The marks of civilization

I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately, so I'm feeling rather snooty. I'm always affected in some way by the things I watch or read that I get really into. As a result of watching that show and of traveling out of Portland for the holidays, I've come to realize that there are certain signs that help me recognize when I'm in a civilized (or less civilized) place.

In Downton Abbey the marks of civilization include running water, electricity, and a telephone (or two, if you're really rich). Some of the characters also define civilized as having enough footmen to serve dinner without bringing the maids into the dining room and having spare valets available for overnight guests.

I am not content with running water, electricity and a phone. Those things are important, of course, but I take them entirely for granted and assume that even uncivilized places have those things. And I don't care two figs for having a bunch of servants. (To tell the truth, I would be made uncomfortable by the idea that someone else was to help dress me and serve me dinner, as Matthew was when he first came to Downton.) Even so, what I consider to be the marks of civilization are still heavily influenced by my socio-economic class and the customs in my particular geographic location.

The Marks of Civilization, According to Sione:

Random thoughts (12/11/12)

Random thought #1
I believe that everything happens for a reason.

Which is another way of saying that I am (more or less) the sum of my experiences.

Which is another way of saying that the present moment is the direct result of every previous moment.

Which is another way of saying that I believe that there is something to be aware of and to learn from in any situation.

I'm usually pretty successful at deriving one or more lessons from an event in my life, but every so often something will happen that causes me to ask, "But what does it mean?" (Yes, in this respect I may resemble the double rainbow guy a little bit.)

Lately I've been reflecting on those things that happen that seem to be going somewhere but then don't and then I'm like, "Okay, what was the point of that?"

The day does not care what day it is, Part II

The day does not care
what day it is. It's Friday;
the rain has stopped.
Stepping outside
I am greeted by sunshine and
warm air: a world washed new.
"Come out and play!" says this day.

Yesterday I was tired
in body and spirit,
so I rested. Today the day
beckons: Come out and play!
My body, breathing deeply,
pupils dilating, says,
"Yes! I want to work.
Sweat. Breathe the air and
clean the tar from my lungs.
Hear the breeze whisper
through the tree-tops."
So I go.

On top of Mount Tabor
all covered with trees
a man with a
baby in a backpack
has stopped, pointing
toward the city skyline,
head turned over shoulder.
"Look," he says to the baby. "See."
He wants to share the world with her.
His daughter is so little I think
she can't possibly understand
or focus or answer.
But as I pass he says,
"Isn't it pretty?" and
she acknowledges
the beauty with 
something approaching words.

DigiBakeDay prep

Tomorrow's #digibakeday! For the many of you out there who have no idea what I'm talking about, lemme break it down for you: some of the participants from DigiWriMo were sad about the idea of the community just dissipating after November 30th, so Lonni Wilson (@lonniwilson on Twitter) decided to organize DigiBakeDay to keep the community going and to share holiday baking traditions with each other.

Some of last year's cookies

I can't say that I'm very good at keeping traditions, but for a few years in a row when I was younger, my mom and I did bake sour cream holiday cookies together and then decorate them. I liked that, so I baked some cookies last year and invited some people over to help me decorate. Just a small group. It was fun. We had some - ahem - "creative" folks among us (read: cookies decorated like penises and vaginas), but they're my friends for a reason so....

And it just so happened that when Lonni proposed DigiBakeDay, I had already planned to have people over for cookie decorating again this year. More people, actually, since I made many new friends this year. (Huh. It's funny; I hadn't even thought of that before this moment, but it's true. As a result of taking a creative non-fiction writing class in the spring, I'm hooked into a whole community of wonderful, creative, smart, hilarious people. Who of course think I'm hilarious.) I'd set a date and everything. And it just so happened that the date I'd picked was also chosen to be DigiBakeDay. How convenient!

Which is all leading up to this moment: The Recipe.

Brain-dead and incredibly tired

This is me at 9:28pm on Friday night, fairly brain-dead and incredibly tired (since when did I get so freakin' old that I'm ready for bed at 9pm??) in a last-ditch attempt to magically produce 8,600 words in the last two and a half hours of Digiwrimo. (Notice that I did not say "2.5 hours" but rather opted for the wordier version. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.) So to any of you who are unlucky enough to stumble upon this blog post, I apologize in advance for the verbal spew you are about to witness. Although I do not intend to attempt an 8,600-word blog post (that would just be silly), I do intend to vomit some poorly-constructed sentences and paragraphs all over this virtual page...possibly up to 1,000 words. I'll worry about the rest after that.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Digiwrimo, you can learn yourself more here, here, and here.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I was going to tell you a bunch of random stuff.

Today I am fearful

On my walk: 
My eye was twitching.
The wind was high.
The dog was skittish.
My smile was tight.

A green mini-van
maybe twenty years old
the hatchback open
driven by a dark-haired man
with large biceps
in a track suit.
My imagination made him
into a violent gangster
who'd shoot me in the back
if no one else were around.

The silver-haired man
with the electric mower
was a serial killer
with a bloody basement.

The two dudes on bikes
a vaguer threat;
just don't talk to me, please.

The moon is almost full:
pregnant with dark possibilities.

Your future self

For Jeffrey Gardner

I saw your future self today
on the corner of 39th and Division.
He was clean.
Well-dressed in black 
wool coat, fedora,
funky sunglasses.
Brown Carhartts.
Silver beard shot with black
trimmed neatly.
He still walked like you
ever so slightly stooped
leaning forward
as if battling a wind
or climbing uphill.
He was talking to himself
and looked
like someone I'd want to know.

Update on Nov. weight loss goal

I was doing really well, and then Thanksgiving happened.

I spent two days eating everything in sight and getting zero exercise. I'm pretty much back to where I started at the beginning of the month.

But I walked three miles today with my friend Carly. And I still have six more days to lose 8-10 lbs.

I like my people like I like my coats

It isn't my only coat. It's not the most fashionable or the most rain-resistant. But it is the warmest.

It is my warmest coat despite the fact that the zipper met its end a couple years ago between my dog's teeth, and last year the main button stopped buttoning. No notice, no note, just up and gave up the ghost.

I wear this coat because it is my warmest, but also I wear this coat because people seem to find me approachable in it. They are more likely to smile, more likely to engage in witty banter, when I wear it.

Maybe it's the puffiness. It lends me an air of softness.

A good-bye letter

"Fumar puede matar."

Dear C. L.,

Over the years we’ve had our ups and downs. I first met you when I was seventeen, but we flirted from afar and didn’t really get to know one another until I was nineteen. Once properly introduced, however, we quickly got serious and remained inseparable for five years. Then I called it off for the first time. We didn’t see each other for a couple years after that. We slowly got to know one another again, dated off and on for a few years before getting serious again three years ago. I thought I might be strong enough to do things differently this time. But it’s become clear to me recently that I was right the first time, and we never should have gotten back together. You haven’t changed. This isn’t a healthy relationship for me; it never has been.

Part of me doesn’t want to say good-bye. If not for you, there are people whom I never would have even met, much less would have become good friends with. My relationship with you has led to experiences I never would have had. You are the key to a whole world that would otherwise be shut to me. Saying goodbye to you means saying goodbye to that world and some of the friends I've made in it.

Lost in the forest

Took a minute to check in with myself today, and here's what I got:

When I reach in to get a sense of myself, I find a wide-eyed, mildly confused person who's lost and wandering aimlessly, trying to find a way out of the woods or at least to some place that makes sense as a place to be, for example a clearing or a cottage.

In other words, I fail to recognize where I am now as a valid place to be because it doesn't appear to have any recognizable landmarks. And yet I'm certain that if I looked around I would find animals who've made their homes here. Life among the branches and roots of these trees. And if I paid close enough attention I could begin to recognize the trees as individuals rather than thinking they all look the same.

Question is: what would be the consequences of stopping to really look around? Would I get lost in cataloging this corner of forest and forget about how much more there is to explore? Would I realize I already have everything I need right here? Would I be able to stop long enough to recognize the uniqueness and validity of this place and then be able to move on with a greater eye for detail and a better appreciation of the entire forest rather than just its clearings and cottages?

Guess who's a naughty monkey

Sigh. Well, so, okay, I guess the bright side is that I haven't bought any cigarettes, which is good, since one of the main reasons I wanted to give up smoking was to cut back on expenses. But the bad news is that I've found, now that Octsoberfest is over and I'm drinking again, that it only takes one drink to lure me back to cigarettes.

The other main reason I wanted to quit smoking is because I didn't want to be addicted anymore, and I can't yet say I'm not addicted. All I can say is that my body has become accustomed to doing without nicotine during the day. But I only have one cigarette left in the stale pack that someone left on the arm of one of the courtyard chairs a couple months ago, and I am committed to not buying any more cigarettes. Gonna do this.

On the plus side, I totally broke through the word count barrier for Digiwrimo! This happened yesterday, when I ended the day at 23,630 words so far for the month, which was 292 words above where I wanted to be. Yay!

After-dinner stroll

He had some time to kill before he needed to be at the airport, so my dad and I teleported to Prague for an after-dinner stroll. Neither of us had ever been there before, and I wished we could hear the street-noise and smell the city-smells, the din and odor being essential to the travel experience. But there were other delights. A few steps was all it took to bring on a change in strangely ordered seasons: bare branches now obscured by the fullness of summer's leaves; a few more steps and spring's new buds and early green abound. The sun shone eternal. We began near the National Museum and wound our way--past graffiti'd doorways and people whose faces never came into focus--to the Old Town Square, where the tops of buildings hung disembodied in the sky like heavy clouds. Next to the copper sculpture green with age, the tree, hung with streamers and balloons, suddenly here now gone.

My eye won't stop twitching

My eye has been twitching pretty much non-stop for the last three days. Okay, well maybe not my eye exactly, but the little muscle just underneath my left eye. It's gotten beyond annoying. When I asked my friends if they knew of any remedies, the only response I got was that a twitch is usually a sign of stress or anxiety. And my first thought was, "What do I have to be anxious about?"

One thing I've learned about myself over the last 30-some years is that my body is pretty good at letting me know when something's up for me emotionally. For example, when I was teaching college, the morning of my first class of the term my stomach would be in knots and I'd spend a bit of time in the bathroom with diarrhea. "Shitty puppy syndrome" is what I called it. You know, when the puppy is all scared or nervous and shits all over the floor? Only thankfully, in my case, it wasn't all over the floor.

It's a little bit embarrassing, actually, that my body has to tell me that I'm nervous or stressed out or happy or whatever. I mean, shouldn't I be aware of these emotions? Evidently not.

So back to that question: What do I have to be anxious about? 

November weight loss goal

Between Dec. 2011 and March 2012, I lost 20 lbs, going from 180 to my goal range of 155-160 (but mostly 160). There have been a few moments since then when I actually got down to 155, and I was amazed at the difference between 155 and 160. In my head it doesn't seem like that much, but it feels and looks very different to me. So I decided I wanted to get down to 150-155, thinking maybe then I could get into a pair of Size 8 jeans again without fat spilling out over the waistband. It really ruins the silhouette.

Unfortunately, one of side-effects of my smoking cessation efforts last month was a propensity to Eat All the Things, which meant that I gained some weight. Only a few pounds, but I'd already planned to try to lose a few more pounds this year, which makes it just that much harder. But okay. Here we go: November goal of losing 8-10 lbs.

Things were looking good for my weight-loss goal when I woke up on Nov. 1st with food poisoning. (As I said earlier this year and my friend Joe likes to repeat often, "I'm only one illness away from my goal weight.") Unfortunately, the diarrhea and vomiting only lasted for a couple hours and couldn't have given me more than a 1-2 lb. head start. But I'll take a small advantage over no advantage.

Since then my weight loss plan this months seems to consist mainly of eating pizza, cheese-laden burritos, and pasta in cream sauce. But I believe you can eat whatever you want and still lose weight, so long as you eat in moderation. For example, I did not consume half a pizza in one sitting; I only had two pieces. And that cheese-laden burrito with refried beans on the side? I made sure to order the burrito with shredded lettuce (counts as my vegetable for the week), and I only ate half of it at a time and so got two meals out of it.

Probably the most effective part of my strategy is the walking. I am walking two miles a day now, which is an improvement, and I've already seen results in the form of dropping a couple pounds and feeling more energetic. Depending on what time of day I weigh myself, how much clothing I'm wearing, what stage of my menstrual cycle I'm at, and how many potato chips I ate the night before, I'm back down to 160. Next week I'll start walking 3 miles a day and/or incorporate some steep hills into my walks.

I figure if I can get down to 154-ish this month, I can continue the good work in December and lose those last few pounds. Then I will feel sleek and energetic and will finally be at my goal weight just in time to spend my Christmas cash on Size 8 pants and a glittery blouse for New Year's. Oh boy.

Voting makes me feel stupid

There are more than 2 candidates for President? What?!

"What do you mean there are five (or six?) people running for the office of President of the United States? How could I not know this? I mean, how can they call it a presidential debate and not invite all the candidates?!?"

And this was the beginning of my several-hour visit to the Land of Feeling Stupid while I blundered my way through the Oregon voter's pamphlet, trying to decipher titles, platforms, measures and explanatory statements.

You'd think that living in Oregon, what with our vote-by-mail system, voting would be a snap. You'd think that, in order not to vote, you'd have to be a) seriously negligent, b) a missing person, c) mailing address-less, or d) dead. But the truth of it is, I only vote in presidential election years.

Now wait, before you start throwing stones--Ow! Hey! Just hear me out, will you?! As counter-intuitive as it may sound, the reason I don't normally vote is because I take voting as a civic duty very seriously.

Digiwrimo-ing

Yesterday was November 1st, All Saints' Day. Also Day 1 of Digiwrimo. Also my second-to-last day in Minneapolis-St. Paul, where I was visiting my very good friend Jackie. Also the day I woke up with food poisoning and spent a couple hours getting to know Jackie's toilet before suddenly feeling much better and going back to bed.

At some point yesterday afternoon I had a computer in my lap and thought about writing a blog post as a way to make some progress toward my daily goal of 1,667 words. I thought about starting that blog post with the story about food poisoning. To make it clear that my slacker-dom on Day 1 of DigiWriMo was mostly due to circumstances out of my control. (Note: I could have said "beyond my control" rather than "out of my control," which might have sounded better but would also have been one word fewer. This is the level to which I will stoop in order to reach my word count by the end of the month.)

But then I remembered that I wanted my next World Citizen post to be a Dear John letter to cigarettes, in honor of having quit smoking (except for that one day). That seemed like a lot of work. And I didn't have the energy. Or at least that's what I told myself. So I decided not to write a blog post. Instead I decided to watch TV on the Internet with Jackie.

My excuse for not writing yesterday, therefore, was that I didn't have the energy to write what I'd planned to write. I had the energy to write something else, but I felt attached to that plan. I think that's kind of dumb. I think, in retrospect--meaning from my current position of now having to figure out when I'm going to make up all those words I didn't write yesterday--that I should have just written whatever I had the energy to write rather than letting "the plan" or what I was "supposed" to be doing prevent me from writing.

I've written about this before, this idea that I want to stop trying to beat my Muse into submission. But clearly it is a concept that I have yet to master. (Or mistress?)

Did I mention that in addition to my goal of writing 50,000 words this month, I also have a goal of losing 8-10 lbs.? I did? Just now? Oh, okay then.

You'll have to forgive the scattered nature of this post, friends. Though it's only 11pm in Portland, it's nearly 1am in the time zone I just came from, and I've been traveling all day, and my eyelids each weigh ten pounds, and my brain, which was never that sharp to begin with, is currently about as sharp as a cotton ball.

 But this is me not using perfectionism or "the plan" or "supposed to" as a reason for not writing. This, instead, is me writing.

Go, me.

A Lady of Persuasion

I was digging through some old papers today and came across an email exchange that I'd printed out because I was quite proud of my part in it. Thought I'd share it with you to let you form your own opinion. The short of it: two of the undergrad professors I'd asked for letters of recommendation for grad school said no at first, so I gave them some time to think about it and tried again. One of these professors taught Shakespeare, the other Austen. Let the record show that I sent nearly identical emails to both professors, and only Professor B was a new father. Oops.

From: Sione
To: Professor A
Subject: Renewal of Petition
Sent: Dec. 2001

Dear [Professor A],
Now that the fall semester is over, and that the holidays are coming to an end, I hope that you are feeling less overwhelmed by your responsibilities, despite being a new father.

It is with this hope in mind that I hereby undertake to renew my humble solicitation for the kind of favor of writing an academic recommendation for me. I have many reasons for choosing you and, for your convenience, have divided them into categories so that you may scroll down to look at those reasons you think might best convince you that you are genuinely needed. The categories are: Just the Facts, Flattery, Guilt Trip, Empty Threats, and Begging and Pleading.

Octsoberfest Week 4

Summary: 0 cigarettes smoked, 0 alcohol units drunk, 0 doses anti-smoking drugs taken, 5 cups Gypsy Cold Care tea drunk in two days, possibly back to Eating All the Things.

A very, very, VERY long time ago.

These last four weeks have stretched out for an eternity. And it's still not over yet. Who the hell gave October permission to last more than four weeks?!?

I've had two very important realizations this week.

Octsoberfest Week 3

Summary: 7 cigarettes smoked, 4 alcohol units drunk, 0 doses anti-smoking drugs taken, have stopped Eating All the Things.

Madrid, 2007. Photo by S. H. Aeschliman.

Can we focus for a moment on the fact that I was mostly really good this week? I mean, aren't cigarette cravings supposed to go away after 14 days? But they did not. And yet every day I continued to say "no," even though I really wanted to say yes sometimes. Even though, if the world really does end on December 21, 2012, I will be really pissed off that I went through all this effort to make decisions that were in the best interest of my long-term health at the expense of immediate gratification. The one good thing about this week was that my appetite seemed to go back to normal. I stopped Eating All the Things and even lost a couple pounds.

Octsoberfest Week 2

Summary: 0 cigs smoked, 0 alcohol units drunk, 1 dose anti-smoking drugs taken, many cups of tea drunk, many walks & deep breaths taken, 2 romance novels read.

Photo by David Aeschliman

Okay. So, um, you know how when you've had a cold for a week or more and you can't breathe out your nose and you're really uncomfortable, but at the same time you've become resigned to the discomfort because you don't remember what it felt like to be able to breathe freely? Well, the beginning of the second week of Octsoberfest was like that. Despairing acceptance of the near-constant craving for cigs. I couldn't remember what it felt like not to crave.

Octsoberfest Week 1 in Review

Summary: 0 cigarettes smoked, 0 alcohol units drunk, 3 doses anti-smoking drugs taken, lots & lots of food and tea consumed, no one murdered (yet). 

Madrid, Sept. 2010. Photo by S. H. Aeschliman.

Day 1: "Quitting smoking, no drinking for a month. Let the battle begin."
Surprised that most cravings were assuaged by reminding self that I'm a non-smoker now. First day easier than expected, despite extreme irritability. Part of brain thinks this is just temporary and is waiting until The Time for Being Good is over. Drank tea, water and coffee all day long; ate more than I needed (e.g. most of a frozen pizza for lunch, quarter package Cheese-Its for a snack, etc.), especially as felt low-energy and did not get much exercise.

Day 2: "Woke up thinking about cigarettes. Is gonna be a toughie." 
Cravings stronger today. Not very irritable, mostly just feel desperate. Can feel willpower waning; starting to try to justify smoking "just one" or promising self a cig at end of the month as reward for not smoking all month...which kind of defeats the purpose. Suppose it is the bargaining stage of grief. Yesterday was denial. Resorted to drugs: took the lobelia inflata for cigarette craving. Tasted sweet & dissolved slowly, which gave mouth something to do. Took the edge off. Having sad thoughts though & feel like crying. On plus side, have more energy: took two walks instead of one. On down side: eating everything (e.g. finished box of Cheese-Its). Turns out the irritability pills (nux vomica) are also supposed to help with the desire to Eat All the Things, so will try those tomorrow.

To fluoridate or not to fluoridate? 'Tis not the question

In September, Portland's City Council voted unanimously to fluoridate the city's drinking water, despite the protests of a vocal segment of the population in opposition to fluoridation.

The first I'd heard of the issue at all was a lunchtime conversation, prior to the council's vote, with a co-worker who is strongly opposed to the idea. She said that the fluoride put in drinking water was a toxic by-product of the aluminum manufacturing process, that the companies who make aluminum (and therefore fluoride) had found a clever way to sell their toxic by-product to cities rather than having to deal with safe disposal of hazardous material, and that putting fluoride into the city's water supply for dental health reasons is extremely inefficient, since we use city water for far more than just drinking or cooking. "What do my plants need fluoride for?" she asked rhetorically. Furthermore, she said it will cost $500 billion dollars to get the city set up for water fluoridation, not to mention the cost of annual maintenance. (Note: she may have said fertilizer rather than aluminum; I may be misremembering that part.)

Octsoberfest

Yes, you read that right: Oct-sober-fest. I am giving up drinking alcohol for the month of October.

Today is the first day of my self-employment (eek!), and I've decided to quit smoking Oct. 1. As much as I like to smoke, I don't like being addicted, and my experience is that it's easier to quit smoking when undergoing a big life transition, such as a job change. Another reason for quitting smoking is because it's damned expensive, and I can use all the financial slack I can get now that I'll no longer have a steady paycheck coming in.

Which brings me to the drinking: I have a tendency to chain-smoke when drinking, so I figured it'd be helpful to lay off the booze for a while. It'll also help me cut back on expenses, and it'll be an interesting health experiment. I'm curious about how I'll feel--whether I'll have more energy and be more clear-headed--when I'm not drinking 2-3 times per week.

I mentioned these goals to my co-workers at last night's farewell happy hour, and one of them expressed concern that they were too lofty. "That's a lot to take on all at once," she said. Perhaps. I imagine she was worried that I might get down on myself if I don't follow through. But the chance that I may fail is, to my mind, not a reason not to try. And besides, I have support: my friend-neighbor is also giving up smoking with me, and I have the support of other friends and family, including my regular drinking buddies, for which I am grateful.

So we shall see how it goes. Am a little bummed that I have to wait until November to try the bottle of fancy tequila my thoughtful, wonderful (ex-)co-workers bought me, but perhaps the delayed gratification will just make it that much sweeter.

RE: "The Wingman's guide to sucking cock"

A couple days ago I Twitter-stumbled across this head-spinning blog post by "Wingman" on the proper way to give a blow job. I should have known what I was in for from the first paragraph, wherein he suggests that a man telling a woman "you're such a whore" is "the ultimate compliment." But what really got my attention was the line: "Sucking dick without swallowing is like taking your dog for a walk and not picking up its shit."

Before I launch into my critique, let me just say this: given my unfavorable reaction to this blog post, I considered not responding. I considered the fact that doing so would undoubtedly result in driving traffic to his site, which is a kind of support. I could have simply shrugged my shoulders--saying to myself, "Well, he has a right to self-expression"-- and vowed never to read another word from this man again.

But the fact is that his post reinforces some cultural messaging that I find to be particularly damaging, and if people don't speak up against messages like this, then the damaging ones are the only messages out there, and that's not okay with me. So I offer a different perspective for your consideration.

Let's leave aside Wingman's fallacious assumption that only women give blow jobs ("Anyway, ladies, follow these rules and no matter how much disdain a guy may have for you, he’ll think of you every time he blows his load"--or does he just assume that men already know how to give great ones?), and let's assume, for the sake of argument, that he doesn't mean for us to take his charming metaphor literally: that he doesn't mean to equate himself with a dog; his semen with dog shit; and another human being's mouth, throat and stomach with a plastic baggie made for the express purpose of receiving his sexual by-product. Instead let's discuss the gist of this metaphor, which is a sense of personal responsibility.

The day does not care what day it is

The day does not care what day it is;
the sky was as blue
on Tuesday as on Friday afternoon.
A warm breeze caresses the tree branches
causing them to sway and dance
to music I don't hear.

The day does not care
that it was the first week of school
and we want to say it’s fall:
it’s 91 degrees
the day says, "it’s summer still."

My body says, “I’m still tired,”
but I have to get up now.
The day says, “Come out and play,”
but I have to work.
My body says, “I’m hungry,”
but it isn’t time to eat.
“Pipe down, body, and do my bidding.
We are on a schedule.”

The day does not care what day it is
yet I live by these constructed notions of time
of month and day and hour—
these boxes that determine
when I get up and when I go to bed
regardless of the sun’s whereabouts
regardless of my body’s rhythms—
and feel surprised
somehow betrayed
when the sun shines Monday through Friday
and the weekend is gray and rainy.

I just found out I'm a Republican.

Was talking to my mother yesterday morning about her upcoming visit to Portland. She's been wanting to see the Chinese garden for ages, so we were talking about doing that. And then she got really excited and said, "Ooh! And we could eat at Macaroni--. Oh." Her voice dropped a couple octaves in energy and pitch. "Well I was going to say we could eat at Macaroni Grill, but Republicans eat there." What?

She'd read an article about the study by National Media correlating consumer spending habits to political party affiliation. She said Republicans eat at Taco Bell and McDonald's too. Concerned about my potential subconscious right-leaning tendencies I did a search on the Internets and found this article by Thomas B. Edsall, a fairly regular Op-Ed contributor to the New York Times. And folks, the evidence against me is overwhelming: I am a Republican.

Literary Journeys: First Grave on the Right by Darynda Jones

I recently read First Grave on the Right by Darynda Jones and highly recommend.

It's a funny paranormal romance about Charlie Davidson, who's a private investigator and also happens to be the grim reaper. Yep, she sees dead people, which makes her very useful to her uncle, who's a homicide detective. But she's also being haunted (more or less) by some kind of supernatural being who gives her amazing sex dreams that begin to eek into her waking life. Hawt.

I like that the female protagonist is a strong woman with a wicked sense of humor and a devil-may-care attitude. She's similar to Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum (another series I like), but slightly less dependent on men to bail her out of rough situations all the time. (Slightly.) I like that it's a quick read. I like that I got sucked into it immediately (while standing in the middle of Fred Meyer at the sale books table) and it didn't let go until I was done.

I can't wait to buy the next one in the series (out in paperback), except I will wait because I know I'll want to devote an entire day to doing nothing else.

Paris vs. Madrid: Revisited

I've noticed that one of the most common search terms that directs people to this blog is "Paris vs. Madrid," so I went back and read the post I'd written in November 2007 (four months into my year there). I cringe a little bit at reading it now. I don't disagree with it, but I have a different perspective because I learned a lot more about Madrid and visited Paris twice more after I wrote it, so I'd like to follow up with some further thoughts about the relative merits and disadvantages of each city.

Cost

Hands down, Madrid is far more affordable than Paris. The average cost of a fixed price menu in Madrid was around €8 in 2008, where the average cost in Paris was around €12. A cup of café con leche in Madrid was around €1.30, compared to €2.50 in Paris. Transportation via metro system is the only thing that's relatively comparable. In Paris it's only slightly more expensive: €1.70 for a one-way trip anywhere in Zone 1 vs. €1.50 to go anywhere in Madrid's Zone A.

Transportation

Speaking of the metro system, I want to add that Madrid's metro system is much easier to get around in than Paris's. As I mentioned in that earlier post, it's newer and cleaner too. Getting around in Paris's Zone 1 isn't bad, but trying to get to Charles de Gualle airport by train was a nightmare. For the life of me I could not figure out how to read the schedules (why is it so hard???). Made it eventually, but with much hassle.

Language

You may have heard that people in Madrid don't speak English and people in Paris do; that's about 75% correct. Most people in Madrid know at least a little English, but they won't speak it because they're too shy or embarrassed. Just as you are shy or embarrassed to try speaking Spanish, perhaps? My experience is that Madrileños really appreciate it when you make an effort to speak Spanish and will be very generous and patient with you. It is true though that people in Paris also speak English, and they are far more willing to do so.

I have also heard that Parisians are extremely rude about non-native speakers trying to speak French, but this has not been my experience. I talk a lot to random people when I travel because I spend a lot of time in cafés and bars and restaurants (nom nom), so I do have some basis for an opinion here. Of all the people I spoke French with, there was only one person, a waiter, who seemed snotty about my imperfect language skills, and the solution to that was to go to the café next door instead. Easy. Otherwise, the people I spoke with in Paris seemed very pleased that I was making an effort, and they would teach me a little, in a kind, encouraging way.

People

I found lovely people in both places, but I find Madrileños to be more friendly in general. You just have to understand that friendly in Spanish culture does not mean greet-you-with-a-smile, and their communication style is much more direct. In English we might say, "What would you like today?" In Spanish they'll say, "What do you want?" It's not rudeness to them. It's informal, which is how they like it. I wrote a post about this on the TtMadrid blog back when I was living there. Check it out. I would say that if you are being ignored in a bar or restaurant, probably it's because you failed to greet them when you walked in. Always say "Hola" and try to make eye contact when you enter any store, bar, restaurant, etc. It's just good manners.

This post is bordering on too long, but stay tuned for more follow-up. I've been reminiscing about my favorite places to go in each city.

Literary Journeys: The Book of the Dun Cow

A few weeks ago my friend Joe loaned me The Book of the Dun Cow by Walter Wangerin, Jr., saying "It's even weirder than Watership Down." This weekend I finally got around to reading it. First, I must confess that I've never actually read Watership Down (I've only seen the movie; that was trippy enough for me), so perhaps I didn't really know what to expect when I picked this book up.

The Book of the Dun Cow is a story about a foul-tempered rooster (pun intended) named Chauntecleer, whom we're supposed to like (I guess) because God has chosen him to be a Lord over part of the earth and the animals who live on it. Unbeknownst to Chauntecleer, God has also chosen him to be one of the Keepers of Wyrm, an enormous, evil serpent who lives in the bowels of the earth and is plotting his escape so he can wreak havoc and destruction on the universe. In fact, the purpose of the earth is to serve as Wyrm's prison, and the purpose of all the animals are to keep him trapped. Too bad they don't know it.

Their ignorance allows Wyrm to trick a neighboring Lord, an aged rooster who has lost the respect and obedience of his flock because he is too kind and lacks physical strength, into bringing Wyrm's offspring, an evil Cockatrice, into the world. Cockatrice breeds an army of basilisks and begins to kill all the animals so that Wyrm may be set free. Chauntecleer and his crew have to defeat first the basilisks, then Cockatrice, and finally Wyrm himself to restore peace on the land. End summary.

Probably what bothers me most is that book advocates for unwavering obedience to a male ruler/head of family who regularly verbally and physically abuses his subjects. We are meant to understand that he may not be perfect, but Chauntecleer is God's chosen, and his faith in God and the loneliness that comes with being a leader must excuse his abusive tendencies. Pah.

It was written in 1978, which I suppose might explain its blatant misogynistic and patriarchal tendencies. What female characters there are (mostly hens) are mostly useless, empty-headed, gossiping annoyances whose admiration for Chauntecleer seems to me misplaced and is certainly under-appreciated by the rooster himself.

The two female characters who gain any respect of the rooster or narrator are both nurturing, mothering types. One, the nurse, dies trying to protect Chauntecleer's chicks, and the other is his wife, Pertelote, whom he admires mostly for her extraordinary physical beauty and her angelic singing voice. In the end Pertelote does have an important role to play, but that role is to drag two of the main male characters out of their emotional funks, get them to admit the truth to themselves, and stir them back into action. Pertelote herself is too afraid or lacking in good judgment to commit to any useful action in the book.

And yet...and yet...despite being thoroughly turned off by the misogyny and the strong Old Testament-like moral messaging about the virtues of faith, ignorance and obedience and the evils of...well...evil, I found myself pulled along to find out what happened next. I was torn between wanting to read this as the tale of an antihero with whom I could empathize despite his many grave flaws and reading it as a predictable allegory that reinforces a traditional Christian patriarchal worldview. The characters all got on my nerves, and yet I cared about them. I knew that in the end "good" would triumph over "evil," but I still wanted to know how it happened.

A morning story

This morning Milton is sitting in my lap while I type away at the computer. I have my coffee, the window's open, there's a nice breeze. Then there is a funny smell. Milton jumps off my lap and starts licking his anus, and I realize he has ass-jizzed on my leg. Really?!?

Merging

I’m all bent out of shape over

some b---- who

couldn’t take no for an answer.

I’d merged way back when

where I was supposed to, and

she rode the line until

the last minute

and tried to cut in front of me.

I kept close distance

Between my car and the car

in front so she f---ing honked

at me, angry gestures ahead, like

I’m the one to blame.

Do you think that just because

you ask for something

I have to give it to you?

I gestured too and yelled

at her through my closed window, “Why

the f--- didn’t

you merge back there?!”

She shook her head, disgusted

with me, and inched forward

anyway.

I wasn't willing to hit

her car, so she won the battle.

I called her a f---ing

b---- while waving wildly

At her back.

She didn’t seem to see me.

I want to explain

To her I want to say,

“Look.

I’m coming out of

A long, dark time in my life

When I didn’t know what I wanted, or

I knew and couldn’t ask, or

I asked and didn’t get.

When others’ desires seemed

more important than mine

always, and I

didn’t feel I had the right

To insist.”

Maybe that is her story too.

The Eleventh Commandment

Truths claw at my guts,

struggling to get out,

making me

first ravenous

then nauseous.

Nervousness,

jitters, and

a sour stomach.

When we say a thing

gone long unsaid,

the truth is released

from its prison in our cells

into our bloodstream:

a toxic rush.

Only then can it find

a way out of our bodies,

through sweat, blood,

urine, shit,

tears.

Our tears are laced

with poison.

When I speak a long-buried truth aloud,

I shed poison.

In romance novels

it is not uncommon

for the heroine to cry,

and the hero to kiss away her tears.

He would erase her pain

by taking it into his own body.

How romantic.

But know this:

My tears are sacred.

Thou shalt not kiss them away.

Thou shalt not dismiss my pain with your lips.

"Kiss it better" does not apply here.

An experiment

A couple of weeks ago, when I was setting up my latest blog, I noticed a feature called "Reactions" that I could add to my blog posts. Have decided to experiment with.

At the bottom of each post on this blog, there are now two check boxes: Like and Dislike. I'm thinking this will start to give me some feedback about my posts so that I can see, in a way that tracking page views cannot tell me, what's resonating with you, dear readers, and what's not.

So please--give it a try! Pick a couple posts and let me know what you thought of them by clicking either "like" or "dislike." Answers are anonymous.

And if the "like" and "dislike" options don't cut it, let me know. The default options were "funny," "interesting," and "cool." I want to give people the opportunity to give negative feedback too, though. If you have ideas for reaction options, please comment.

Threaded memory

I'm in Ashland this weekend with my soul sister Carly. This morning we ate at Brothers, a restaurant my parents used to take us to for breakfast from time to time when we lived in Medford.
 
My freshman year of high school I made National Honors Society, and as a treat they brought us down to Ashland from Bend for the Shakespeare Festival. Then too we ate at Brothers. There was a vintage clothing store across the street from the restaurant where I bought a yellow silk brocade men's shirt that was too big for me.

Later, in art class, a classmate accidentally marked the back of that shirt with a fine-point Sharpie. He felt horrible about it, and I shrugged it off. It was this same art class in which, for the first time in my life, someone publicly expressed interest in me. My classmates burst out laughing, so I did too.

From the time of the marking I only wore the shirt under my dad's corduroy vest that had been part of his suit for playing shows, the same suit I imagine (but do not know) he wore the night he met my mother at a coffee shop in Ashland. The vest was also too big for me.

Once I went into my place of work wearing the yellow brocade shirt and asked my supervisor where the store manager was. He told me, and then said, "Pretty sure." I repeated back to him, "Pretty sure?" He said, "Pretty sure" again, slowly, as if correcting me, and he looked sincere. I was confused, so I said again, "You're pretty sure he's up at the registers?" and my manager said, more slowly and loudly, "That's a pretty shirt." I blushed and looked and the floor. "Oh. Thanks," I murmured, and my manager was blushing too, and I walked away.

A lunchtime conversation

Today at lunch I sat with two male faculty members (F1 & F2) and two other female staff members (S1 & S2). This is my attempt at reconstructing part of our conversation.

F1: I've always dreamed of doing an art exhibit with children's art all hung up on a long row of refrigerators.

Me: Oh! You know what would be really cool? If it just looked like children's art but was really stuff like blood and guts and...dinosaurs raping people.

F2: Dinosaurs raping people? It sounds like you have a fantasy there. (F1 & F2 are sniggering.)

Me: That's f'ing disgusting.

F2: Did you say "f'ing"?

Me: Yes.

F2: That's as close as you've ever come to swearing around me.

Me: That's because you're here. (Pause while F1 continues to snigger at dinosaur rape fantasy accusation and F2 laughs at both accusation and almost-swear-incident. I can't bear to be outdone by F2's crack about dinosaur rape fantasy.) But you know, their tails are ribbed for her pleasure.

(S1 almost falls off her stool and covers her mouth with her napkin to keep food from flying out while she shakes with laughter.)

F1 & F2: What?

Me: I said, dinosaur tails are ribbed for pleasure.

(Awkward silence while I grin smugly and bask in the glory of my strange wit.)

F2: You have a very twisted sense of humor.

Me: Oh, come on! The point is the irony! I have a dark sense of humor, not a fantasy of being raped by a reptile.

Omfg: an update

Here are a few dishes that have been served up on the smorgasbord of my life lately:

A few nights ago I'm in bed with the dogs (my own, Milton, plus one of my mother's dogs, Grindel), Milton next to me at the head of the bed and Grindel lying by my feet. Suddenly I smell Milton's ass, which is never a good thing. I look over and he's licking it and I'm like "ew! stop it!" so he does but then I notice that there's a little brown spot of ass juice on my white comforter. Aaaaggh! Yuck! Of course I leap out of bed and go get a sponge to try to clean it off but it doesn't really work so I try to find my Tide eraser pen thingy and I can't find it so I grab a bottle of lavender deodorizer and spray the spot and then we all get into bed again only now Milton feels like he's in trouble so he's lying at my feet and Grindel is up by my head. So okay, fine, I turn off the light and we go to sleep. And in the morning I look over to see that Grindel has laid a little turd. Aaaaggh! WTF?!? Stupid dogs and their damned ass wars. Obviously got rid of turd and threw the comforter in the washing machine.

Last week I was on vacation from work. It was a stay-cation, which means I didn't go anywhere, but I did spend most of the time writing, which was wonderful. Finished a first draft of the vampire romance novella I've been working on for ages. I'd expected to feel more of a sense of accomplishment about that than I do, but maybe is just because I know I still need to do some editing before it's ready to be published.

Have been taking a creative non-fiction class this term and am really excited about some of the stuff I've been producing. Also have been awed and slightly discouraged by how good some of the other people in that class are. One of my favorites is Jeffrey Gardner, who (I discovered yesterday) writes poetry as well as creative non-fiction and has a blog too: Scribbling Truth with Crayons. Was checking it out last night and reading his stuff inspired me to write a few lines of poetry too, which is very cool.

And finally, here's an image that keeps popping into my head lately: that scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where he takes a leap of faith (video below). I know several women, including myself, who seem to be at the edge of a precipice lately. We have realized that what we've been doing isn't working for us and that we need to make some major changes to our lives. In my case I can see across the ravine to where I'd like to be (writing full time), but I have no idea how to get there...there's no visible "bridge," if you will, between the life I have now and the one I imagine. And so I have two choices: a) continue doing what I'm doing, or a slightly different version of it, which is tantamount to staying on this side of the ravine forever and ever, or b) take a leap of faith and trust that the bridge will appear.

So my leap of faith is this: I'm starting up a freelance business for writing, editing, tutoring and assessment consulting.

I'm creating a new life for myself. What could be more creative than that? What could be more thrilling or more terrifying than leaping out into the great abyss of the unknown?

On cake, and eating it

Lately the saying "You can't have your cake and eat it too" has been rolling around in my head. It came up for me, I think, as I have struggled to reconcile being grateful for what I have but also wanting something different or more.

I want to have my house and dog and independence and a job that supports that lifestyle and also meets my needs for meaningful contribution, respect, equality and autonomy. I want a job that more than pays the bills and is personally fulfilling too. Or that at least leaves me with time, energy and money to pursue interests that are personally fulfilling.

Some would accuse me of being ungrateful, spoiled, unrealistic. They'd accuse me of wanting to have my cake and eat it too. My question is this: what's the point in having cake if you can't eat it?

Why should I have to choose between surviving and thriving, between financial security and my emotional and mental well-being? I see others who "have their cake and eat it too": colleagues who like their jobs, who make enough money to support their chosen lifestyles, who are treated with respect at work, who have the autonomy to decide how to do their work and balance the other important aspects of their lives.

In a phone conversation with a friend the other night, she observed that some people feel a sense of pride in not trying to eat the cake. They see virtue in accepting their lots in life and not getting all bent out of shape about what they don't have, even if other people do have it. "That's just the way it is," I imagine them saying. "Life isn't fair. You have to face reality and get on with it."

I can see the appeal in this philosophy, how it can offer relief from a mountain of struggles that seem impossible to win. Life isn't fair: bad things happen to good people, people die young, whole populations are wiped out by natural disaster. But if we accepted this philosophy when it comes to human institutions, there never would have been a civil rights movement. By accepting "that's just the way it is," we accept a position of powerlessness and become complicit in our own oppression. We stop daring to dream, stop asking for what we want, even stop asking ourselves what we want.

I dare to dream that we can create workplaces of partnership and equality. Where we acknowledge limited resources but come to collaborative decisions--all of us together, not just the "managers"--about how those resources are best used to achieve a collective vision. Where each person has the autonomy to decide for themselves how and when to accomplish the tasks they have chosen to take on. Where whole persons are acknowledged and nourished, and we no longer expect work to come first before all else: before self, family and friends. Where we can all have our cake and eat it too.

Correlation between intelligence and confidence

According to this great cartoon on savagechickens.com, the more intelligent you are, the less confident.

I don't actually believe that all intelligent people lack confidence, but sometimes I do think that I might be overthinking things, and that it's the thinking too much that comes between me and contentment.

Writer's constipation

If I had nothing to do all day but sit and write, I wonder how many pages I could turn out. I'm certain it would all be crap, or mostly crap, but producing crap is better than producing nothing at all.

Seems like I've had a lot of writer's block lately. Why is it called "writer's block"? Seems more like "writer's constipation": I know there's something in there. I really want to push it out. My body aches with the strain of effort, yet nothing comes. At most, a dingleberry or two.

The dearth of men on What Not to Wear

After watching What Not to Wear obsessively for the better part of a week, I began to reflect once again on the dearth of episodes that feature male style victims. Despite the profusion of poorly dressed men in the U.S., in nine seasons of WNTW I know of only two episodes where men get style make-overs. Why is this?

Well, let's look at Stacy and Clinton's arguments for why their guests should care about what they wear:
1) like it or not, other people judge you based on what you look like, so you might as well take some control over the image you are projecting;
2) dressing well shows self-respect & self-acceptance;
3) looking good feels good: it boosts self-confidence;
4) dressing appropriately shows respect for those around you;
5) it's important to be beautiful for one's romantic partner so s/he feels lucky;
6) it's an important part of being a good role model for the kids.

All these reasons are interrelated, of course. If you portray self-respect and self-acceptance and feel more self-confident, people will perceive you differently and will treat you differently ("differently" read: "better"). If you know you look good, it will be easier to treat yourself with respect and acceptance and to ask others to do the same. And if you feel good and respect and accept yourself, then your kids will pick up on that and will learn self-respect and self-acceptance too.

But isn't it important for men to have self-confidence, self-respect and self-acceptance? To show respect for others? Isn't it important for them to be desirable to their romantic partners? To set a good example for the kids and teach them how to have healthy self-esteem?

Let's assume that the producers did not make a conscious decision to exclude men from WNTW. Let us assume instead that either a) not very many men are nominated for the show; and/or b) men who are nominated choose not to participate. Why then aren't men nominated and/or why do they choose not to participate?

Perhaps men's and women's self-confidence is shaped differently. For several months I dated a gorgeous man who not only had broad shoulders and muscles but also a beautiful face and beautiful skin. If he had supplemented his natural good looks with clothing that flattered him, he would have been entirely irresistible. One day I asked him whether he thought he was handsome, and he said yes. I asked him to describe what made him handsome, and he talked about his strength and his muscles. That was all. Nothing about his skin, hair or eyes. Nothing about the symmetry of his face or his beautiful mouth.

I think of the men I know who would make fun of other men who dress well or groom themselves.

I think of the episode of House where the Aussie doctor was called out for having a manicure and having his eyebrows waxed (neither of which would have raised any suspicion had he been a woman).

I think of the term "metrosexual" to describe a straight man who devotes resources to personal grooming and clothing.

I think of the scene from Fight Club where Edward Norton and Brad Pitt scoff at the image of a beautiful man in an underwear ad, saying "Is that what a real man looks like?" Meanwhile their own faces and bodies show bruises and dried blood from their participation in fighting matches. They prize strength and prowess above physical attractiveness.

I think of the credit card commercial where a fairly unattractive, plainly dressed man is about to buy an engagement ring for his long-legged, red-haired fiancée, who is dressed for the runway.

Or of the fast food commercial where the man comes home to find his well-dressed, well-groomed and very jealous girlfriend waiting for him. Meanwhile he is dressed in work clothes but his hair is slightly mussed, his shirt too big, his facial hair in need of grooming; in short, he is presented in such a way as to minimize his attractiveness.

Resulting hypotheses:
1) Women have a responsibility in life to meet others' need for beauty; the same is not true for men.
2) Men are instead supposed to be strong and capable; if a man attends too much to his appearance, his priorities seem misplaced, and he is perceived as unmanly.
3) There are not more men on WNTW because men do not need to be beautiful--indeed perhaps should not be beautiful--because their responsibility is to provide physical protection and financial security, and that is where their self-respect, self-confidence and role model potential should come from.

I, for one, would be grateful if more men met my need for beauty. If they spent more time, energy and money on personal grooming (especially when there is a uni-brow or copious amounts of back hair involved) and on dressing themselves well. I don't see why men should be exempt from looking good. Because I do think that dressing well shows a modicum of respect for others. It says, "Hey, I care that I am out in public and you have to look at me, so I'm going to make an effort to be worth looking at." European men get it. Why should U.S. men get to go around all slovenly?

But if it is an issue of men in this society not having been taught how to take care of their physical appearance and look good, why then we are back to a role that What Not to Wear could play but is not. I would very much like to see the show devote an entire season to men's make-overs. After over 250 episodes featuring women, it doesn't seem unreasonable to ask for 22 that feature men.