Land of the Free, Home of the Brave

I think it is not enough to dance like no one is watching.  I think we have to dance like no one is laughing.  Because, isn’t that what we’re afraid of?  We’re not afraid someone might see us doing something.  We’re afraid someone might see us doing something and judge us harshly for it.

Growing up, I had always wanted to be a cheerleader, but I never had the nerve to try out.  I’m still fairly certain I would never have made a squad given a) my inability to shout and wave my arms at the same time, much less do backflips and leap from the tops of pyramids, and b) my solidly c-list school standing (and that only because I was in the AP classes with the A and B list kids), but I’ll never know because I didn’t try.  I was afraid of being laughed at, so I pretended I thought cheerleading was stupid.  Cheerleaders of the world:  I think you are so awesome and would have given my eye teeth to wear your cute little uniforms.  Dentures are easier to get than onto a cheerleading squad.

In college, I decided I was finished with being afraid of other people’s laughter, and I signed up for cheerleading tryouts.  Now, you  have to remember that my best sport is swimming, and the fact that I am coordinated enough to do that is surprising.  I filled out the application form, i.e. lied through my teeth, saying I’d had plenty of cheerleading experience (you needed 4 years in order to try out) and might have even forged myself a letter of recommendation.  She’s got spirit, yes she do!

Clearly, you need more than spirit.  I did not make the squad, which is a gross understatement. 4 squad positions were open, with 1 alternate position.  5 girls tried out.  They eliminated the alternate position because I was so bad they couldn’t even let me sit sideline.  But I walked away incredibly proud of myself for trying, and am still glad to have had the experience.  Although, in retrospect I feel like I owe all those people an apology.  At least I helped them find the flaws  in their application process.

I’m fairly bold when it comes to new experiences, but I shy away from things that could be very embarrassing.  Things like singing the National Anthem as a solo.  I’ve always, always, always wanted to be the person singing the anthem before a ball game, but have never had the guts to try out.  That’s a hard song to sing, and I’m not Whitney Houston.  The potential for embarrassment with that one is exponential.

Yesterday, I saw that Lone Star Park was auditioning for National Anthem singers for the 2012 Thoroughbred Season.  I called them.  I asked for an audition.  I went out and sang like no one was laughing.

I’ll know in 3 or 4 weeks whether or not I was good enough to perform at one of the 50-some-odd races this season.  I already know I was representing the land of the free and the home of the brave, just getting my tuckus out there in front of a crowd of strangers, with a half second delay on the audio (I kept slowing down to let the nice lady finish the line she had just sung…ha!) and hands shaking so badly I thought I might lose a ring.

So that’s one off my bucket list, and something I can tell the grandkids.

(Y’all, I think I sounded pretty good.  At least, the delay sounded good to me.)

Accidental Days Off, Car Washes, and Cards

It’s a Federal Holiday, so I am off work.  That is, I have a day off from my paying job.  Today I am catching up on other important things, like cleaning out the car, cleaning the kitchen and living room, and soon I’ll be helping my mother choose some health insurance.

Thor accidentally got a day off from school.  I just assumed he was out since I was, and didn’t bother getting him up to go this morning.  As it turns out…  That’s all right.  He’s just spent an hour listening to NPR and learning (and asking excellent questions) about political campaigns and campaign ads.  He’s not going to get that in class, so one missed day is no big deal.

We got up early (on a day off, early is 8am) so we could get to the car wash/detail shop before the rush I expected after all the nasty weather we’ve had, only to find it closed.  I wanted to get the interior done because I’m driving people this week, and there is no need for anyone but you to know about my recent French Fry explosion.  The detail shop charges out the wazzoo to do the interior, but some things are worth walking a little funny.  Still, closed.

So, Thor and I headed to the do-it-yourself car wash and did it ourselves.  $3 later, we have a shiny, clean, buffed interior.  I was especially impressed with the ArmorAll Multi-Purpose Cleaning Sponge that I got out of the vending machine for $1.

One sponge got my entire interior, and my dash is looking really good now.  $1 on the vacuum got my whole car, trunk space included.  That single dollar put 5 minutes on the clock.  The last dollar was for a lint free towel, also out of the vending machine, and I used it to wipe down the interior again, and get the bits that I didn’t want to ArmorAll.

I did have a moment of confusion when I went to vend.  The vending center looks like this:

You put your money into the tiny rectangle in the center, and lights corresponding to the products available for the amount of money you put in start to blink.  You press your preferred button, and your product drops out of the larger rectangle corresponding to your choice.  Yes, the station attendant did come over and explain it to me, after watching me stare and pace for a little while.  In my defense, there were no instructions.  I mean, I could see where to put in my money, but I couldn’t figure out how my product was going to come out of that tiny rectangle.  It isn’t easily visible that the product will fall from the larger rectangle.

To recap:  $3 do-it-myself=really good looking car interior.

Still, nothing is going to help all the juice stains across the back seat.  Once upon a time, I had a toddler and a very long commute.  Who sells bench seat covers for baby-ruined backseats?

In other news…

I was invited to a Ladies’ Pokeno and Potluck party last week and had a really nice time.  I also had a really embarrassing time.  I joke about being dyslexic, but I have some real issues.  There are things that are just very difficult for me to do, and numbers are one of those things.  Some shapes give me problems as well.  I’ve been playing cards since I was old enough to hold my own hand, and I’ve have real issues with Spaces and Clubs since then, too.  You stick numbers next to them and…  Oh my lord.

Pokeno is a little like Bingo, but instead of numbers and letters, you have playing cards.  Instead of a caller saying, “B-2″, the caller calls, “Ace of Spades”.  And, instead of calling two or three times so that all the Blue Hairs have time to search out their cards, it is called one time and gone.  It moves fast.  It moves very, very fast.

The way my brain sees things…  Things flip and move.  So that Ace of Hearts I thought was on the right side of the card is actually on the left side of the card.  When I go to put my chip down on the right, the Ace of Hearts has moved, and I have to chase it down.  Takes me a few seconds longer.  Also, that 4 of Spades I thought I saw was actually a 4 of Clubs, but because it was next to a 9 of Spades, the Spade and the Club dance around.  See?  It gets challenging.

I’ve had this issue my whole life, so it is normal to me, and most of the time I can function at normal speed or better.  I’ve learned coping mechanisms and have learned to mask my weaknesses, but games like that just lay me bare.  My vanity doesn’t have a mechanism for that kind of coping.

The ladies I played with were very kind, and a couple of them were even slapping chips down on my card for me, and rather than letting me stumble over suits when it was my turn to call (I could either call or play, but I could not do both at the same time), called my games for me.  It was humbling.  It was also still a lot of fun, and I really enjoyed the company.

I promised to practice my suits if they’d let me play again.  Ha!

 

Socks to Warm Souls–Mission Accomplished

I haven’t done anything with Women Worth Knowing since last year, so readers may not be aware that at one point, we were collecting socks for elderly residents of nursing homes in DFW.  After a series of meet-ups, with me forgetting to bring the socks, I finally delivered the box to Renae Perry of The Senior Source last night.  70 pairs of slipper socks, to keep those wrinkled toes toasty.

While I have your attention, I do want to remind you that the elderly are frequently forgotten as they move into assisted living facilities.  If they don’t have family in the area, they may go the rest of their natural lives without ever having a visitor other than the people who are paid to look after them.  And if they are medicaid patients, without other incoming funds, they may not get the care that other residents get, whose families or finances make them more attractive to the community.  When you are looking at your giving, please consider sharing with the elderly in your area.  A Dollar Store donation of personal items (like shampoo, or toothbrushes, or body lotion–things that the residents of homes must provide for themselves, but may not have the money to buy) will go a long way toward making someone’s life brighter and easier to bear alone.

 

Respecting the NO

I am so excited to have gotten word that I was approved to work with the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center on their Texas PEACE Project.

The Texas PEACE Project (‘PEACE’= Peer Educators Acting for Change and Equality) was created by the Texas Association Against Sexual Assault to empower and support youth activists across Texas, and their adult allies, to end sexual violence by creating social change. DARCC is spearheading one such group in the Dallas area. This group is designed to attract a dynamic, service-oriented group of young people who have an interest not only in helping DARCC, but in ending oppression in the state of Texas and beyond. The Dallas Area Chapter of the Texas PEACE Project is currently being considered for pilot status by the Texas Association Against Sexual Assault.

The PEACE Project is based on the following concepts: Youth have the ability to create social change in their communities, and in order to change the world, individuals must first change themselves. Because peer education is the most effective strategy for mobilizing youth to create change, the PEACE Project offers a tiered system of mentorship: Advisors (age 31+) mentor Allies (young adults age 18-30), who offer guidance to Ambassadors (youth grades 9-12). Through participation in the Texas PEACE Project young people learn leadership skills, how a nonprofit organization works and how to develop, promote and implement their ideas. Program participants will engage in activities that are designed to create a critical consciousness of the various forms of oppression (such as sexism, racism, homophobia and adultism) that create space for sexual and dating violence to exist. The PEACE Project addresses each of these issues, in a curriculum composed of learning modules voted on by the participating students.

Something to know is that if you are in the DFW area,

DARCC is currently seeking volunteers to be active in this program as Allies (young adults age 18-30). If you are interested in promoting equality and ending all forms of oppression, then you or someone you know might be the perfect fit for this innovative mentoring program.

I am really looking forward to being involved with this program, especially through this dynamic organization.  I wasn’t self-aware, or self-caring enough to seek help with my own situation, but the bottom line is that my situation should never have been–and I honestly (with 20 years of distance, experience, and motherhood) believe could have been prevented if someone had taught my date-rapist to respect The No.  I hope that with this project, I can offer my small assistance in creating a world where No Means No, and it only needs said once.

In the meantime, please support your local rape crisis center however you can.  There are men and women, little boys and little girls who need a place to recover, and your local rape crisis center can help them overcome being victims, and help them live well as survivors.

 

Parenting by Ear

I spend a lot of time saying “don’t”.  Don’t play on the stairs.  Don’t whine.  Don’t touch that hot curling iron.  As a toddler, I empathized that Thor lived in a World of No.  That’s a hard place for a baby to live.  I do try to balance out the negative with the positive and offer him alternatives, but some days–good lord.

The other day, he was standing on the rungs of my chair, mouth against my ear, and he screamed like something had bitten him.  Keeping in mind that he frequently makes loud noises for no apparent reason other than the amount of sheer youthful adrenaline pumping through his veins, with my ear ringing, I turned and bellowed at him not to do so.  After apologizing, he informed me that Daddy had poked him.  So what was I going to do?  Bellow at Daddy like that?

Bryan and I don’t talk to each other that way.  It’s very rare for voices to be raised.  Very, very rare.

I did, just to even it out, but everyone knew it was just for show.  Even just pretending felt wrong and uncomfortable.

I thought about it.  If I don’t use that tone with Bryan, who is an adult and could comprehend it, and who is too big to be intimidated by it, why would I use it on a small child, who hasn’t finished developing social skills, and who is still tiny enough to be intimidated by my towering 5’3″ frame?  When I put it to myself that way…

After a few minutes, and when we were all in the same room together, I apologized to Thor and told him just that:  If I wouldn’t talk to Daddy that way, I shouldn’t talk to him that way, and I was going to strive not to raise my voice like that at him again.  I did explain that it would help me to stretch my patience if he would give doing-what-I-say-the-first-time-without-whining a go.  We agreed on it.

I’m not some hippie who thinks you shouldn’t discipline your children, but I am some hippie who believes you have to model the behavior you expect from them.  How can I expect him to express anger in an appropriate way, if my response to him–in anger–is to snarl and growl?  I can’t.  I have to model and then enforce the responses I want from him.  It’s that or beat him with a stick until he complies, and I am absolutely the hippie who doesn’t believe in beating with sticks.

More than that, it’s mean to physically intimidate someone.  It’s mean to intimidate someone into being fearful.  I don’t want to do that to this sweet, only-partially-grown person.  I just hope I learned my lesson early enough that it doesn’t add a year to his future therapy.

As I type, Thor has found and employed something like a rape whistle and my ears are going to start bleeding at any moment.  But he thinks he is playing me a song, and I kind of owe him one for kicking him out of the living room when I needed ten minutes alone.  My ten minutes is up now, by the way.  Time to go read more of The Adventures of the Great Brain.

Paradise Lost

Thor asks a lot about God lately.  In part, I’m sure, because he hears a lot about it on television at his grandma’s house, hears about it from classmates, and was reading a children’s bible in bed for a while.  I’ve run the gamut from not thinking I knew anything on the subject, to thinking I knew quite a lot, to realizing that I know very little at all.  I am honest with him about what I think, just like I am honest with him about the reproductive system.  And just like he gets grossed out about the latter, he sighs at me about the former.  He likes to deal in absolutes.

I’m going to break this down to the smallest fraction I can in explaining why I have lost faith with religion, but have maintained a philosophy:  People are unreliable.

According to Jeremiah, I am screwed.  ”This is what the LORD says: Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the LORD.” Jer17:4

According to everything Christian, if I am basing any of my religious ideas (pro or con) on mankind, I am missing the boat entirely.  Christianity is about believing that the God of Abraham impregnated a virgin, who was immaculately conceived herself, using only the power of suggestion, who brought forth the spirit of God itself in the form of a human, mortal man, who was martyred.  In doing so, he absolved all mankind of any sin, hinging on the acceptance of the above and the following: that he was raised from the dead after serving time in Hell, and lives an everlasting life, sitting at the right hand of God, in a place called Heaven.  Since there is no way to prove any of this, the Christian accepts it on faith.  And the Christian is told he is blessed for having accepted it.

But who told him that to begin with?  A man.  Well, several men:  The authors of the bible, who wrote the stories, and then  the various groups of men who got together to decide which of the books written about things pertaining to the God of Abraham and Jesus were true and worthwhile as canon.  And those men were told by God which books were the right ones.  If you visit any store that sells bibles, you can see readily that some of these groups disagreed.  Apparently, God told some groups different things.  Martin Luther and Pope Leo X are classic examples of two men hearing from God at the same time, whose interpretations of godly word are slightly different.

And that, friends, is where it all falls apart for me.  Mankind can’t even get on the same page about a counting system.  It’s like Metrics versus Imperials.

I grew up in an agnostic household, that was largely superstitious about religion.  Our superstitions were all based in Christianity, though.  I grew up with the belief that the bible was sacred because God wrote it through men, and that it was perfect and pure.  I fully believed that.  I believed that so hard, it never even occurred to me that I was a hypocrite for giggling over the infallibility of the Pope, when I was whole hog over the infallibility of unknown authors and seemingly mad prophets (have you ever read Jeremiah?)  We don’t even know who wrote Hebrews, but it is a major text for Christian doctrine, especially doctrines of faith.

I used to say, with smug superiority, “I think if God can manage to create the whole world in all its glory, he can manage to get a little book written.”  I am probably more embarrassed about that, than the time I started bloviating on camera that we might value thinness in our culture because in our puritanical break with the Old Country, we were breaking with ideal images of vainglorious wealth.  My hair was green during this interview, by the way.  Really puts a twist on a discussion about beauty when you have accidentally green hair.

I digress.

I worked for four different denominations of ministries/churches: Episcopal, Assembly of God, Word of Faith, and Baptist.  I went to two parochial schools and one school that was heavily weighted with Judaism and Catholicism.  I spent a lot of time around religion.  I can tell you this without worry that it is over-generalization:  The worst thing about religion is the Follower of the religion.  And the problem with the Follower is his humanity because his humanity means his fallibility.

I worked for wonderful ministers who were human and made mistakes, and I worked for lousy ministers who were human and sometimes got things right.  I was taught by wonderful Sisters and lay ministers, who cared for my well being.  I was taught by dipwads who called themselves people of faith.  What they all had in common was frail humanity.

God is supposed to alleviate that.  Faith in God.  Religion alleviates the frailty of humanity.  The Blood of Christ adds a super to the natural, that makes us better.  The Anointing of God that falls on the prophet, that makes him speak and preach overreaches his humanity.  The divinity of the office of Pope falls like a cloak on the man sitting on the throne of the Vatican, making his ordinances perfect.  So says the bible, which was written by…men who said that God speaking to them made them perfect in their speaking/writing.

It’s like me coming to you and saying, “I was out back, minding my own business, and my tree caught fire, but it didn’t burn.  And then this voice came out of the fire and told me I was chosen to lead a revolution against the government on behalf of all the people on welfare.”  You would have me sedated.  But because we have a tradition and history of believing that Moses talked to a burning bush–and there isn’t any supporting or decrying documentation–we believe that Moses talked to a burning bush.  Who says?  Moses.  Okay.  Who can corroborate?  Er…Moses.  Well, that’s not even good business sense.

The idea that you have to be okay with being senseless in order to believe is…senseless.

There are days when I feel like I took the Red Pill.  I miss the ease and simplicity of religion–of believing that I belong to something special and important, and that I am chosen, and that I can shrug off my troubles as being part of a greater plan meant to draw others into my circle of special and important.  I miss that.  But, it’s one of those situations where you can’t unsee something.  I can’t unsee the Ouroborus of religion: that because a man tells me that God has made him infallible, I must ignore that he is a man and believe that he is infallible, else I am damned.

So what remains?  Nothing of the Old Testament, I can tell you that.  I am decidedly off board of a god who commands the killing of babies and innocent citizens, just so his chosen crew can have some more land.  Of the New Testament, there remains an appreciation of the lifestyle of love and service taught by Jesus, and that appreciation is where I find myself.

I think there is plenty of wisdom in the bible.  It’s a big book.  It would be hard not to find goodness in it.  But as long as it is just a tradition of men telling me that God spoke to them, and I have to believe them because God spoke to them, I can’t.  I worked for one too many men telling me God spoke to them.  I did one too many ridiculous things, believing God had spoken to me.

Do I believe in a god, meaning do I believe in a higher power, who set this whole thing in motion?  Yes.  Do I know who that god is?  No.  Am I worried about it?  Also, no.

For now, I throw in my lot with Marcus Aurelius (for whom sources are also sketchy and unreliable, so we’ll just pretend that God told me that he said the following, and since God told me, you must believe that it was he):

“Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.”

My Great Brain

Last month, as part of my ongoing “learn more and save my brain” campaign, I read a biography on Catherine the Great, read up on small pox and the small pox vaccine, read up on inoculations in general, read up on two Russian Court artists of the 18th Century (and this is how well they struck me: I can’t even remember their  names off the top of my head), and did a very short study of serfdom in Russia.  Definitely worth my time, outside of the boring artists and the Court intrigues that set them in and out of favor with the reigning monarchs.

This month, I am already behind and haven’t read anything other than The Adventures of the Great Brain–and that, out loud to Thor at bedtime.  But, in starting that with him, I recalled that The Great Brain books affected my vernacular like few other books.  There are at least three phrases I use that come straight out of those books, the most used being “going like sixty” to mean moving quickly.

I find myself very busy at work, and love that.  It does cut into my reading time, and completely changes my aggressive self-study program.  But, I’ve also started working on getting out into the community.  I have applied to a volunteer position and will tell you more if I am accepted.  I am also going to visit a Daughters of the American Revolution meeting and start working on my membership.  I’m hoping that pans out.  If not, I will have to content myself with being a Daughter of Questionable Heritage.  Maybe I can start that group.

Bedtime for my monkey.  Time to go read more adventures of Tom Fitzgerald.

You Can’t Have the T Without the A…or the V

In 1995, I was cruising toward the zenith of my zealotry, which crested in 1998.  I was 24-years-old and working for a major banking institution (you’d know it–they advertise everywhere.)  This bank, we’ll call Pursue, was a partner with the United Way, and every year there was an awesome party to kick off the employee giving campaigns.

I had worked for Pursue for two years at that point, and had enjoyed those parties massively.  The swag was always a nice perk, and at my just-above-minimum-wage salary, any perk was welcome.  One year we got lottery ticket scratch offs, and I won $100.  Do you know what $100 means to someone who makes $7.15 an hour?!

Somewhere between 1995 and 1996, Focus on the Family started to wage a real campaign against the United Way, citing that they gave money to Planned Parenthood, and Planned Parenthood performed abortions.  I had eschewed the secular in favor of strictly religious radio programming, so while I was at work, I listened to a lot of Focus on the Family* or Bob Larson (the Rush Limbaugh of Christian radio.)  Don’t judge me.  Okay, judge me, but do it out of love.

FotF’s programming convinced me that if I gave to the United Way, I was killing babies.  I may as well have been performing partial-birth abortions with my own teeth if a cent of my UW contribution went to Planned Parenthood.  And, much as I had personally boycotted Burger King for years (because they bought their fish from Iceland, and Iceland was harpooning whales or something–I forget.  man, did I miss their chicken sandwiches!), I took a stand against the United Way.

This meant refusing to attend the awesome party Pursue was holding because I felt it was hypocritcal to refuse to support UW and still benefit from their party.  No one seemed to care much that I didn’t want to support them financially (though it was all but a corporate mandate that employees give–and I disagree with corporately mandated giving), but they freaked out that I wasn’t going to go to the party.  In fact, members of management tried to force me to go to the party.

I did not back down.  I stood my ground against HR’s directive that I was not allowed to say why I wouldn’t participate.  It got ugly, then it got better.  I was resolute.  I did not go to the United Way parties for three years, and I missed out on some unbelievable swag and more scratch offs.  Feh.

I rarely stopped to think about the good the United Way does.  I rarely stopped to think about how they fulfill their vision:  Everyone deserves opportunities to have a good life: a quality education that leads to a stable job, enough income to support a family through retirement, and good health.  I focused on a fraction of a fraction, and I missed out on the opportunity to share my pittance with others who didn’t even have that.  I focused on the possibility of abortions not yet provided and ignored living, starving children.  Just like Jesus!  Ugh.  Jesus was all, “Girl, don’t look at me.”

It would be years before I would even allow myself to consider the good work that Planned Parenthood does.  Yes, they do provide abortions.  They also provide many other services to women and girls, who otherwise could not afford medical care.

From Wikipedia, some numbers:

[Planned Parenthood] serve[s] over five million clients a year, 26% of which are teenagers under the age of 19.^[36] According to Planned Parenthood, 75% of their clients have incomes at or below 150 percent of the federal poverty level.^[35]

Services provided at locations include contraceptives (birth control); emergency contraception; screening for breast, cervical and testicular cancers; pregnancy testing and pregnancy options counseling; testing and treatment for sexually transmitted diseases; comprehensive sexuality education, menopause treatments; vasectomies, tubal ligations, and abortion.

In 2009, Planned Parenthood provided 4,009,549 contraceptive services (35% of total), 3,955,926 sexually transmitted disease services (35% of total), 1,830,811 cancer related services (16% of total), 1,178,369 pregnancy/prenatal/midlife services (10% of total), 332,278 abortion services (3% of total), and 76,977 other services (1% of total), for a total of 11,383,900 services.^{[35][7][37][38][39][40]} The organization also said its doctors and nurses annually conduct 1 million screenings for cervical cancer and 830,000 breast exams.

So what we’re looking at is 26% of services for cancer related issues, pregnancy, prenatal, or midlife services and care.  70% of services are related to the prevention of unwanted pregnancy, and the prevention and treatment of sexually transmitted disease.  96% of what Planned Parenthood does is directly related to women’s health, unborn baby health (because sexually transmitted diseases affect those guys, too!), and the avoidance of abortion through birth control.

The Susan G. Komen Foundation has the market cornered on cancer donation.  And, also from Wikipedia, “have been caught up in the controversy over “pinkwashing“—the use of breast cancer and the pink ribbon by corporate marketers, especially to promote products that might be unhealthful—in return for a donation to the cause. Komen benefits greatly from these corporate partnerships, receiving over $55 million a year from them.^[61] However, critics say many of these promotions are deceptive to consumers and benefit the companies more than the charity.^[62]”  

I’ve never been a big Komen fan, but have sponsored friends and family who have walked in the Race for the Cure.  No matter how commercial I find their message, I’m all for anything that is working to keep my family and friends alive.

Komen has done some wonderful things, including supporting Planned Parenthood, making it possible for them to provide 170,000 clinical breast exams, and 6,400 mammogram referrals in the past five years.  That’s somewhere around 200,000 women the Komen foundation touched in a real way.

Look.  I told you this story so that you understand that I have been on both sides of this coin.  I have been so zealously opposed to abortion (and choice, let’s be honest) that I would not support an organization whose work includes feeding and clothing, educating and advocating for the children who WERE NOT aborted.  I was so blinded by an nth of a percent out of religious righteousness that I ignored the screaming need of men, women and children who are already with us, and already in great distress.

I am 100% pro-choice.  It is my heart’s desire that abortion never be a wanted option, but so long as there are humans in the world, there will be imperfections (ill-health, rape, careless teenagers) and choice is valid.  We should work toward a world where every child is wanted, where women do not have to worry about considerations in the event of pregnancy due to rape or incest, where women’s health has improved to the point that we can save both mothers and children.

We help women, children, and the unborn when we support programs that offer preventative treatment and care, that offer contraception and education, and that provide healthcare to those who would not otherwise have access to it.  We help women, children, and the unborn when we support organizations like Planned Parenthood.  Which is why I have taken the amount of money I have spent previously sponsoring walkers in the 3-Day Race for the Cure and pledged it to Planned Parenthood this year.

*Focus has done a lot of good things.  I don’t want you to think I’m throwing any babies out with my bathwater.  I appreciate James Dobson on a personal level for giving my mother some parenting instruction she had lacked, and for giving me some tools to make it through my teen years.

Bulls, Bears, and Toilet Paper Bits

I know it isn’t going to win me any fans to admit that I am really clueless about the stock market, but I am.  It’s one of those things that I know just enough about to be able to smile and nod with some confidence, but not enough about which to carry on any conversation beyond, “Wow…I can’t believe what a hit [insert the name of whichever company NPR reported taking a dive in the market] took today.”

I determined that I would learn about it.  And then, I found myself fixating on the shape of the font Wikipedia uses, and how much I like their logo, and not at all on what I was reading.  Try again tomorrow.  Or, if any of you care to enlighten me further than the following, please do!  I’m all eyes.

As I understand it (and I understand it only because David Bowie sold stock in David Bowie and I really wanted some–rock stars, driving my self-propelled educational interests since 1982), companies that are publicly traded allow investors to buy shares in their company.  It’s a bit like if a landowner had 4,000 acres and decided to sell parcels of land to ghost owners.  The Ghost Owners would profit based on the production of all 4,000 acres, regardless of which parcel of land they owned.  Worth would be determined by how many parcels of land you had purchased, based on the percentage of land made available by the Land Owner. 

Worth would also be determined by perceived value.  If no one wanted your land parcels, they wouldn’t be worth much, and you would have to offer them at a much reduced selling price to entice buyers.  If everyone wanted a piece of your action, you could charge out the wazzoo.

Perception would be determined by past and projected performance, and on speculation as to whether or not the land had staying power.  If the Land Owner hasn’t rotated crops in 4 years, one might speculate soil depletion and devalue the price of the land parcel, thus devaluing the shares.  If the Land Owner has taken exceptional care of his land, and has just invested in improvements that will increase his ability for output next year (even though the improvements cost some money) one might speculate a boom and value for the shares would remain stable or increase.

If too many people wanted out of their shares at once, the Land Owner could face financial doom–that’s his backing to run the company.  Shares are sort of a loan from the public, and the health of the stock has a lot to do with the health of full finances.

I have no idea the difference between Bull and Bear markets.  I don’t like getting animals involved.  I feel sorry for them.  Like what Republicans have done to Elephants–poor things!  But, I think Bull markets are good, and Bears are bad.  Yes, moneyinstructor.com confirms this.  I will remember this as:  When the market is good, take the bull by the horns.  When the market is bad…well, some days the bear gets you.  Or I will remember the toilet paper commercials with the baby bear, who frequently has bits of toilet paper stuck to his bum…bears are nasty.  Who came up with that?  That’s gross.  Ooh!  Or, I will think of the Snuggle Fabric Softener bear.  When the market goes south, you need snuggles.

Yeah.  So this is what it looks like when Lib Arts majors show an interest in the stock market.  Please feel free to fill in gaps, correct misunderstandings, or just agree with me that it is nasty to suggest that people who use Angel Soft go around with bits of toilet paper stuck to their backsides.

Bad Hair and Carrots of Shame

I do things for this child…

Tonight, I found myself apportioning 10 raisins a piece for 21 children before questioning whether or not that was in fact the instruction given by Thor’s teacher, who had asked for 10 pieces of each of 10 snacks she had listed on a quest to have fun working with the kids on counting to a hundred.  Brain-tired, I shoved a handful of raisins in my mouth and mulled.  Or chewed.  Whichever.

There was a tradition in the Sophomore year of my high school, for upper-classes to take on girls as Little Sisters.  We, the younger ones, were doled out at random to the older girls.  One of the bonding exercises was for the Big Sister to dress the Little Sister up in hideous nerd gear and parade them around all day.  It just so happened that I was growing out what amounted to be Annie Lennox’s haircut as that day rolled around, and I had clipped my shaggy bangs back from my forehead with a baby clip.  This was prior to the 90s, when baby clips became fashionable, lest you think to yourself, “I’ll bet that looked cute.”

I was standing in the school bathroom with my Big Sister, who was so not into me.  She had two Little Sisters, and had known one of them–the cool one, whose mother didn’t make her wear her skirt at LITERAL TEA LENGTH–from birth, and was just not up to having a dorky hanger-on.  Another Big Sister walked into the bathroom, took one look at me–not even having put on a single bit of nerd gear yet, just me and my baby clip, bare face, and tea-length skirt–and cried, “Oomeegeeeesh!  Her hair is so NERDEEEEEEEE!  OMIGOOOOOOOOOOOD!  AWESOME!!  BWAHAHAHAH!!11!!!!1!!!”  Yes, I could hear the 1s within her exclamation points.

There was this moment when my eyes met my Big Sister’s in the reflection of the mirror, and what I saw was her total revulsion, disappointment, and embarrassment at having to deal with me at all.  We both knew I had shown up looking like that.  She already knew I looked like a dork.  I was just finding out.

It was one of those John Hughes moments, and should have been followed up with Jake Ryan calling to take me to the prom–that’s how meaningful it was.  It was also a defining moment for me.  I smiled at my Big Sister, turned to the other girl and grinned as widely as I could and I said, “I know!  Ohmigod!  I look like such a nerd!  Like, I need a pocket protector, or, like some horn-rimmed glasses!  She’s done it perfectly!”

My Big Sister was visibly relieved, and I think that’s what embarrassed me the most.  I ended up with a beat-up cowboy hat made of straw, and a half-hearted makeup job, and I spent the rest of the day trying not to cry.

The next day, I wore my baby clip again as inoculation against the way I had felt.  That was my way back then.  If something I really liked turned out badly, I tried it again a) just to see if maybe I had played it to the wrong audience and a change of “venue” might help the problem, b) to show the people who made me feel bad that I didn’t give a rat’s rump what they thought, c) to pick at the scab because I was a bit of a masochist.

Thanksgiving, this year, was the first time I had been able to attend one of Thor’s class parties.  It was a Thanksgiving Feast buffet.  I volunteered to bring carrots, enough to serve 5 classes of 1st Graders, plus teachers, plus any parents who were attending.  I thought I was the only person bringing carrots.  I had also been advised that serving dishes would be provided.  So, I showed up with 3 large bags of baby carrots, and a large bag of carrot chips–for variety.  Some other mothers had also provided carrots, so by the time I arrived, my offering was overkill.

I got busy with helping and didn’t pay any attention to my carrots, and didn’t even see them again until I was in the teachers’ breakroom washing the dishes we had used for the buffet.  Another mom–this gorgeous, Charlie’s Angels looking mom, who is incredibly nice, and helpful–came in with my carrots and offered them to the teachers since we’d had overflow.  The teachers–y’all–the teachers sneered.  I was shocked.

I stood there washing my dishes, trying not to make eye contact with Gorgeous Mom, who knew the origin of the veggies, and who had extracted herself from the teachers’ conversation immediately.  That conversation among four, elementary school teachers went like this:

“I can’t believe how lazy some people are.  You don’t have time to even put the food on a tray?”

“Right?!  I would never show up with something that was so obviously from the grocery store.  You can’t make something at home?  You’re that busy?  Huh.”

“Homemade is always the best.  You know some people will just take the stuff they buy at the grocery store and put it on a platter?  That’s so rude.  I wouldn’t even take that to a friend’s party.  What do people think of you if you do that?”

“That you’re lazy!  And you don’t care.  And look–she didn’t even take them out of the bags.”

It went on.  And on.  And on.

I stood there, washing and drying, listening to these women talk about how rude, and tacky, and lazy, and disgusting I was for having brought food to the school, which I had purchased at Kroger, and left in bags so that they could be used as needed and otherwise shared if there were leftovers.  I had purposefully bought more than I thought was absolutely necessary, and I had thought people might like some fresh veg.  Uh…rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting.

I was fifteen again.  Standing in that bathroom, eyes locked on [redacted]‘s, knowing I had fallen short.  Only, instead of being hurt, I was pissed the feck off.  Who were these harpies?  Seriously?  Rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting?  No, honey.  Rude is me saying I’ll bring food and then backing out without telling you.  Tacky is only bringing enoug’h for my child’s class and no one else, knowing it is a feast for all the classes.  Lazy is not bothering at all because some other mother will do it.  Disgusting is me spitting on the carrots before sharing them with you.

I seriously considered telling them they were talking about me, but I chose not to.  I was so taken aback, and disbelieving that by the time I had decided what I wanted to say, Gorgeous Mom had steered their conversation to kinder, gentler topics.  It seemed a moot point.  Besides, I could have outed myself, then the likeliest thing would be that they would tell the rest of the teachers that Thor’s Mom was rude, tacky, lazy, disgusting, and uber-confrontational.  For the child’s reputation, I swallowed my bile.

Tonight, I started working on those raisins and had such performance anxiety, I cannot tell you.  My packets weren’t pretty enough.  The Saran Wrap press-n-seal was too sticky.  There was no uniformity.  No aesthetic.  I started to panic.  Would Thor’s teacher think I was rude, tacky, lazy, or disgusting?  Was I even doing it right in the first place?  I had 10 packs of 10 ready to go.  I needed 11 more.  Or was I just supposed to send in 210 raisins by themselves?  Did there have to be 10 even for each child, or should I send one of those big boxes of raisins and let the teacher distribute at will?  OH MY GOD!  BABY CLIPS AND CARROTS!

So, I ate them.

I’ll work on it again tomorrow, after getting some clarification from Thor’s teacher, and having lived down my goofy hair and party tray shame through exhibitionism.

The moral of the story is: Be careful when you mock.  You may be mocking the person standing to your left.

 

“