popovers!”
Another happy couple looks forward to consecrating their marriage with the popover experience.
* * *
Department Of Not What We Were Looking For, But A Fun Surprise
Dateline: last week; MH and I searching closets, file cabinets, the attic, the We-never-would-have-moved-them-here drawers…. When we had the house interior painted many months back, MH cleared out the room where our treasured LPs and cassettes were kept. [4]. And now we can’t find them.
We’ve become friendly with several of the Rock Creek staff. There are two newer servers – a brother and sister, [5] both of whom are into (what they call) “retro” music. I asked the young woman, “Nellie,” for examples of what she considered retro she mentioned several singers/bands (which I recognized as the soundtrack from my retro youth). When Nellie said that she really liked Joan Jett, I said, “I’m going to impress you, then.”
I told Nellie about having seen JJ twice in concert – once when Jett was with The Runaways, [6] and once with her band Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. And as if that wasn’t impressive enough…
…many years ago my grooviest friend in the world, former WWDC 101 disc jockey EDK, met Ms. Jett when she was in DC for a concert. Jett visited the radio station, as bands often do when they’re on tour. While she was there EDK asked her to record some station promos, AND wish me a happy birthday, which he recorded and sent to me on tape.
Nellie’s eyes widened with delight; she begged me to bring in the tape and play it for her.
But here’s something MH did find, in a file of old tax returns. He took pictures of the letter I’d written to the IRS (after our first filing as a married couple), and sent the pictures to our offspring: “While searching for other archived items, I came across this. Thought you might enjoy reading some nonfiction writing by your mother.” Transcript (with address/personal details redacted) below.
I have only the barest memory of writing the letter, and of the bureaucratic injustice which spurred me to do so. But after reading it I told MH, “Yep; sounds like me.” What’s nice is that I got the unexpected: a personal response, from a government bureaucrat! And it was a good one (I’ll spare you thattranscript) …although, as MH noted, you can consider it ironic or fitting, given the subject, that the IRS’ response letter is signed with a woman’s name, signing for the (male) IRS Director of Returns.
You may want to sit down; lest you be overcome with excitement.
I am writing to you regarding an inaccuracy on my Federal Income Tax refund check.
My husband and I filed joint returns for ____ (year). I have attached a copy of our Federal Income Tax refund check, which, as you can see, is made payable to “____ ( MH’s first name and middle initial and surname) and “Roby _____ (MH’s surname). While my husband’s name is indeed ____ (MH’s first name and middle initial and surname), my last name is Parnell. I am not Robyn _____ (MH’s surname) (and I am most certainly not “Roby MH’s surname”); there is no Robyn ____ ( MH’s surname) that I am aware of who is married to my husband and who has my Social Security number.
Two areas of interest regarding this matter:
a space for Spouse’s Signature (“if joint return BOTH must sign”) is provided on the 1040 form, yet there is no space, at the beginning of the form, for spouse’s name to be printed, although there is a space for spouse’s SSN.
despite not having a space to record my name, my Social Security number was provided, as was my signature, which, while admittedly not renowned for its legibility, is obviously not of someone whose last name begins with the letter “W.” I kept my birthname at marriage, as did my husband. I have never been “Robyn ____ (MH’s surname”) – the name is not mine, nor does it appear on any of my legal or personal records, nor is it associated with ____ (my SSN).
Taking all of this in to account – and not for one moment daring to assume that a governmental agency would change my name without my knowledge, consent or request to perhaps follow a sexist, outdated assumption of what happens to the surname of a woman when she marries – I am at a loss to figure out how that name got on our check. Perhaps someone at the IRS can enlighten me?
(Don’t be too hard on yourselves – the state of California didn’t do any better. We also filed a joint state income tax return, with my name listed as filer and my husband’s SS# listed as “Spouse.” Our state refund check was made payable to two different versions of my name, neither of which even remotely resembled my husband’s name).
A friend of mine encountered a similar situation last year: her federal refund check was made payable to her and her husband, each listed as having her husband’s surname, which is not her surname, professionally, personally or otherwise. Both endorsed the check as it was written, per their banker’s instructions. A few weeks after depositing the check they received letters from the IRS inquiring as to who the second payee was who endorsed the check, as they have no records of any such person – the name they erroneously put on the check – having my friend’s Social Security number!
If this seems like small potatoes to you – “What’s a few letters changed here and there” – consider what would happen if I or any taxpayer had such a cavalier attitude toward listing and recording our expenses and deductions (“What’s a few numbers or decimal points changed or eliminated”)…we’d be in holy hot water (bureaucratically speaking, of course) quicker than you could say, “Subtract line 30 from line 23.”
IRS Commissioner Gibbs writes “…working together with you, I believe we jointly (my emphasis) can find ways to make taxes less taxing for all of us.” * By bringing this matter to your attention, I am trying to do my part.
Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to your reply.
Sincerely, your “valued customer,” *
Robyn Parnell
cc: – Office of Management and Budget, Paperwork Reduction Project
-Lawrence B. Gibbs, IRS Commissioner
* quotes taken from the From the Commissioner letter in the 1040 forms and instructions booklet.
“New rule: If churches don’t have to pay taxes, they also can’t call the fire department when they catch fire. Sorry reverend, that’s one of those services that goes along with paying in. I’ll use the fire department I pay for. You can pray for rain.” ( Bill Maher, “Real Time,” 2-17-2006 )
* * *
May you have your own version of a popover experience; May you have a memorable communiqué with a bureaucrat; May you get the services you pay (not pray) for; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[2] I still remember his odd (to me) choice of words…but then, a popover ignoramus such as moiself might not know that having popovers is an experience.
[3] And that was my second of what would be many glasses of bubbly that night, so there was mustering to be done.
[7] Nor can we find a lot of others, and some really cool LPs…but, as my father used to say, “It’ll turn up.”
[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
Department Of Seriously, Chef? Sub-Department of Something Light (The Calm Before The Storm)
Dateline: late last week; perusing my latest copy of VegNews: The Best of Vegan issue. Moiself is happy to note the good travel news about Iceland, which the magazine selected for their category of Best Countries To Travel To for being the country with the highest percentage of restaurants that include vegan options on their menus. [1] Then I come upon the Best Restaurant awards, which has many, many categories. I’m looking for the local winners – Portland is renowned for its many plant-eater-friendly restaurants and cafes – and in the Best Mexican restaurant category I find…this listing.
Would you like a side of identity politics with your salsa?
This is too special, even for Portland.
* * *
Department Of And Now, The Storm Department Of This Is How Easily It Can Happen Department Of What Do You Call Something That Almost Happened,
That Makes You Realize How Easily It Could Have Happened? Department Of Not All Men But Yeah…A Lot Of Men Department Of Not All Men, But Even Men Who Are “Nice Guys®” Department Of How Many Departments Will One Blog Department Get?
I’m not 100% sure what sparked my recollection of the story moiself will share here, but it’s likely related to certain news story that has been much in the headlines. I had been trying to do the seemingly impossible: avoid the news about CNN’s investigation of a “Rape Academy“ – a global network of online forums and chat groups where men advise, encourage and even teach other men how to drug, sexually assault and then film women and girls, including their own wives and girlfriends.
How I wish I were making this up. How I wish that the news of the existence of this global network of How To Become A Sexual Predator shocked moiself.
I snorted the third time I scrolled past a reference to the “Rape Academy” I saw on several friends’ FB posts, then heard a voice – which turned out to be my own – thinking loudly and derisively,
“Like this is anything new – no need for an ‘academy’
or any type of school, what with
the tried-and-true methods guys have been using for years….”
Then came another thought: thetried-and-truemethods…does that include what was tried on me which, fortunately, was not ultimately true? I will never know for sure. But I will also never forget. [2]
Dateline: last Saturday night. MH and I are getting dinner at a small café/bar in Manzanita. We’re enjoying a comfortable, slightly breezy night on the café’s outside porch, playing card games with the mini card deck I always carry in my purse, and talking about various subjects (to distract from the fact that the cards seemingly favor MH, and he is winning EVERY HAND).
The subject of dates comes up, and I share a story about four amusing dates I had, way back before I met MH, with a Stanford MBA student. Our fourth date was my first (and so far, only) time at a professional ice hockey game. It turned out to be our last date because of something that struck a sour note for me. Nothing “bad” happened, but I was irritated that Mr. MBA seemed at first mystified, then annoyed, at my asking him about the rules of the game. Ice hockey was a sport with which I was unfamiliar, and I wanted to watch it more perceptively: those different colored lines on the ice must mean something, and the ref keeps blowing his whistle for reasons I can’t discern; I played field hockey in high school, and perhaps there are some analogous rules….? His reply to all of my questions was some variant of, Nobody knows the rules of ice hockey, and nobody cares.
After he’d said that for the fourth time, I got the translation: Mr. MBA, you mean, *you* don’t know and/or don’t care about the rules. And that’s not a good look, blaming it on nobody. By date #4 I’d already figured out that we were a mismatch, what with him majoring in “MONEY” (his word and emphasis, not mine). Looking back, I felt fortunate, I told MH, in not having had many bad dates. “But there *was* one….”
It came to mind; I took a couple of yoga breaths and told MH about it.
In the mid-1980s I had a job at Vendtech, [3] a company whose core workforce was people around my age (early through late twenties), most of whom also socialized after work. One early night I was visiting friend and Vendtech coworker Ann, [4] whose apartment was directly across the street from a condo I rented with my friend Marie. [5] Ann and I were shooting the shit about whatever, when her phone rang. It was Ray, [6] a fellow Vendtecher. Ray had tickets to a concert at a local club and was calling to invite Ann to go with him. She amiably declined, briefly chatting with him before hanging up. When she told me why Ray had called we both laughed and I said, “Well then, I better hurry back home to answer the phone.”
Ray had a (well-known, among Vendtechers) crush on Ann. Ann, like most of our female Vendtech coworkers, considered Ray a Nice Guy®, and a friend. She had socialized with him in the small work group gatherings, and also one-on-one (e.g. a couple of movie dates), but had no romantic interest in him. I also got along with Ray, [7] and had been to the movies with him and to a couple of other outings which, when Ann and I had shared What-did-you-do-this-weekend?stories, always coincided with him having first asked Ann to see that particular movie, or whatever.
It never bothered me to be his second (or third, or…who knows?) choice. Ray was not a romantic choice of mine, nor I of him, I’d assumed, due to his frequently confiding in me re his interest in Ann (and also in another woman at Vendtech). Ray and I got along well, had overlapping taste in movies and music. Other than his always insisting on paying no matter what the outing (which I appreciated, as his salary was *way* higher than I mine), Ray was easy to be around.
Sure enough, it wasn’t five seconds after I entered my condo when the phone rang. It was Ray, asking if I’d like to go to the concert, which was this coming Friday night. The show started early (8 pm, early for a rock concert) and probably wouldn’t run that late, what with only one band on the bill. Sure, I said.
The concert venue was in a large hall set up to resemble nightclub, where the attendees were seated at small tables. The club had waiter/table service, and there was a snack bar at the back of the club.
Contextual info: I wasn’t much of a drinker. More than one Vendtecher had “accused” me (really; it was said in an accusatory tone of voice) of being a “teetotaler,” which I found bemusing and baffling. Apparently, this was because at work-related parties or events where alcohol beverages were offered, [8] over the course of the events (which often lasted four or more hours) I would have one or at most two drinks, while my hard-partying comrades downed five or six (or more).
Meanwhile, back at the club: as soon as we were seated a waiter came to our table. Ray ordered some chips for us and a pint of beer for himself, and asked me what’d I’d like to drink. I’d been to the club and knew that their vino selection was limited to three corky-tasting house wines, in shades of white, red, or pink. I didn’t drink beer and had limited experience with the so-called hard spirits. Gin and tonic was my go-to order, but I thought I’d try something different. I really liked the taste of tonic water with lime…hmm, what else to try? I ordered a vodka tonic.
The concert began; the band was good (and loud); the server returned to our table. Ray asked for a glass of water and another beer, but a half instead of a full pint. I declined Ray’s offer of another vodka tonic, and told our server that I’d like a glass of tonic water with lime only – no vodka – and a glass of water…I remember seeing Ray out of the corner of my eye making some kind of gesture to our server after I had ordered. This sequence repeated itself several times (however, I never got my glass of plain water, even though Ray got his), with Ray drinking smaller and smaller amounts of beer and me specifying plain tonic water and lime.
As the concert got to the obligatory, band-pretends-to-play-their-last-number-but-is-really-just-waiting-offstage-for-the-audience-to-call-them-back-for-an-encore, it hit me. Borrowing poetic license from Miley Cyrus, it came in like a wrecking ball. All-of-the-proverbial-sudden, I was blurry. The room was swirling; I told Ray I didn’t feel well and wanted to go home. He stood up, said he needed to use the bathroom, and that I should stay put and he’d be right back and take me right home.
I didn’t understand. How could I be…intoxicated, was it?…via one cocktail that I’d had almost two and a half hours ago? I looked at what was left of my fourth (or fifth…or sixth?) glass of tonic water, which was mostly ice cubes at that point. I sniffed it just as our server arrived, and I asked her ( I remember trying to *not* sound like an idiot, and forming my words carefully, as I felt my tongue was too big for my mouth ) What was this drink? Was there something else in my tonic water and lime? It was so loud in the hall — had she misunderstood me, or had she gotten my order mixed up with someone else’s?
She gave me an odd look, and told me that at our first drink refill, my “friend” had told her that I’d changed my mind, and wanted the full vodka tonic(s). Which is what she’d been bringing out to me.
I was too fuzzy to be angry…I was mostly confused. Huh? Why would he do that – why would he “override” my order?
I don’t remember walking to Ray’s car, or the drive to my place. I remember him helping me up the stairs of the condo I shared with Marie, who was not home yet (Marie managed a retail store, and worked a late closing shift on Fridays). He helped me to my bed, where I collapsed, face up…and then, he was kissing me.
I remember laughing at him – what was he doing? It’s not like we were… “What are you doing?” I giggled aloud. He pulled back and looked down at me; I remember my upper lip and chin feeling ragged, almost burned, as though instead of kissing me he had dragged a rasp over my skin (the Miami Vice stubble was a popular look for guys at that time, and Ray had a two-three days’ worth of beard growth.) “No,” he said softly, and stood up. He said he’d let himself out, and left my bedroom. I fell asleep (blacked out?), and didn’t hear the sound of the front door closing.
The next morning I awoke, fully clothed, shoes still on. Marie said she’d noticed that I’d forgotten to lock the front door when I’d come home. I said I didn’t remember that, and apologized. Ann came over later in the day, and asked me about the concert. I told her what I remembered of it; I was still confused about the mysterious (to me) drink situation. She wrinkled her nose and exclaimed, “That’s like…attempted rape!”
Ray and I never spoke with one another about what had happened. I ended up working for Vendtech for a few more months, [9] and continued to attend group activities with other Vendtech employees, which sometimes included Ray, but never went to another movie or one-on-one activity with him.
* * *
As I finished telling MH the story, it dawned upon me that I’d never really reckoned with what almost/could have happened: That someone I considered a friend – someone whom everyone knew as a good guy – had, essentially, poisoned me. This man didn’t (as far as I know) slip a mickey into my drink, but he might as well have. And this is how many women are raped.
MH listened quietly and thoughtfully to my story, and said, “I’m glad it didn’t happen,” when I was finished telling it. “Me, too,” I replied, and wondered why I hadn’t told him the story before. It had just faded into background history
I’d almost told K and Belle about it years ago, when they started going out with friends. MH and I had talked with both of our offspring about the existence of Rohypnol® and other so-called “date rape” drugs, and cautioned them to never accept a beverage at a party or any venue, from someone else, unless it was an unopened can of, say, soda, or unless you could be sure of what was in (or not in) the drink. I thought perhaps I should personalize that advice for Belle, about how this is not theoretical and it is not something that just happens “to *other* people…” But I didn’t.
I don’t know what stopped me. I don’t like thinking of moiself as a victim, of anything, in any situation – was that it? Was I protecting my daughter and my son, or me, or MH, from having the opportunity to have even a fleeting thought that I’d been naïve, or stupid, or….? I didn’t blame moiself, then or now, and it isn’t something that haunts my existence. [10] And again, it happened a long time ago in a galaxy far far away…which, unfortunately, when it comes to male predatory sexual behavior, resembles a lower tech version of the galaxy we’re still living in today.
I don’t know about y’all, but I’d like some sloth peekaboo therapy right now.
( Katha Pollitt is an American author, activist, poetic, social critic )
* * *
May you never get a free meal due to your ethnicity or gender expression; May you never have someone override your food or drink order; May you use your bare hands to rip the spleen out of anyone you see who
poisons the food or beverage of his “friend,” or anyone else; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Which bodes well for our upcoming trip there, this summer, to watch the eclipse…and eat good food (including non-vegan Icelandic cod).
[2] And by, I will never forget, I do not mean that I constantly remember what happened. I have lived my life for years, decades even, without thinking about it. I am not scarred; just aware.
[10] Or didn’t, until I had reason to think of it and told MH… then I realized I was going to have to write about it, because that is how I process things.
[11] “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
Department Of Yet Another Reason Why I Love Norway
I have immensely enjoyed the times moiself has had the opportunity to travel to/around several European countries. Each of those times involved at least one embarrassment-by-association experience, wherein Some Otherwise Enlightened World Citizens ® that one finds in, say, a Rick Steves travel group feel compelled to bray about the high taxes of, for example, the Scandinavian social democracies. [1] This typically happens after visiting a country’s house of parliament or other such facilities: we visitors are chatting amongst ourselves, comparing and contrasting, say, Norway’s standard of living with that of the USA, and SOEWC will feel compelled to remind everyone how the people who live in those countries must pay “far too much taxes to *the government.*“
This triggers moiself and others to remind the braying ignoramous Ugly Americans SOEWC that, it’s the people of those countries, not some random/arbitrary “government,” who understand that the governmentis not some far away entity. It is them; it is *their* government. This is how they vote to collect and spend *their* money, on a system which runs on the premise (read: reality) that a higher standard of living for everyone benefits everyone. [2]
Why is it that so many folks in the USA seem to forget what they pay for later ( is it simply that, the timing? ) rather than up front? By nothaving a portion of their taxes fund a system of national health care they think they get to keep more money in their pockets; they have financial amnesia when it comes to what later flies out of those same pockets, sometimes seemingly at light speed, for medical insurance premiums and copays and care and medications and visits and “conditions not covered” and…and…and….
Fortunately, we have level-headed (if bemused by USA obliviousness on the subject) Norwegians to explain it to us.
* * *
Department Of History To Keep In Mind
Several years ago I found this old employee status board in an antique shop. It’s currently in my office, keeping track of the comings and goings of my imaginary coworkers. These coworkers are people, real or fictional, whom I admire in some way. When the Cesar Chavez sexual abuse scandal broke, I reminded Mark about that board – I asked him to go into my office and take a look at it, and notice whose name was #7 from the top. [3]
I always thought Dolores Huerta was the un- (as in, lesser) sung hero of the farmworker’s movement. Little did I suspect what Huerta endured – what she felt she had to endure and keep silent about – for a cause she put above her own mental and physical health.
Amid the rush to cancel the memorials to Chavez’s name (and in some cases, rename them for Huerta), moiself offers this suggestion: how’s about we stop naming public facilities – from roads to recreation centers to parks and preserves – after people? Our idols *always* turn out to have feet of clay (or in Chavez’s case, feet of…festering ICK).
As for the legion of progressives who feel let down/betrayed by and disgusted with Chavez, I am almost one of them. But, not really, as in, not fully. And if you are, I ask you to consider…why?
Progressive male leaders were/are still…male leaders. Male leaders’ sexism in the 1960s-70s anti-war and civil rights movements helped motivate what has become known as Second Wave feminism, and was an open secret among activists of the times.
“The only position for women in the movement is prone.”
Decades later [4] a few SNCC members pointed out that Carmichael was known to be supportive of women activists; thus, perhaps what he said was a “bad joke” taken “out of context.” No matter what Carmichael’s intentions might have been, [5] that statement is merely one example of “the entrenched misogyny of 1960s activist movements, which prompted the feminist critiques of the New Left that would later develop into the Women’s Liberation movement of the 1970s.” [6]
This embedded misogyny was arguably/most blatantly on view during the Counter-Inaugural Protest, [7] a series of speeches and marches organized by the National Mobilization to End the War in Vietnam. When antiwar activists and feminists Marilyn Webb and Shulamith Firestone tried to address the crowd about the realities of sexism outside of and within the anti-war movement, they were booed and sexually harassed by men in the crowd (including fellow/male activist leaders), some of whom hurled a memorable taunt revealing the true feelings of many male leaders re what place women activists should occupy in the movement:
“Take her off the stage and fuck her.”
How’s that for progressive leadership?
In the late 1970s I read an article [8] about (or by?) the feminist, “Lavendar Menace” and LGBTQ rights activist and author Rita Mae Brown, in which Brown discussed her involvement in the (then) nascent Gay Rights movement. When Brown spoke/wrote [9] about the threats and hassles she and other lesbian activists received from men, and what it was like was working alongside men in civil rights organizations, she used a phrase that has haunted me ever since. Moiself cannot now recall verbatim the first part of the phrase, but I’ll never forget the second. When asked to describe men’s reaction to lesbians’ participation in human rights activism, she said something about how the strait men tried to break our spirits (which was not unexpected), but that
“…the gay men broke our hearts.”
Gay women made the heartbreaking discovery that although gay men were their supposed allies in the struggle for civil rights, gay men were still, first and foremost, men. As in, they interrupted, talked down to, belittled or just plain ignored the women in the movement, took credit for their female peer’s ideas and activism, and expected the women to get their coffee, answer the organizations’ phones, and type the groups’ memos. One lesbian activist wrote that, when it came to dealing with men, women in the gay rights movement had even less power than women in the civil rights/anti-war movements, because in the former, “…since they (gay men) don’t have to pretend to be nice to us and respect us in order to fuck us, they don’t even pretend to.”
* * *
Department Of Among The Many Things I Don’t Know…
This department title might scare readers into thinking, Holy crap – this is gonna be the longest blog post ever. Not to worry. [10]
Dateline: Two Tuesdays ago; 8 a.m.-ish; morning walk. As I pass by one of the two banks in Manzanita I look through the bank building’s side wall of windows. Moiself sees two people, sitting at what I presume are their desks. One has her arms wrapped around a coffee mug; the other is slowly flipping through the pages of…a report or manual of some sort? I find moiself thinking thoughts I do not typically entertain; that is, thoughts about banks, and the people who work in them.
* Are they called bankers, or bank employees?
*And what exactly is a banker versus a bank employee?
* Is a bank teller a banker – what constitutes being a banker?
* What is there even for bankers to do, now that people can do so much of what they used to do in their bank at the ATM, and/or online?
*Are those two bank worker/people I saw sitting there, looking forward to a great day of Exciting Bank Work® …or are they just sitting there, resigned with casual dread to their lot: “Great, another eight hours where I have to justify my existence, look busy look busy look busy…”
“[On religious dogma] …It’s funny, I’ve always been told that peace comes through Christ. That leaving or letting go of my faith would lead only to guilt and sadness. But here I am, finding the truest joy I’ve ever known in all the places I was told not to look.” ( Author and audio book narrator Natalie Naudus,
quoting her own experience, in “Gay the Pray Away” )
* * *
May you never idolize leaders of any social movement; May you never have to look busy to justify your existence; May you find joy in all the places you were told not to look; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Finland, and Iceland. Ireland and Great Britain also came under fire for their respective nationalized health care.
[2] I appreciated, during MH’s and my RS tour of Ireland, the Canadian nurse who was able to enlighten the Some Otherwise Enlightened World Citizen who started dissing the Canadian system of (gasp) socialized medicine ( despite SOEWC never having any experiences with that system). Canadian nurse graciously but firmly corrected the blatant falsehoods and distortions SOEWC attempted to attribute to Canadian health care.
[3] They are listed alphabetically by their first names.
[11] “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
Moiself has been in a reflective mood; which should not be surprising. According to a study I just made up, everybody knows that within three days of a holiday referencing the Irish, a writer’s brain is capable of little output which does not involve humorous anecdotes of family and friends and kneecapping British soldiers and scatological puns and Chuck Norris “facts” (psst – this is what is known as foreshadowing ).
Department Of Parents Are Never Too Old To Go Apeshit Over Reminders of Childhood Cuteness
It has been a week of many celebrations, both national and personal. Belle is home for Spring Break. Pi day. The Ides of March. That Irish-American Thing. [1] Many if not all of these festive days call for special feasts. I asked Belle if there was any special dinner she’d like, in honor of…whatever. While she was pondering her options, MH showed me a list Belle had made, quite a long time ago. He found it written on a (unfortunately, undated) notepad he discovered as he was going through old papers in the attic:
I told Belle all she had to do was say the word and we would endeavor to come up with a speshl desert and froot salid…and lots of Yum.
* * *
* * *
Department Of No, Wait – That’s A Lie. Regular Programming Continues To Be Disrupted.
After sharing a blog-posted memory involving my daughter, it’s time for one involving my son. During one glorious phase in his life [3] son K was notorious (within our family) for getting moiself helpless with laughter by telling me Chuck Norris puns and memes. Moiself shared this memory on 1-14-22 ( The S-Words I’m Not Mispronouncing ):
Punz For The Day: Scat Edition
Did you hear about the monkey who was arrested for throwing its feces at zoo patrons? The monkey was charged with turd debris assault.
Why did Packy the elephant [4] bring toilet paper to the zebra’s birthday bash? Because Packy was a party pooper.
Remember, dog owners, when you walk the dog you have to pick up its poop. It’s your doo diligence.
Why is Chuck Norris’s dog trained to pick up its own poop? Because Chuck Norris doesn’t take shit from anyone. Chuck Norris doesn’t flush the toilet. He scares the shit out of it.
Yeah, I know, scat is typically used to denote animal feces. But I’ve heard that making at least one Chuck Norris Joke ® – aka, reciting a Chuck Norris “fact” – at the beginning of the year is a guarantee of good fortune in the weeks to come. [5]
Department Of The Bonus Round Of You-Know-Who Jokes
(Happy New Year to son K, who once brought me to helpless tears of stomach-cramping, snotty-nosed laughter when he loaned me his Chuck Norris Factbook to read while we were seated in a booth in a restaurant, waiting for our lunch to arrive).
* Chuck Norris doesn’t read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
* The flu gets a Chuck Norris shot every year.
* When Chuck Norris plays dodgeball, the balls dodge him.
* Chuck Norris doesn’t worry about high gas prices. His vehicles run on fear.
* The Dead Sea was alive before Chuck Norris swam there.
* When Chuck Norris was born, he drove his mom home from the hospital.
* There is no theory of evolution, just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live.
* Death once had a near-Chuck-Norris experience.
* There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.
* MC Hammer learned the hard way that Chuck Norris can touch this.
* Chuck Norris has been to Mars. That’s why there are no signs of life there.
* Chuck Norris can strangle you with a cordless phone.
* If Chuck Norris traveled to an alternate dimension in which there was another Chuck Norris and they both fought, they would both win.
* Chuck Norris’ farts smell like freshly baked cinnamon rolls.
Okay; I gotta get control here. Seriously; somebody stop me; this could go on forever.
* Chuck Norris counted to infinity — twice.
* * *
Department Of This Time It’s True
* * *
Department Of Don’t Ask Questions (But Do Ask Your Doctor For Drugs…Just, Any Drugs)
Dateline: last Tuesday; 9:25 pm-ish; sitting in The TV Chair®…although not watching whatever show was on TV that MH had left on while he went to load the dishwasher. I was about to check something on my phone….
…when moiself heard a TV advertisement. The ad caught my attention with its opening question, which I found rivetingly nonsensical:
Uh…golly gee…I…don’t know. How *would* I know? What the heck is Vivaldi?
The advertisement continued with what’s become the standard prescription meds come-on, encouraging viewers to ask their doctors about whether or not they could benefit from using this prescription medication…. But, for what? Why would you take this medication? There’s gotta be a reason, right? For no other reason than you fall into the category of, Hmmm, I’m currently not taking any prescription medications and all my friends and family are and I feel kinda left out….? I kept waiting, but:
There. Was. No. Mention. Of. What. That. Drug. Would. Be. Used. For.
Really.
Nevertheless, you’ve been advised. Call your primary care provider, now.
Patient: “Doctor, am I ready for Vivaldi?” Doctor: “What makes you ask? What are your symptoms, or health concerns?” Patient: “None at the moment; I’m fit as a fiddle. Still, could I benefit from taking Vivaldi?
Maybe, like, if I bought stock in the company?”
If life has no meaning for someone unless they pretend to know something they don’t know, then I would strongly and sincerely urge extensive therapy and counseling. This is particularly true if feelings of meaninglessness and lack of purpose lead to depression, which is a serious illness. Absent a mental disorder, or head trauma, there is no reason an adult should feel life is meaningless without maintaining some sort of delusion. ( Dr. Peter Boghossian, American writer, philosopher, professor )
Or, maybe that Someone should ask their doctor about Vivaldi.
* * *
May you remember to even it up; May your loved ones serve you speshl desert and froot salid and yum; May you not ask your doctor, any doctor, about TV advertised drugs; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] On March 17 real Irish people in Ireland apparently do not affix paper shamrocks on their foreheads, don Kiss Me I’m Irish underpants and drink until they vomit green beer on their faux Leprechaun shoes and call it a celebration of their heritage.
[2] A phrase of my father’s, used for when he had done something for one of his four children who had a particular need, and then found a way to “even it up” by doing something for the other three.
[3] Which is presently dormant but which I’m certain could be resurrected at a moment’s notice….
[4] Explanation for non-Oregonians: Packy the elephant (1962-2017) was an Asian elephant born who was and lived his life at the Portland’s Oregon Zoo. Famous for, among other attributes, being the first elephant born in the Western Hemisphere for five decades , growing to be among the tallest of Asian elephants in the world, siring seven calves, and being beloved by zoo staff and visitors, having a quirk about hats…. ( I wrote about that here, in The Elephant I’m Not Freeing ).
[5] That is something I just made up. But it makes as much sense as any of the “Doing _____ will guarantee good luck in the new year!” prescriptions I’ve ever heard.
[7] “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
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.
