To spawn or not to spawn

Has never really been a question for me. I've never wanted children. Even as a little girl, when you might hear a child say that they want to be a mommy, I never did.

My mother remembers with outright glee a telephone call I made to her when I was about 14, whilst babysitting a colicky 18 month old; I couldn't get the kid to stop crying, and it had made me near-hysterical. "No teenage pregnancy for me, Mom," I shouted over the screeching. "I can't handle this!!"

(Nevermind that I was positively sure that sex basically equaled death, in the early days of the AIDS epidemic, or that my religion taught that sex outside of marriage equaled HELL...)

Not that I waited, but that's not the point here. I decided - definitively - sometime in my late teens that motherhood wasn't for me, and I wasn't interested. DH and I have been together for a loooong time, and there were a few family members (on the Catholic side of the fam, ffs) who pressured us to have kids even before we were married. I met him when I was 19; I could say then, with absolute certainty: "I'm too young to be a mother."

But as I've gotten older, more and more people - some outright strangers - apparently think it is OK to question my judgement and badger the living hell out of me about having a child. Let me say this:

Does.

Not.

Want.

Now before you tell me, "methinks the lady doth protest too much," please keep in mind that my frustration with this boils over and spills out once a year or once every few years, and today? Is that day.

The anger comes from one place; how the bloody living hell is it anyone else's business if I have a child or not? Simply, and truthfully, it isn't. But when you meet someone new, and they ask if you're married (DH and I do not wear wedding rings, so it isn't obvious from the get-go) the very next question is if you have children. When you answer in the negative, it isn't uncommon for the questioner to ask, "Why not?!?" as if it is positively shocking that you don't, because somehow it is your sacred duty to pop out a kid or two if you've bothered to get married.

Um: No.

Having a child is a major, life-altering decision, one that in my ever-so-humble, ought not be entered into lightly. In fact, I think people ought to think long and hard about ALL of the impacts a child will have on their lives. Financial, emotional, physical....those 3 are the merest tip of the iceberg. But getting pregnant is very easy, and I think it is rare that people think much about it; you grow up, go to school, go to college, get married, have children. Period; that's just how it is done.

I belong to a few Childfree or childless by choice groups (aka and hereafter CFBC) and something that those groups point out often is that most people don't really consider the fact that there IS a choice there; married does not need to equal with children.

BTW, this isn't about abortion or my usual reproductive rights spiel; or at least, not exactly. "Reproductive rights" to me means - in part - that a woman has the right to choose for herself if she will get pregnant or not, no matter what her religion or social norms expect.

I'm no longer a member of the Catholic Church, so what the Popes say no longer means much to me other than the fact that their writings usually piss me the hell off. But when I was Catholic, something Pope John Paul II wrote made me sad; by choosing to work outside the home and not have children, the Church thinks that I am "denying" my "essential femininity". Hogwash. To read this outrageous bullshit for yourself, click here and start reading at Chapter VI, part 17.

So society thinks I'm weird for not having kids. Christianity (and, I'm sure, all of the other major world religions also push for procreation; who will carry the Word and the Truth if there are not new Believers being created constantly?) thinks I ought to be having kids. What I think, apparently, is completely immaterial. No matter that I'd be the one going through pregnancy - which, btw, scares the living hell out of me - or that I'd be the one going through labor - also, quite terrifying, tyvm - and no matter at all that the primary caregiver of the new baby would be, again, me. Nope. What you want, little lady, is far less important than what the Church and society expect from you.

I like my independence. I like having time to myself. I like sleep. Kiss all of that good-bye the minute a baby enters the picture.

What's gotten in to me that has me so all-fired angry? A recent episode of Dr. Phil, where he questions a CFBC couple about the fact that they may come to regret not having kids, and that they ought to re-visit the issue every year to make sure that they're still "on the same page," as if the childfree don't know their own minds, and must second-guess themselves at every opportunity.

Allow me to repeat myself -

Um: no.

Isn't it a good thing that I already know - before ever being preggo for even a second - that motherhood is not the path for me? Isn't it a good thing that I'm quite cognizant of the fact that motherhood is something I'd be terrible at, and thus should not attempt? I'm OK with that fact; it doesn't pain me in the least to admit that I'm not motherhood material. In fact, I think that it is a fantastic thing that I'm cognizant of that fact before I even think of contemplating parenthood.

Once you have a child, you are then responsible for that child for the rest of your life. Let me say that again. For the rest of your life. To the end of your born days. It isn't like buying a home, or even getting married; once that child is born, there is NO going back. You can't decide to just up not be a parent one day.

Should anyone be entering into that lightly? I think not.

Oh, Lucy, you're thinking. You say nothing of the joys and the love and the wonderful things that children bring to your life. The pain of labor is fleeting; the joy lasts much longer. Perhaps. I don't deny that babies are adorable and smooshable and kissable, and that kids can be an absolute delight. On the contrary; toddlers, in particular, fascinate me. You can SEE them learning every day, watch their language development, see the little wheels turning as they pick up a new word or skill. That's great. But I can experience all of that without being a mother myself, and that's A-OK with me!

Libraries are important places

The Governor of the Great State of Ohio has a proposed budget on the table in Columbus.

I like to think of myself as an idealist, and that people who seek and hold public office actually have a desire to serve the public.

Oh, how cute and sheltered, eh?

Ted Strickland was elected as governor on a platform of education, and a whole lot of other things that I like lots. He's pro-choice, which was enough to get my vote.

His proposed budget cuts the funding for libraries in Ohio an additional 30%. This is AFTER the libraries have already had a 20% budget cut. So Ohio libraries, which have always been tax-funded, would operate the next fiscal year at 50% of the budget from last fiscal year.

This is quite the 180 degree turnaround from his election promises. Sad.

I've never made a secret of the fact that I don't like living in Ohio. I'd flee in an instant if I could. I have a bad case of Anywhere But Here, and I think I'd trade living in a shoebox for living in Ohio. (Most days, anyway.) One of the ONLY things I have ever been proud of about the Buckeye State is that we have some of the nation's best libraries.

Free. It does not cost you one red cent to get a library card, anywhere in the state.

Filled with books and DVDs and videos and CDs and books on tape. Want to read a new bestseller? The public library in your small podunk Ohio town will have it. Need a manual for your 2003 Honda Civic? The public library has that too. Textbooks, cookbooks, self-help, biographies, non-fiction books about anything you can imagine. If they don't have it, they can get it for you from an inter-library loan.

Seventy percent of Ohio's libraries are entirely funded by the fund the good ole gov wants to cut. The other thirty percent have local levies or other sources of income in addition to the state funding.

The planned cuts will mean mass closures of branches throughout Ohio's 251 branch system. In the two counties that I live and work in, every branch except the two "mains" will be closed. That means the public library in your small podunk Ohio town won't be there. All bookmobile services, which provide books to shut-ins and places where there are no branches, will disappear. Ohio's libraries have Internet-capable computers, assistance with writing resumes and business plans, and the majority of the genealogy research for the state.

This spending plan is a disaster, and devastating, too.

I know librarians in both counties. But my passion about this cause is NOT because my two friends would likely lose their jobs. (Sorry, guys. Not that I don't love you. I do. I would hate for you to be unemployed.) It is because the library has played such a vital role in my life.

I can afford to buy most of the books I want to purchase. I have high speed internet at home. I know how to write a resume. But there are people in this state who can't or don't. Libraries help to close the digital divide. Libraries serve the entire population, not elitist snobs, and not just those at the bottom of the food chain either. They're equalizers.

If you're reading this in Ohio, please go to Save Ohio Libraries and do what you can to show our elected morons officials that cutting library funding is unacceptable. Use your right to speak up, today especially.

Oh, it's ON.

I've been hinting that I was going to write about this for a while, but rather than make it to actual text, it has been floating about in my head for quite some time.

Being "on" is related to being a guest. Related to good manners, and showing the nicer side of yourself. (Yeah, it's hard.)

While I was in Sweden with the Rotary GSE, I was "on" whenever I was awake.

For me, this meant being gracious and polite, being enthusiastic even when I felt like shit, and having an open mind to trying everything that was offered.

Being on is a little like acting. You're smiling, being cheerful, and listening intently even when you're pissed, unhappy, and bored.

I love Sweden. I love its people, its culture, its food, its language, its cities and its countryside. There isn't much I don't love about Sweden. But even someone as Swedish-crazy as I am can get to the end of their rope.

The Swedish diet is quite full of herring. Fried herring. Pickled herring. Sour pickled herring (bleh!). Herring sliced up and mixed with other stuff and baked into a casserole. Then there's the boiled potatoes, smoked salmon, low-brow caviar, lingonberry jam, and Swedish meatballs. I like all of those things, with the exception of the sour stuff. I really like Swedish meatballs and boiled potatoes with lingonberry jam. (Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, sweetcheeks.) I got really tired of the herring during this trip. Thankfully, no one served the team sour pickled herring. But the rest of it, pickled and fried and casserole-style, man-oh-man did I get tired of it.

When we would arrive at wherever we were going to have lunch, and the menu was herring again, you couldn't roll your eyes or show exasperation. You had to be polite and cheerful, non-snarky and appreciative. That's what I mean by saying that I was "on" all the time. Being a gracious guest isn't a huge burden to bear, but it can certainly get old after a while. (Like 5 weeks.)

All of this makes me sound like an entitled, ungrateful, and overprivledged brat. I am exceedingly grateful for the chance to visit Sweden on someone else's dime, and to have learned everything that I did, to have met everyone that I did. Really and truly. Being in Sweden makes me happy. Speaking Swedish makes me happy.

Not having my own space or my own stuff for five weeks isn't with the happy-making.

I got into a tiff with one of the other team members during the third week we were there; it is a long backstory, but relates to exactly what I'm talking about.

He is one of those people that thrives on having someone to pick on, to belittle, as compensation for what I don't know, but I'm assuming he does it to compensate for a tiny male appendage. He teased me about shirts that I wore, which had the logo of my employer embroidered on them. Small and tasteful, business attire (shells to wear under suit jackets. fine-gauge sweaters.) that I wore on a near-daily basis. I own eight of these embroidered shirts, which run the gamut of colors and are, as I said, tasteful. He started a pool to guess which color and style shirt I'd wear the next day.

I put up with this for a while, silently, or chuckling along with everyone else. I've had experience with his type before. Letting them know that they're getting to you is like pouring gasoline on a fire, so I kept my mouth shut even though it annoyed me. It wasn't enough to get worked up over, and it kept him from being obnoxious to the Swedes. No worries, I'm a big girl and can handle being teased.

I put up with it even when I didn't think it was funny anymore. I kept quiet when he actually drew a complicated matrix in his notebook, showing the mathematical probability of which shirt I would wear which day. I'm enough of a grown-up to admit that the geek in me was vastly entertained that he was that much of a geek too, despite the uber-urbane airs he put on.

I put up with it when he invited one of the Rotarians that we all really liked to join the pool, even when it made me feel like an ass. It made me feel small and provincial and stupid.

The point at which I no longer put up with it even came AFTER he announced the winner of one of his ridiculous pools at A FORMAL ROTARY GATHERING WITH 30 PEOPLE IN ATTENDANCE. Talk about feeling like an asshole. He explained (in English, with no translator) what the pool was about to the assembled guests, all of whom were Swedish, i.e., non-native speakers of English. Then he announced the winner. A polite round of applause followed. None of the Swedes really understood what it was all about, other than it was making fun of Lucy, ha-ha-ha, isn't Arnie Asshole funny.

I said nothing at the party. I said nothing for another two days, at which time he invited two more Rotarians, who were our guides/drivers for that day to join the pool while we were having coffee at a cafe. That was my breaking point. I'm not sure why that particular bit was the breaking point. I didn't say anything to him previously because I knew it would simply get worse, but that right there? That was IT.

As he went to hand the notebook to the Swedes for them to note their guesses, the notebook came to me on the way to them. I took it, handed it back to him, and said, "Could you please find some ONE or some THING else to pick on? Because I'm over it." My tone was nasty, but at my normal volume. My facial expression was pissed. My intent was not unclear.

{In my defense, I didn't punch him in the face, tear his stupid notebook to shreds, dump my hot cup of coffee over his smug head, or do what I wanted to most, which was kick him where it would have hurt. Bad. Real bad. I resisted those urges.}

Our hostesses for the day were shocked. Stunned silence greeted this outburst. Then he said, sounding like an innocent little boy who doesn't know any better, "Really?"

"Yes, really," I snarked back. "Enough."

The Swedes tend to be stoic. Public disagreements are rare. Shouting at someone in public is absolutely a faux pas. I didn't shout at him, but the moment was very, very awkward. Moments later, we all cleared the table, put our dishes where they belonged, and walked out.

I walked with one of the hosts, starting a conversation about something trivial. She was a typical Swede and being polite as they usually are, she didn't ask for details about what had just happened. The rest of the team followed clustered in a group behind me, whispering to one another.

Fucking fantastic. Oh, and oops.

My team leader pulled me aside a little later and didn't tell me off, but she did say that it was unfortunate that I'd chosen to bitch him out in front of our hosts. I agree; it was. Presenting a united (and happy with one another) front to the Swedes as a team was important. We specifically sidestepped political questions because we didn't agree about the president, or anything else in American government, for that matter, and we didn't want to seem fracturous.

It is quite possible that we could be the only Americans that some of the people we met would ever see. For example? If you've only ever met one Puerto Rican, and she/he was rude and nasty, you just might form the opinion that every Puerto Rican was a nasty brat. Likewise, if the entire group fought the whole time we were there, Swedes that we met could get the impression that all Americans behave this way all the time. As ambassadors of our country, we needed to act the part. I wasn't "on" in that moment, not at all.

I have yet to apologize to him for biting his head off. I have no intentions of doing so, either. He never did ask me for an explanation of my behavior, but if he had, he'd've gotten chapter and verse on what an asshole I thought/think he is/was. Nothing else was said about it for the entire journey, although one other teammate did ask later that same day if I'd thought of perhaps pulling him aside and asking him to stop before verbally attacking him. No, I didn't. Because I knew what would happen, he'd keep it up AND make it worse.

What's that? What does this have to do with routine? Meh. Not much. I wasn't following the Nice Girl Routine there.....

But there are some people who just bring that out in me. Thankfully, I no longer have to deal with him frequently. But if I did? And he was still a pain in the ass? Oh, it'd be ON then, my friend!

Not as you think.

A few years ago, when my nephew made his First Communion, I sat at my sister-in-law's house and talked to her in-laws. They're conservative Catholic folk, and therefore in general, we don't see eye-to-eye. I try, really, I do, to keep my liberal lefty opinions to myself, but I don't always succeed.

As I talked to her brother-in-law about politics and public policy, the conversation turned towards some of my pet issues; the death penalty, among other things.  Eventually, he sat back, laughed, and said to me, "You are NOT as liberal as you think you are."

I told him we'd have to agree to disagree on that.  But.....

Last night, as I was driving home, I heard just a portion of this story, enough to make me remember to seek out the full audio and listen later.  It is about the drug problem in Mexico, and the official response of the United States' government to the same.

My gut reaction to this was annoyance, and I surprised myself by saying to the radio, "and this is MY problem, as a US taxpayer, how exactly?"  No, me talking to the radio was not the surprise. I do that all the time.

I don't take illegal drugs.  (Nope, I save my money for the legal ones, eyeroll.)  The drug cartels in Mexico aren't what we need to be spending taxpayer money on right now, people.  It annoys me that Mexico has its hand out, looking for money from the United States to solve problems in Mexico, of Mexican creation.  Their police force is corrupt.  Their jails are apparently a sham.  The cartels run things any way they see fit, committing murder, kidnappings, extortion....and they want the United States to fix this?  Buh?

And wow, that is about the most conservative right-leaning thing I've ever typed OR said.

I understand the argument that without the United States and the voracious appetite on this side of the border for cocaine and weed, there wouldn't be a drug problem in Mexico, but with respect, I disagree.  There's a market for illegal drugs the world over, and it was a very long time ago that the US had the largest population in the world.  After China, and India, the United States ranks third in population size, and somewhere, someone besides Americans on American soil, are buying Mexican product.

When did the US become the world's ATM?  Why does the perception that we have oodles of money to be handing out over every third-world nation conundrum persist?  GLOBAL Financial Crisis, anyone?

This all makes me wonder, too, if I would feel differently (i.e. more leftist) about this issue if the US economy were not hemorrhaging jobs at an alarming rate and several of our biggest industries - financial, automobile manufacturing - weren't on the precipice of complete disaster. 

I'd like to think so.

Vitriolic

adjective; something felt to resemble vitriol especially in caustic quality ; especially : virulence of feeling or of speech, (vi-trē-ˈä-lik)

High school was hell on earth for me.  No, I wasn't abused, no, nothing terrible happened.  Quite the contrary.  I went to a suburban school, lived in a two-parent family, had a safe and mostly happy home.

What was bad requires a rather long-winded explanation.  My old high school is located in an upscale little bedroom community.  There aren't just a few McMansions; there are many developments full of them.  It was not at all unusual for kids to be handed the keys to a brand-new car on their 16th birthdays, and I ain't talking about a basic Chevy, either.  

Besides the cars, there were the clothes.

One of my classmates went to Paris and came home with tons of new clothes; I remember the brand names because they were prominently displayed.  She had a bunch of things from Gucci, and lesser-known Naf Naf, along with uber-popular-in-the-80's Benetton.

She was the only one - so far as I know - who went to that length of going to Europe for school clothes, but at the time, the popular brands were Express, Limited, Gap, Learner New York, things like that.  (huh, the more things change, the more they stay the same, eh?)  

My family wasn't poor, but brand new clothes for my sisters and I came from K-Mart.  Often, "new" clothes came from the thrift store or as hand-me-downs from a cousin, long before vintage was cool and "re-purpose" was a buzzword.

I got teased a bunch about clothes from K-Mart, often got crap for not having the latest shoes or purses.

Kids are cruel.  Things that you would say to a 5th grade classmate would be completely beyond the pale to say to a colleague at work; "You're fat!"  "Yo, Lucy, nice generic shoes!" (said with all the sneering of a practiced snob.)

You would think that it might get better as you moved through junior high and then high school, but I don't think it did.  The terrible things that were said to me would today be taken far more seriously, as schools have been sued over bullies and school-yard taunts, but back then, it was put up or shut up time.

This was a daily barrage, not of threats, I never feared for my safety, but of nastiness and verbal attacks, with lots of vitriol.  It probably goes without saying, but I was miserable.  I felt less than worthless.  I felt ostracised.  I felt ugly, because I was told every day that I was ugly, useless, worthless, and far too smart for my own good.  Yep, even getting good grades was grounds for harassment. 

Eventually, of course, I got over it, although I didn't really develop any self-esteem until I was 20-something.  I came home from Europe with a lot more bravado, and faked it well, but inside was a different story.

I haven't thought about those days at all in a very long time.  No need to dwell on it, although I would probably take great delight in knowing that my tormentors aren't happy adults, because what goes around comes around, sucka!  Yes, yes, I know that's petty and vindictive.  Ask me if I care.

But lately, I've been thinking about those days a lot as I've gotten friend requests on Facebook from people that I don't remember all that fondly.  None of the true bullies have sent me friend requests (yet), but people who were mean little shits and wow, do they remember things just a leeetle bit differently than I do.  

Go figure.   Of course they don't remember treating me like yesterday's garbage.

Re-living those days in my head has stirred up a lot of resentment and anger that I didn't even realize I still had within me.  Maybe even a few steps beyond anger to outright rage and fury.

As an adult, I'm rather blunt.  (I hear you laughing out there!!)  I say what I really think; don't ask my opinion if you aren't ready to deal with the fact that I'm not going to lead you down the primrose path.

So there are things that I would say to these people NOW that I would have never even dreamed of saying back then.  And I find myself compiling a mental checklist of what I'd like to say, among them things like, "I hope someday that someone treats your child as cruelly as you treated me." 

Ouch.  

That's....that's....well, that's awful and evil and rude, and sadly, true.  I do hope that somewhere along the way, they come to understand that the words they threw at me daily left deep and permanent scars, and the same part of me that wishes for that knows that hurting them wouldn't hurt nearly as much as someone hurting their child.  Even though I'm not a parent, I think that's something which is instinctively understood.  Why?  Well, exhibit A is my mother; she's sweet, and nice, and not too outspoken.  But harm one of her children, and the Furies of Grecian mythology pale in comparison to what she will do.

I really don't like thinking of myself as a petty vindictive bitch.  Anger left to fester only hurts the person who is angry, it certainly is no skin off of the collective noses of the nasty brats.  But I'm having a very hard time taking a deeeeeeep breath and letting it go, as I usually can with anger.  Wounds I thought long healed are in fact still wide open.

Clearly, I'm not done with therapy yet! 

Huh?

I heard a news report about the religious right being "energized" after their candidate was defeated in the US presidential election.  Organizing, planning, getting ready to make sure their point of view doesn't get bounced off the country's agenda.

Here's something I've never understood.  (OK, yes, there's a long list of things I don't get, but I'll stick with one today.)  I actually heard one of the interviewees talking about "protecting the sanctity of marriage".  I do not, and probably will not ever, understand why these people get so cranked about the fundamental right of anyone on this earth to love whomever they please.  And don't quote the biblical verse to me about marriage being between a man and a woman, because it holds very little water with me.

How would the hetro community feel if suddenly there were referendums on who they could marry?  Tall people, no, no, you can't marry short people.  Fat people, you can't be in a relationship with skinny people.  If you were to substitute any other minority for the word 'gay' in the language of these "sanctity of marriage" laws, such as Hispanic, Bi-Racial, Oriental....you'd have people all over the country (and probably some of those same fundamentalists) screaming about racism.

The root of what I don't understand is this: how does homosexual marriage "destroy" the "sanctity of marriage"?  Why does it matter to you if there are or are not gay couples?  It'll cause the breakdown of society?  What. Ev. Er.  That same argument was used when laws were still on the books about blacks and whites marrying.  It was as wrong then as it is now.

I'm very disappointed in Prop 8 passing in California.  Ever Governer Ah-nold called the passage of the act "unfortunate".  It'll be dragged through the courts again, and in the meantime, same-sex partners are denied the right to be married.

Homosexuality is not "wrong".  It is not an "abomination".  And it certainly isn't a lifestyle "choice".  And why do you care, anyway?  What goes on in my neighbor's bedroom is none of my business....how is it any of your business?

On the evils of HFCS

I saw a commercial the other day, produced by a pro-farming lobby firm about high fructose corn syrup.  It features a guy and a girl, on a blanket, in a park, sharing a picnic.  The girl pulls out a Popsicle, and offers the guy a bite.  He declines.  She then offers him two bites, and he responds by saying, "I thought you loved me."  

"I do." she says.  

"Then why are you trying to give me something that is full of high fructose corn syrup?" he asks, all plaintive.  

"What's wrong with corn syrup?" she asks.  

He flounders around for an explanation, and she gives him a rapid fire litany of facts about HFCS, that it has the same number of calories as sugar or honey, it isn't bad for you, everything in moderation, blah blah.

If you hadn't known before that second that the commercial was produced by some corn conglomerate, you did at that point. *eye roll*  But they are kind enough to put the words on the screen at the bottom, at the end of the commercial.  

Sure, HFCS probably does have the same number of calories as honey or sugar.  And if HFCS was the ONLY sweetener in that Popsicle, it wouldn't be as bad.  But the problem is that there is sugar, HFCS, fructose, and sucrose in a whole lot of sweet treats.  You're getting sugar on top of sugar, and would you like more sugar with your sugar?  Plus, HFCS has been refined ad nauseum, and is a pretty far removed thing from the cornfields of Iowa and Oh-hia-ia.  

What is making us fat, America?  Soda, processed sugars, fast food, gargantuan portion sizes.  Guess what is in the average can of soda produced and bottled here in the US?  HFCS.  And sugar.  And at least one or two other sweeteners.  

Guess how I lost a whole lot of that 43 pounds?  I didn't eat anything that had HFCS in it.  I read labels, obsessively.  I put it back on the shelf in the supermarket if HFCS was in it, I asked for ingredient lists at my favorite restaurants, I searched foodie websites to see what has lots of corn syrup.

Granted, I did a whole lot of other things, too.  Worked my tail off (literally!) in the gym.  Controlled my portions.  Removed a lot of the processed, prepackaged stuff from my kitchen and my life.  Focused on fresh veggies and fruits, not fruit juices and canned gunk full of salt.  Avoided fast food as much as possible.  Denied myself desserts and didn't take every. single. opportunity. presented to indulge my sweet tooth.

Is HFCS dangerous?  I dunno.  I do know that as a conscious consumer, I can (and do) choose to not eat it.  But don't tell me that it is as good for you as honey is.  I know better.  You do, too.

Lack Thereof

Patience has never ever been my strong suit. I'm pretty stubborn, too. My parents tell a hilarious story about 2 or 3 year old me taking a pair of kiddie scissors to puzzle pieces, in an effort to make them fit the way I thought that they ought to.

In the world outside of teh interweb, I'm waiting for something to happen or not happen. Anxiously awaiting news, one way or the other. Which is dammed annoying, frankly. Tom Petty sang, "waaaaaiiiitttinnnng is haaaaaaardest part" in a pop song in the 80s, and true dat, folks.

One of my favorite Sci-Fi authors, Anne McCaffrey, writes about a system of belief (I don't know what else you could really call it) that has vaguely Eastern overtones, and one of the basic statements is 'Never hurry, never wait.'

Far easier said than done.

{I must point out that I neither subscribe to this system of belief, nor do I completely understand it, because she never bothers to explain more than the most basic sorts of things about this faith, or whatever it is. See: Sassinak, Dinosaur Planet, The Planet Pirates, etc.}

We spend a lot of our lives rushing around, from one appointment to the next, or from one task to the next, and a whole lotta time waiting in queues for all kinds of things.

We've become mostly convinced as a society that unless we're multi-tasking, we're wasting time. Standing on line at the post office? Check your e-mail from your phone. Or write a grocery list, but be doing something other than just waiting. Goddess forbid.

The reason you end up rushing around then sometimes becomes that you were too busy multi-tasking to stay on schedule.

As I've waited (a seeming eternity, too, I must say) I sometimes get a little swoop in my stomach, like when the car is going fast over a little unexpected hill, a swoop of excitement, and other times it is a swoop of dread. I woke up this morning feeling like a ton of bricks had taken up residence in my tummy, along with about 300 butterflies. Does that even make sense? But I had hoped so that today would be THE DAY, and alas, no. The phone did not stay silent, instead it rang all day with other calls, and each time I'd look at the screen hoping that big important number would be popping up, and bummer, no. (Yes, I know what number will be calling me with THE NEWS, or at least I know the area code and the prefix, if not the last digits. I'm a geek. Of course I know the number that will be calling.)

Stomping my feet and fussing hasn't helped either. What a surprise.

I've tried to focus on other "stuff" and during the weekend, that's not so hard. But during the workdays, when you know everyone in the world is in their office, and freaking NOT CALLING ME, it is harder.

I'm fond of many curse words for the forcefulness of expression they provide sometimes. I've been trying to decrease the number of them that I use here and in the world unless I'm trying to make a particular point, because they tend to make people sit up and listen. But none of the American slang or curse words I could come up with are as expressive in this situation as is a Brit word, one that the average Yank wouldn't even recognize as a curse word.

No phone call today: Bugger! BUGGER!

Ageism

The weather here in my little corner of the world is finally getting nice. Finally, there is a bit of sun to be seen, and you can go outside without a jacket. There are people! Walking outside! Without scarves! Without snow boots!

But apparently, those winter coats were covering up something that I do NOT need to see.

Young men, ages 15-25 (or thereabouts) are wandering the streets doing something that mystifies me, and I'm chalking that mystification up to the fact that I'm older than 25. This spans all races, all levels of the socio-economic scale.

What IS it already?

Boys, clutching a handful of trousers, be they shorts, jeans, dress pants or those horrible man-pris, at a level just above their crotches. Dude, seriously? It looks like you're holding your pants up, as if they're far too large for you. That's carrying the baggy pants thing just a weeeeee bit too far, y'know?

Or if it supposed to be an indication that your trousers are totally incapable of completely covering your manly bits, then I have to say: Honey, you ain't foolin' me. Or anyone else, for that matter.

I say: "Ick."

Buy a pair of pants that fits, will you? Please?

And if it makes me guilty of ageism, well..........................so be it, then.

Because it looks ridiculous.

On following directions. Or...not.

I took both of these pictures with my crackberry today, whilst out calling on clients. When I pulled in the parking lot, the sign was the first thing that I noticed; immediately thereafter, I noticed the car parked, oh, DIRECTLY UNDER the sign. I had a chuckle at that.

But then I started thinking about the old days at ye olde evile bank. Once upon a time, I handled securities transfers; if you inherited 6000 shares of IBM from Great Auntie Beatrice when she passed away, firstly, lucky you. Secondly, I would transfer those shares from Auntie Beatrice's account to yours. When those transfers were within Ye Olde Evile Bank, from one account to another, it was easy. Transferring things to another institution, however, was a whole 'nother story.

There was a ton of obligatory paperwork to be filled out. And very specific legal documents that went along with each transfer. Along with a whole page for me to type very specific directions for the transfer department people.

Now to pass the 3rd grade, I had to be able to read and FOLLOW written directions. I bet you did too. The people that worked in Ye Olde Evile Bank's transfer department, well, they didn't, apparently. (Pass third grade OR need to READ THE DIRECTIONS to pass the 3rd grade. Either or. Pick one.)

That transfer department nearly gave me an ulcer. I can't count how many times I had to call them and scream about yet another screw-up of theirs, where they had completely and utterly failed to simply read the instructions that I sent along with the documentation. Many, many, many times when I called them about something that was done wrong, I would ask about my instructions, the page of directions that I'd sent along with a death certificate, tax release, court-certified Letter of Authority, et cetera, et cetera. And almost every single time, every time, the person on the other end of the line would say, "Oh. Yeah. Here's form 336b9, where you wrote transfer x number of shares to institution y for customer a. Yeah, we didn't do that, did we?" No. No, you didn't. Urgh!

(Wow. As much as I don't like my current job, I really, really, really, REALLY don't miss working for the bank. I suppose the whole job situation could be worse.)

How many times do we bother to read directions, though? DH believes in the old college try method....written directions accompanying furniture or other things that need assembled are for wusses, he says. I'm far more likely to read instructions. Following them, as evidenced by my methods of both knitting and cooking, is another matter entirely. They're guidelines, as far as I'm concerned, not hard and fast rules.

Being a Capricorn, the oldest kid in the family, an obsessive-compulsive, and mostly a type A personality, though, I like rules. Order. Structure. Most of the time. Withering scorn is reserved for those, like the driver above, who parked directly under the "Don't park next to the building" sign. Likewise, people who park in handicapped spots without the handicapped tag. I used to have sticky notes that were very impolite little reminders for people who parked illegally in the handicapped zone; and yes, I was the old fussbudget who would really stick those notes on offender's windshields.

I'm not sure if advancing age has made me more mellow, or if my meds have calmed me a bit, or if I've finally figured out what is worth fighting over, but these days, those sorts of things bother me less. Blatant ignoring of the rules still annoys me; but I'm quite a bit less likely to get into a shouting match with some moron in a parking lot.

Most likely, this has also improved my life expectancy, too, as I'm far less likely to get shot for fighting about a parking space.

Ranty McRanterson

I hate Wal-Mart. With a burning passion that borders on the slightly insane. If I need the sorts of things that Wal-Mart sells, I go to Target. Or a drugstore. Or the grocery store. Strangely, I don't feel the same way about Sam's Club, my irritation is reserved solely for Wal-Mart. Also known locally as WallyWorld.

Unfortunately, sometimes I still have to go in there. There are at least 4 of them within a 30 minute drive of my home, two less than ten minutes away.

Yesterday was one of those days. I ran in to one of them, and the walk through the parking lot was an immediate annoyance. It was full of trash. People are pigs, yo.

The other day, I was watching Dirty Jobs on Discovery, and the host, the affable Mike Rowe, was in a storm drain in Los Angeles that I swear was hip-deep in trash. The dirty job was cleaning out the storm drain with the assistance of a vacuum truck. He ranted for a few minutes about pigs of the two-legged variety, and walking through Wal-Mart's parking lot, I have to say I agree. What a disgusting mess.

Don't you realize when you toss a piece of trash out of your car window that it is going to go SOMEWHERE? Gross.

After the trip into Wal-Mart and $15.86 poorer (q-tips, lipstick, knitting thimble) I started noticing the trash everywhere. On the streets. In vacant lots. In parking lots. In the corners at plazas and strip malls. Litterbugs, the lot of humanity, I swear.

PICK UP YOUR FUCKING TRASH!

ye-ouch

Migraine.

Even the word makes me wince.

I've had troubles with headaches since I was roughly 10 years old, when complaining about them scored me a trip to the eye doctor's to check and see if poor vision was the cause of the headaches. I still remember sitting in a darkened hallway after they'd put those horrible drops in your eyes that force your eyes to dilate so that they can look for.....what, exactly? No idea. I also remember being terrified that I'd leave the eye doctor's with glasses; as far as I was concerned, it was bad enough that I was one of the "smart" kids, adding glasses would just further deteriorate my social standing in a typically horrifying time period in any kid's life: middle school.

Nothing was wrong with my eyes back then. I told the adults in my world that, but we checked with the eye doc just to be sure. I can tell you now that I was one very tense little kid. I put a lot of pressure on myself to do well in school, and worried excessively about all kinds of things. I've never really lost that anxiety; only for brief periods of time have I lived without it.

Research I've done as an adult has taught me a few things about my headaches. While I do get migraines from time to time, my usual garden-variety headaches are of three basic types. Tension headaches, caused by stress. Weather-related, when a large low-pressure system moves through my area, I get a headache. I've no explanation for that one. Finally, the last bunch are related to my menstrual cycle. TMI, I know, I know. But those are caused by hormonal shifts. All of them tend to be 'cluster' headaches, which means that they're re-occurring, lasting several days. They also have 'rebound' characteristics, which means that they come back after medication wears off, often worse than before analgesics were taken.

I refuse to take a prescription for them. Dr. H, the family doc, gave me samples of Imitrex and Relpax a few years ago to try for the headaches; Imitrex made me feel like a space cadet. The headache disappeared, sure, but the side effects! Among a bunch of other really weird things, my skin felt too tight. I've never tried the Relpax for that reason.

I got interested in aromatherapy as a possible solution to the headaches. Lavender and peppermint/spearmint essential oils do help, but don't solve the problem for me. Unfortunately, because I'd love a natural solution to yet another of my problems that doctors don't understand well.

The migraines, when they come, make me sensitive to light and sound, make me nauseous, make me pretty incapable of doing much of anything other than lying down in a dark room. Perhaps the worst part is that the garden variety headaches morph into migraines if I can't get a handle on them. Two days or so with a tension headache spells m-i-g-r-a-i-n-e. Ugh.

The current one is a tension headache. My job is stressing me the hell out, and I'm not dealing well. Would anyone out there like to give me a credit card and pay me to travel for a living? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that'd solve this whole tension/stress lunacy. Just a thought.

And you call yourself a....?

The other day, I was at a women's health thing, a community event that I was working.

The keynote speaker was a woman who is a therapist, with a thriving private practice. Someone who works as a motivational speaker, and has even been on a popular daytime talk show. She was amazing, and inspirational, mostly. She talked about how women take care of everyone but themselves. The kids. Maybe their elderly parents, or their partner's elderly parents. Women choose caretaker careers, and then take care of everyone at work, too.

But we don't take time for ourselves. Know why? Because "good girls aren't selfish." C'mon, when was the first time you remember being told to not be selfish? My bet is before kindergarten.

I preach this to friends all the time, reminding them that no one is going to take care of you BUT you. I do things that are incredibly self-indulgent, on a regular basis, because no one is going to do it for me. But that's a lifelong philosophy of mine, that its OK to indulge yourself in little luxuries like a massage or a pedicure or hell, even some time to read a trashy novel if that's what you want to do. Not daily, maybe not even monthly, but from time to time. So this speaker's message of valuing yourself wasn't lost on me, nor was it particularly revolutionary for me either.

What DID make me sit up and take notice is something I'm still very puzzled over.

She was talking about our perceptions of other people's lives. I'm paraphrasing, but here's the gist of what she said.

Maybe you've got a neighbor or a casual acquaintance who you look at and think, "Damn, her life is perfect. Look at her perfectly clean house, fabulous spouse, great car, fantastic job (or whatever you happen to admire about this woman)." But what you don't know is that maybe her life isn't so perfect. Or if she is all perky and happy, maybe she's on 200 mg of Prozac every day.

And when she said that, the audience laughed.

Laughed.

Roared with laughter, really.

I sat there, appalled, wondering how many other women besides me in that room are medicated for a mental illness, dying a little inside as a room full of their contemporaries AND a mental health professional belittled their brave choice to admit that they've got a problem and the decision to take medication for it. I took a seat shortly before she began, as I was working the event, and ended up with seat front and center as a result. Consequently, I know she saw that I was the only one not laughing.

I'm still disgusted that her casual remark might have dissuaded someone in that audience from seeking help for depression or frankly, any other mental illness.

After the speech, I introduced myself and talked briefly with her about time management. I didn't tell her why I wasn't amused, nor did she ask. I could hardly have berated her for the remark. My employer is unaware that I'm being treated for depression. I'm 'out' about it both here online and out in the real world, but don't feel that I need to share that information with my bosses unless or until it affects my ability to do my job. (Note please that I would never lie if they asked about it.)

What an uphill battle those of us who fight this disease EVERY DAY have to struggle against to get out of bed, second guess ourselves about our decision to medicate ourselves or not, fight the personal demons that tell us we're worthless, useless, unloved, unwanted, unlovable. And then someone we recognize as a professional in the mental health field makes fun of a medication that has probably kept countless people alive. Un-fucking-be-lieveable.

I wanted to introduce myself and say, "450/mg Wellbutrin XL. Daily." Wonder what she would have said.

(In)sensitive

I thought that you might have
Some advice to give
on how to be
Insensitive
~Jan Arden, Insensitive, Living Under June, 1995

I have hyper-sensitive skin. This is a legacy from my father's side of the family. Dermatologists and other folks who care for skin troubles just hate that term, sensitive, because it doesn't really "mean" anything. Sensitive to what, exactly?

For me, its artificial colors and fragrances, and I have to be careful with soaps and other cleaning agents that might hurt my skin.

Lately, I've been wondering if I'm hyper-sensitive in other areas of my life as well. In the last couple of days, I've heard some remarks that I consider excessively racist. I've always been a champion for the underdog; and bias of any sort, be it racism, sexism, most other -isms, I don't understand well. You don't like me because I'm Slovak/a girl/short/any other identifying characteristic, but you haven't taken the time to get to know me? I don't get it.

I'm standing a bit on the edge of a dilemma; do I repeat what I'm talking about, and thus perpetuate what I see as hate speech, or do I just try to describe it to you in vague terms and leave you with these very nebulous sort of ideas?

I think I have to spell out what I'm talking about. Because I'm not sure if these two instances are"just" bad or way over the top. I think they're way over the top; see what you think.

A man that I was talking to said (about someone I know) "She's very pretty. For a black girl."

Whoa.


Back up.



Did you REALLY just say that?

I was so stunned, I was speechless. Striking me speechless is tough; I've always got lots to say about any and everything. I didn't know what to say. Over the years I've variously done nothing, said something smart-assed and nasty and biting back, and outright verbally attacked whoever said what I found offensive. None of those has ever really worked well.

I'm not proud of what I did this time. I did and said absolutely nothing, and excused myself as soon as I could.

Then, a woman, telling a story to a group of people, said, "...then this young kid comes in the room and sits right in the middle of us, and he was dressed like a thug. He had on, y'know, that Sean John stuff, like black people wear..."

I know my eyes got wide at that one, but again, I did and said nothing at all. That makes me ashamed. I feel like I should have called both of them out, pointed out how inappropriate those remarks both were.

Maybe I am being overly sensitive. I don't know.

I don't think I want to get to the point where things like that *don't* bother me, though.