Flashback: Pizza party

When I was a freshman in high school, my friend T. and I were invited to a pizza party by a guy whom we barely knew. It seemed like a strange invitation, but I was curious. I asked: Who else will be there? What's it for? What do you guys do? "It's just a bunch of kids our age from my church. We eat pizza, hang out and talk." I had some misgivings because I knew most of the churches in the area were more conservative than I was, but I also didn't want to pre-judge a bunch of people I'd never met. And it sounded casual enough; if it didn't turn out to be our thing, T. and I could just leave.

We went. In addition to seven or eight other kids our age, there was one older guy. (At the time he seemed ancient, but he was probably only in his 30s.) "Get your pizza and come sit down," the older guy said. Little alarm bells went off in my head; already this was less casual than I'd anticipated. But we were here, the pizza was served, and I was dependent on T. for a ride. We each took a slice of pizza and a paper towel as a plate and joined the circle of people sitting on the floor.

A few bites into our slices, the older guy began to sermonize about the evils of homosexuality and the inescapable damnation of homosexuals. T. and I gave each other sideways glances - he'd recently confessed to me he thought he was bisexual - but we felt trapped. We'd taken the free pizza, were in the circle, and getting up now went against all my parents' teachings about what it meant to be a good person and a polite guest. So we stayed until he was done speaking and we were dismissed.

On some level I blamed myself. I knew already that almost nothing in this world is free; if someone you don't know very well offers you pizza, they're bound to have an ulterior motive. On the other hand, the guy who'd invited us hadn't been completely honest, either. I felt like he'd purposefully withheld information from us, which meant we couldn't make an informed decision.

I felt duped. Manipulated. Betrayed.

I had a similar experience last week with a novel I read, which I wrote about on my business blog.

Grief, suffering & sacrifice

Years ago, a friend of mine said to me, "You have a deep well of grief hidden inside you." At the time I didn't believe him.

But evidently I didn't dig the well deep enough. Or maybe didn't hide it well enough. A couple of years ago it overflowed or came uncapped or was stumbled upon. Whatever it is deep wells of grief--hidden in such a way that the person housing them doesn't even know they're there--do.

We are supposed to be in control of ourselves and our emotions, but I am not in control of mine.

I cry. Like, a lot. "I could write a whole book on crying," I wrote in one of my pieces, and it's true. This essay might be the beginning of it.

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?"

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? 

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.

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.)

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.

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?!?

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?