Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Saturday, November 22, 2008
My dad loved, loved, loved the holiday season. He lived by Charles Dickens’ theme of holding Christmas in his heart and keeping it there all year. His enthusiasm was unrivaled. The local Boy Scout troops managed our small town’s Christmas tree lot. (The parking lot of the root beer drive-in which closed in winter. Of course.) The Christmas trees arrived the last week of November. My dad was very involved with the Boy Scouts so he often went Upnorth to a tree farm with some of the other dads. They loaded up a huge truck with trees and then set them up in the tree lot. My dad always had “our” tree chosen and set aside, but my mother didn’t like the idea of the tree in the house so many days before Christmas. The longer it was in the house, the more chance there was for fire or mischief. Somewhere along the line they agreed on December 15th as the official tree day. On December 15th we would go as a family to the tree lot. My dad already had his favorite tree chosen, but, because we were a democratic family regarding certain things, we all bundled up and went to the tree lot to select the tree which would be the centerpiece of the holiday. Usually we ended up with the tree my dad pre-selected. But not always. I remember some pretty tense discussions between my parents about the size, type and health of the tree.
There was just one small issue with the Christmas tree. My mother and I are dreadfully allergic. If we touch the needles our hands are instantly red and itchy. If one of the needles even slightly punctures skin we swell like puffer fish. We’re shoo-ins, natural candidates, for the pro-artificial tree movement. But, artificial trees are so fake. And, this was a very small town. Very small. The tree lot was the local social hot-spot in December. Everyone got their trees there. So everyone would know if you didn’t get your tree there. Because the tree lot was managed by the Boy Scouts it was seen as more than just a tree lot. It was a charity. A donation to the Scouts. So we endured the discomfort with our allergies for the authenticity of a real tree. And for the sake of the Boy Scouts.
Times changed. My brother and sister went away to college. The Boy Scouts stopped managing the tree lot. So, my parents thought that would be a natural time to change the tree tradition. Artificial trees were discussed. By then advancements and improvements were evident in the fake Christmas tree market. But there was still a bit of stigma to them. It was decided we wouldn’t get it from the tree lot. We’d go to The Country and cut one down ourselves. My dad knew a guy at work who knew a farmer who, for a fee, opened his back-forty to Christmas tree hunters.
My dad had a nostalgic vision of us donning festive sweaters and hats, selecting the perfect tree and bringing it home. It was a vision stoked by holiday advertising. My mother liked that the tree was fresh, not a dry fire hazard.
Early one cold December Saturday morning around the 15h, I was given a Nordic-inspired festive new scarf and pair of matching mittens and hat. My mother had a matching ensemble. My dad donned the jacket we called the Lumberjacket. It was a bulky plaid wool jacket lined with more plaid wool.
My father got the Lumberjacket from one of his older brothers who spent a few months working as an actual lumberjack. My uncle hated the job, grew to hate the cold and left for a warmer climate. My father inherited some of his winter clothes. He only wore the Lumberjacket when it was really, really cold and he had to shovel snow or take on some difficult task outdoors in the middle of winter. If a neighbor’s car got stuck in the snow, on went the Lumberjacket and out when my dad. If the pipes froze, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. If the car’s engine was acting up in the cold winter weather, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. If the farmer down the road had an emergency because of the snow and cold, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. It was a serious jacket reserved only for serious man-work in seriously bad weather. If my dad was putting on the Lumberjacket something serious was going down. Sometimes the donning of the Lumberjacket was presaged by a lot of swearing. (in the case of frozen pipes, for instance) Other times the donning of the Lumberjacket was unexpected. There he’d be, suiting up in the Lumberjacket and we’d all be wondering what horrible atrocity had occurred. One time it was because he saw a dog struggling in a horrible winter storm. He couldn’t bear to watch the dog struggle so he donned the Lumberjacket and went out to rescue the dog. Turns out the dog escaped his home and apparently was disoriented in the storm. He was wearing a collar so my dad got him into the house, wrapped a blanket around him, gave him some leftover meatloaf and called the dog’s owners. The dog was small and completely white furred. How my dad noticed him in the midst of the blizzard is a huge mystery, but there’s no doubt my dad saved his life. The dog’s family was very grateful.
My dad had other jackets, nicer jackets, better looking jackets. But the Lumberjacket was his can-do outerwear of choice. Manly. Lumberjacky. Even though my family good naturedly mocked the Lumberjacket (“Uh-oh, must be serious, Dad ’s putting on the Lumberjacket.”) I came to see it as a superhero uniform. My dad was not a tights and cape wearing kind of guy. The Lumberjacket was a fitting superhero uniform for him. He only wore it when he was doing something really serious in very cold weather so in my young eyes the Lumberjacket was an emblem of my dad’s ability to fix anything and help everyone.
I always imagined him leaving the scene of a winter emergency after fixing something or saving lives and people saying, “Thanks, Lumber Jack! We wouldn’t have made it without you! How can we ever repay you?” My dad would smile, shake his head and say, “Just get home safely. That’s repayment enough.” That was my childhood imagination fueled by my reverence for my dad. But even now I think of that scenario. Even through reasonable, realistic adult eyes I know many of the things my dad accomplished in the Lumberjacket were heroic. In the Lumberjacket he prevented our pipes from bursting, freed cars from snowbanks, saved a dog, helped birth at least two calves, and formed a rescue party to save a kid who fell through the ice in our local skating pond. Not Superman saving- the-world-from-evil feats of heroism, but who do you want to have handy? Superman or the guy who has tire chains, rope, a well stocked tool box and can-do spirit? Give me the guy in the Lumberjacket any day.
My mother and I in our new mitten/hat/scarf ensembles, my dad in his Lumberjacket, drove off to the country to cut down our Christmas tree. Yes. We already lived in what many people consider The Country. But, we were going to the real country. The farm down the road from our house was a wheat and dairy farm. Low acreage and a few dairy cows. It was a small scale operation which, while quaint, wasn’t exactly the sort of farm you think of when you think of farm in the country. We were going to have “an experience.” We were going to “experience” an old fashioned country holiday experience. Oh boy!
We drove almost an hour and a half to The Country. The guy from my dad’s office had drawn a map for my dad. On the hand drawn map it didn’t look like an hour and a half car trip so after an hour my dad started saying, “I wonder if we missed a turn…” At this point we had the air conditioning on in the car. We were bundled up for a day of outdoor activity in 15 degree weather. We’d been riding in the car for almost an hour. We were all hot and getting cranky. Finally he pulled the car off to the shoulder of the road. He got out of the car and furiously shed the Lumberjacket. He got out a real map, one printed by a map making company. He compared it to the hand drawn map. He had me look at both of the maps and give my opinion. (I just completed my map merit badge in Girl Scouts.) We decided we were probably on the right road but it was longer than it appeared on the hand drawn map.
My dad drove fast. Always. But on country roads away from the watchful eye of the local cop? My dad drove really fast. The Country scenery whizzed by us in such a blur the details were difficult to discern. When I saw a small piece of wood with, “X-Mass tRees U cuT” painted on it affixed to a barbed wire fence I said, “That’s it! We’re here!” it was too late. My dad had already sped by the road that would take us to our destination. My dad backed up the car and turned down the road, driving at a slow speed. So we could take in the scenery of The Country.
We finally arrived at the farm with the U cuT trees. My dad’s excitement level was high. He was sizing up the farm, making a big show of breathing in The Country air. The Country Air smelled like poop. At least three different kinds of poop. My mother got out a couple tissues, gave me one and whispered, “Hold it up to your nose like you have the sniffles, you won’t notice the smell as much and you won’t offend the farmer.” (That’s my mother all over the place. Even in the midst of three kinds of stink you don’t want to offend anyone.)
A guy, we presumed the farmer, came out of a barn. “You here for a tree?” (As if it wasn’t obvious.)
“Yessir!” my dad too enthusiastically replied. He was putting on the Lumberjacket.
“I’ll get the tractor.”
“All right, sir!” my dad said, quickly ambling up to the farmer while donning the Lumberjacket. I’m sure my dad intended to go with the farmer to get the tractor. I’m sure my dad thought, “The men will now go get the tractor while the womenfolk wait in the car and admire The Country scenery.”
When he caught up to the farmer I saw my dad put out his hand in a welcoming handshake gesture to the farmer. The farmer was just in the barn. The air reeked of three kinds of poop. Even I could do the math. This was not a good time to shake the farmer’s hand. The farmer held up his gloved hands at my dad in a “danger, stay back” motion. My mother, watching from the car, cracked up at my dad almost shaking the poopy gloved hand of the farmer. The farmer continued on and my dad stayed in the spot where he was when he was issued the warning hand signal. My dad turned and looked back at us in the car, waved and gave us an excited thumbs up. We waved back at him, tissues still held over our noses. The farmer, on a large tractor with a flat-bed trailer hitched to it, came around the corner and stopped a few inches from my dad. I saw the farmer motion for my dad to hop onto the trailer. My dad looked crestfallen. I think he thought he was going to get to ride the actual tractor, not sit on the trailer. I suspect he thought the Lumberjacket would impress upon the farmer that my dad was a man, a guy, a Lumberjacket wearing kind of guy. Apparently even the Lumberjacket didn’t give my dad enough cred to ride on the tractor with the farmer. He hopped onto the trailer. The farmer drove toward the car, probably 20 feet, and stopped. My dad hopped off and ran over to the car. My mother and I got out of the car. My dad opened the trunk and held up three saws. He yelled over to the farmer, “Which do you suggest?!”
The farmer yelled back, “You don’t need ‘em, we got blades up ta the woods.”
Again my dad was crestfallen. He brought his own saws. I could see they were newly oiled and laid out special in the trunk of the car.
Once we were situated on the trailer, riding behind the farmer on his tractor, my mother pulled a thermos out of her tote bag. Hot chocolate. Well. At this point it was tepid chocolate. But we drank it anyway. My dad had that look of exaggerated satisfaction and fulfillment. He patted my knee. “This is the life, eh kiddo?!” It was a long ride and by the time we reached the edge of the tree area our bums were frozen and sore from jostling along the snow covered field. We had a hard time getting down from the trailer because we were numb and lame. The farmer motioned to a wood crate with a bunch of old saws in it. “There ya go. I’ll be back in an hour.”
That was it. He just left us there with a crate of rusty old saws. I’m sure it was my imagination playing tricks on me, but swear I heard the howl of a wolf in the distance.
I was a pretty rugged and adventurous kid. I loved playing outside and I love winter. I wasn’t afraid of The Country. This was a dream come true for me – outside, in the snow, nothing but nature as far as the eye could see. But. On the other hand. We were really, really, in the middle of nowhere. And no one except the guy from my dad’s work who drew the map knew where we were. And nothing but a crate of rusty saws to defend ourselves and a thermos of tepid chocolate for sustenance. The farmer on his tractor was slowly fading toward a small dot on the horizon which was the farm. I could read the headlines in my mind, “Family On Holiday Outing Missing, Presumed Dead” and “Local Family Victims of Farmer’s Homicidal Plot, Limbs Sawed Off” or “Remains of Family Looking for Christmas Tree Found, Eaten by Wolves” Fortunately my dad’s enthusiasm prevailed. “Well, here we are! Let’s find a tree!” He jocularly tossed a snow ball at me. It would have been a scene from a holiday greeting card if it weren’t for the crate of rusty saws and eerie absolute silence.
We wandered around the woods, my dad carrying a couple of the rusty saws, going from small scrub trees to glorious towering pines worthy of Rockefeller Plaza. I found rabbit tracks and deer tracks in the snow. We saw an owl watching us from his perch high in a tree. I relaxed about the potential for gory disaster. I made snow angels. My mother threw a snowball at my dad. We took photographs.
And then we found it. The perfect tree. We all agreed on it: The size, the shape, the color...it was perfect. We stood there admiring it far longer than a normal tree admiring time span. My dad took pictures of my mother and I in front of it. My mother took pictures of my dad and I in front of it. My mother took a picture of just me in front of it. My dad took another picture of just the tree.
It was glorious.
Then he got down on the ground to examine the trunk. “Okay…okay…yep, this one will get ‘er started.” He picked up a saw and asked me to hold some of the branches out of the way. My mother packed a pair of gardening gloves for me to wear under my new mittens. This was an attempt to prevent my tree allergy from striking too seriously. It worked. I painlessly held the lower branches out of the way for my dad.
I noticed he was hesitating to strike the tree with the saw. He called my mother over to help remind him how much trunk was required to fit in the tree stand. “I knew I should have brought the tree stand…” he said.
I thought about our adventure thus far and how funny my dad would have looked lugging a Christmas tree stand. I looked at my dad, on his knees in the snow leaning under the tree. The Lumberjacket was riding up on him so there was a gap between the Lumberjacket and my dad’s trousers. His boxers where peeking out from above the belt. This is the style rap kids like, now, but for middle aged white men on a holiday family outing back then, this look was not en vogue. He didn’t have full-on plumber butt, but, it was dangerously close. The image of him with a tree stand combined with his almost-plumber butt gave me the giggles. My mother caught my eye and shook her head in warning. She gave me a look that said, “Not now. Not now. We’ll laugh later, but not now.” She was biting her lip to keep from laughing. I did the same.
My dad was sizing up the tree trunk and trying to figure out where to cut. Every now and then he’d say, “She sure is a beauty.”
And then it hit me. My squelched giggles turned to apprehension. I looked at the rusty saws. I looked at the glorious tree. And back at the rusty saws.
My dad wasn’t hemming and hawing because of the question of how much tree trunk for the stand.
He didn’t want to cut into the tree.
He finally picked up a saw and said, “Okay, I think right about here, don’t you? Does that look good?”
My mother and I looked at the spot on the trunk he was about to cut. We looked at the tree. We looked at the saw.
We looked at my dad.
We looked at the tree.
We looked at my dad.
He looked uncertain, slightly troubled.
My dad looked up at me. I felt the sting of a tear fall down my cheek.
Not a word was exchanged.
My dad picked up the saws, put his arm around my shoulder and we all walked silently back to the crate of saws.
The farmer wasn’t going to return for another 20 minutes. After five minutes of silence and swallowing lumps in our throats I rolled a few balls of snow. My dad wordlessly helped me roll a larger ball of snow. We made a snowman next to the crate of rusty saws. My dad found some twigs and rocks and gave the snowman arms and a face. He was just putting the finishing touches on the face when the farmer’s tractor could be heard getting louder on it’s trip to get us. And our tree.
Uh oh.
We were nature loving wimps who couldn’t bring ourselves to cut a tree. Among the three of us that was okay. There was a nobleness to it. A pride, a conservancy, a nature respecting dignity to it.
But. With the advent of the farmer’s arrival and lack of my dad having cut down a tree, the realization that my dad was going to be emasculated and humiliated by the farmer loomed large. Adding insult to injury the snowman stood there with a silly grin on his face.
I imagined the farmer sizing up my dad and figuring him to be less of a man, dismissing him as a city slicker wimp. “And you with a Lumberjacket. Pfft. You’re a disgrace to the plaid.”
Shy of dashing over and quickly cutting down a tree there was nothing we could do. My dad was going to have to take one for the team.
The farmer pulled up and said, “Where’s yer tree?” He looked behind us, assuming we cut down a tree but didn’t lug to the meeting point.
My dad walked over to the farmer and in a hushed tone told him we decided not to go with a tree this year. He could have redeemed himself by saying, “The kid’s allergic, what are ya gonna do?” But he didn’t. He just lifted my mother, and then me, onto the trailer. My mother cuddled up to him and snuggled into the Lumberjacket. The three of us watched our snowman fade smaller into the distance as we rode away. We watched the trees go from single glorious beauties to one mass of green.
When we arrived back to the farm my dad pulled out $20 and gave it to the farmer. The farmer refused it.
As we were getting into the car an owl flew over us. Okay, this was The Country and there are a lot of owls in The Country. But. We chose to see it as a sign. We made the right decision. We did the right thing.
We bought an artificial tree on the way home and never had a “real” tree again.
Monday, November 17, 2008
My dad loved Christmas. Absolutely loved it. His enthusiasm and excitement for the holiday rivaled that of any 6-year-old hopped up high on Mountain Dew. When I was a kid in my small hometown most people didn’t decorate for the holidays until at least the end of November. There was small town decorum about decorating for the holidays. The decorations were to appear no sooner than the end of November and were to be taken down no later than the second week of January.
My dad started chomping at the holiday decorations bit by mid-October. Because we lived in a cold, unpredictable climate he used the excuse of a “good weather” day to festoon the house with lights and decorations. So what if it was only mid-November? If my mother chastised him for going against the small town decorum and rushing the season he’d come back at her with the rationalization that a storm could blow through any day making the installation of outdoor Christmas decorations difficult and unsafe, if not impossible. The thing is, he was right. You wanted those holiday lights in place before the real snow hit. And, giving my mother The Look, he’d add, “we wouldn’t want to be without lights and decorations this holiday, would we? The kids would be so disappointed.”
The kids. Yeah. Sure. Blame the kids. Sometimes I wonder if the reason my dad wanted to have children was so that he’d have an excuse for toys, fireworks and holiday decorations. Sure, thanks to my dad we enjoyed all that and more, but he was right there in on the fun, too. He shared the experiences with us and that was great. But. I’m pretty sure his motivations weren’t entirely selfless.
He planned a different display every year. Adding, editing and re-inventing the holiday decorations was an annual reason d'etré for him. By the time my mother “allowed” him to put up decorations he’d gone over the year’s master plan so many times he had the placement of every bulb, circuit junction, timer, every wreath, bough, angel and Santa committed to memory. My mother managed the holiday concerts, parties, school plays, the schedules and Christmas Eve wardrobes. She did the baking, the cooking and much of the indoor decorating. But the outdoor displays were my dad’s jurisdiction. It was his point of pride. His holiday greeting to the neighborhood. The showcase for his adoration of the Christ child. And the showcase for his prowess with colored lights and questionable electrical wiring modifications.
My dad had holiday lights dating back to my parents' first Christmas. And, get this, they were hand-me-down lights from an aunt and uncle who were fed up with the old one-burns-out-the-whole-string goes-dark type of holiday lights. They were already old when my parents started using them. Back in the olden days holiday lights were rudimentarily designed. If one bulb burned out the entire string went dark. Which means you had to find the burned out bulb after it, well, burned out. Finding the burned out bulb after the string went dark meant taking out the bulbs and putting in a new bulb. One bulb at a time. When the entire string lit up you knew you found The Bad Bulb.
Some kids have the holiday tradition of Easter egg hunts. Other kids enjoy the holiday tradition of finding treats hidden each day on an Advent calendar. We had the fun tradition of Finding The Bad Bulb. Finding the Bad Bulb Day was an annual two-day event (or longer) which officially marked the start of the holiday season.
My dad usually tested a string of lights for illumination prior to adhering them to the house or trees.
But not always.
Sometimes he’d forget which strings he tested and figured they were all okay anyway, only to discover a bad string - a burned out bulb - after the entire display was in place. Back then you didn’t just go out and buy a new string of lights. You bought strings of holiday lights and replacement bulbs. Some people stockpile emergency items like spare fuses, screws, bolts, bandages, tape…my dad was never without a healthy stash of spare holiday light bulbs.
Discovering a bad string meant one thing: My dad, brother and I had to methodically try each bulb on the string to find the bad one. Even though my dad loved the holidays and was brimming over with enthusiasm and holiday cheer, the stress of a bad bulb dimming his display dampened his spirits. He used words and expressions not considered merry. Jesus (H) Christ was mentioned a lot. And not because we were preparing to celebrate His birthday. My dad's frustration level would rise like a cartoon character – you could see his blood pressure rising to the level where steam should have been coming out of his ears accompanied by the noise of a boiling tea kettle. Compounding the issue were my dad's large hands and fingers. Perfect for throwing and catching a football, his hands were, like the rest of him, sturdy. To say the least. Not so perfect for fiddling with and handling small bulbs and sockets. So. The task fell to us smaller fingered kids.
We worked feverishly to find the bad bulb. As if a glorious string of glowing bulbs wasn't evidence enough, jubilant cries of glee would ring out when a bad bulb was found and replaced. My dad would drop everything and run over to witness the glorious illumination of the previously offending string of lights. There were a few years it took so long to Find the Bad Bulb that when it was finally found and replaced my dad wept tears of joy.
The same process was used to find the bulb which made the string of lights blink.
The Blinker.
The #@!*ing Blinker.
At some point the holiday lighting industry took a huge leap forward in technology and tried to accommodate all holiday lighting tastes by making one-string-fits-all lights. These were bleak days for my dad. For him it foretold The End of Days. The dual purpose strings of holiday light were the work of Satan himself. Much as my dad loved his outdoor lighting, much as he loved useless technology, much as he loved a bit of dash, blinking holiday lights were abhorrent. Intolerable.
He was a purist. He was fine with dozens of strings of light on the house and in the trees, but blinking lights? Pfft. We didn't live in Las Vegas. C'mon, have a little class.
There was one bulb, The Blinker, and if you didn’t want your lights to blink you replaced it with The Steady bulb. The conventional demarcation for the bulbs is that The Blinker has a red tip, the rest are clear. You remove the red tipped bulb and replace it with a non-red-tipped bulb if you don't want your holiday lights to blink. I know this because I spent many, many zero degree wind whipped nights on the front porch trying to Find the Bad Bulb, feverishly working to find the bulb which would make the string of lights stop blinking. The lights, which now didn't go dim when a bulb burned out, would be pulsing away like Saturday night at Studio 54. My dad’s temper and frustration would increase with each blink. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Every time the lights flashed on I could see his face. In the still, dark Winter evening of our suburban front yard the blinking illumination cast a sinister pulsing glow on my dad. Like some scary cartoon trip to Dante’s Inferno. With each flash of lights the look on his face became progressively scarier.
When I was young my older brother and I both were called to holiday light duty. I vaguely remember my brother having to man up and handle some of the bigger responsibilities of holiday lighting. You know, guy stuff. Stuff involving hammers, nails and ladders. My dad and brother would spend a lot of time in the garage. And then I, and my smaller, nimble fingers and steadfast obedience, would be summoned. For some reason my older sister escaped holiday lighting duty. The thing is, when my brother was around we'd inevitably be hit with overpowering urges to laugh at the ill-functioning lights. Which only served to anger my dad. He had serious plans. Holiday lighting was no laughing matter. Kids in the Third World didn't have holiday lights. We should have been more grateful for the opportunity to celebrate Jesus by adorning our house and trees with strings of lights.
I missed my brother a lot when he went away to college. But. I didn't miss the ill-timed fits of laughter. Sometimes the situation would strike us so funny we'd be in that silent, shoulder spasming, tears streaming, weak in the knees kind of laughing. Who can Find the Bad Bulb in that condition? After he went away to college I had to take on more holiday lighting responsibility. It was just my dad and me and dozens of strings of lights. And boxes of replacement bulbs. It was no laughing matter. And much as I missed my brother, my dad's patience would be spared two hysterically laughing, insolently ungrateful kids.
Cheeks stinging and teeth chattering in the Winter night air, I could hear my heart beating faster and louder, eventually beating in time with the offensive blinking lights. I worked diligently, often working by touch instead of sight because the porch lights were dimmed for the purposes of effect for the holiday lights. I'd steal a glance in through a front window. There silhouetted in warm glow of the kitchen light my mother would be a vision of domestic holiness baking cookies. Maybe chatting on the telephone. She was unaware of the eminent disaster lurking on the front porch. Christmas could be on the brink of decimation and she was baking cookies. But then, isn't that why we were doing this? To preserve and protect the holiday rituals? Oh, and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ God's son sent to save us. Yes. Yes I would do my part to make sure our house would be illuminated. And then I'd have a cookie.
I’d work more feverishly, even taking off my mittens to speed the process. Frost bite? Who cares? Must. Find. The. Blinker. The fate of humanity rested in my hands. To speed the process, to make it more compelling, I imagined I was working out some complex military code. I had to stop the blinking before the bad guys blew up the entire country. My dad's progressively worse agitation at the blinking lights should have been compelling enough to motivate me. But my added imaginary saving humanity angle ensured I would find The Blinker in record time. I was always scared of what might happen to my dad if I didn’t find The Blinker in time to save him.
The relief of finding and replacing The Blinker was palpable. With The Steady firmly in place all was right with the world. My dad would see his vision of Holy exultation illumination to fruition. There would be cookies. We would live to see another Christmas.
This will be our first Christmas since my dad died. My mother and I are going through a lifetime of stuff, sorting, donating, discarding things in preparation for her downsizing to a smaller home. We both make wide passes around the boxes of holiday decorations. They're the elephant in the room we don't mention. But. In the past two months of sorting I've found stashes of holiday light replacement bulbs all over the house. It upset me, reduced me to gut wrenching sobs at first. But I find them so frequently, now, that I've become more used to the sadness and longing they invoke. I found two, clipped together, nestled in the middle of a roll of packing tape. I can imagine my dad, in the midst of his lighting prep, setting them down in there thinking they wouldn't roll away and would be ready if he needed them. Instead of crying that made me smile.
For the first time, well, ever, my parents' house and yard will not be illuminated for the holidays this year. I toyed, briefly, with the idea of lighting it up for my dad, in his honor. But the prospect is too painful. It's all still too new. Then I remembered the Broadway tradition of dimming the lights, "going dark," when an actor dies. That tradition seems apt for my dad's holiday lighting displays.
Cherry Cove Road will be dark this holiday in tribute to my dad.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Have you seen the movie 27 Dresses?
I didn't see it at the theater. I didn't want to see it.
It seemed like the sort of forced, contrived chick flick I don't usually enjoy.
But some of my friends have started to love forced, contrived chick flicks. Yes. These are the same friends who now like Lifetime.
I don't know when it happened. One day my friends were the kinds of women who read the Wall Street Journal, trade publications and non-fiction books for their professions, and used vacation days to go to in-depth courses pertaining to their jobs. We had long discussions about politics, religion, the environment, our place in the world and our responsibility to make it a better place. We didn't just talk. We brainstormed ideas, launched plans, got involved. For fun we went to concerts and movies. We liked to go to small (usually grimy) clubs to hear new bands. We saw bands whose music we liked, good music, meaningful music, music with depth, music that mattered. Not the slick, overproduced cute front-man bands at the arenas and cool clubs. When we went to movies we chose indie releases. Moves that mattered. Movies that made us think. Movies that explored concepts. Movies with great art direction. And subtitles. Yes. Often they were pretentious or reaching or affected or just stupid. (Hint: Just because a movie is French with subtitles doesn't automatically qualify it as important or art.) But. We liked stepping away from the pabulum that the big production houses served up as entertainment. We liked seeing actors other than the media-darling cookie cutters Hollywood flaunts as hot, new, young or popular. We liked seeing movies which were not financed via megaconglomerate corporations. We liked seeing movies that were something other than vehicles for selling products, clothes, cars, actors...
One by one those friends got married. And bought condos. And started having children. And quit their jobs. And moved to suburbs.
And the next day their interests changed. They stopped caring about their professions. The careers they spent years in college studying for and years working, striving and enjoying were abandoned and forgotten. These were smart women. I mean, they are smart women. Magna and summa cum laudes. Most have advanced (masters or above) degrees from top tier universities. They had big ideas, big aspirations for their lives - they were going to take on the world and change it. And yes, they did. They've impacted and changed the world by populating it with new people. In a few cases I know parenthood is just a hiatus - they will one day return to work and impact the world in ways other than producing new people.
But. In a lot of cases the women openly admit they have no intention of ever returning to work. Like alcoholics they swear they could stop being stay at home moms whenever they want. But when I talk about something in my life, a work related issue, they shudder and say things like, "I am so glad I don't have to put up with that sort of stuff anymore. I could never stand all the stress anymore."
The brainstorming and hard work on charities has been replaced with organizing PTA fundraisers, bake sales and family vacations.
Along with stopping their careers, they stopped going to concerts. They lost interest in music altogether. They became those people we said we'd never be: The people who stop listening to music in a certain year. And henceforth in their lives listen only to music recorded prior to that year. I call this the Whitesnake Phenomenon. Or the REO Phenomenon. Depending on the age/era of the person in question. Those bands also stopped exploring new music, but because of some fans also stuck in a time warp, they exist and even thrive on their moment of popularity. They would be forgotten were it not for the legions of people who stopped listening to music the year they were popular. (This phenomenon also explains why you still see acid wash jeans, flannel shirts, and mullets. And not to be confused with The Pink Floyd Syndrome wherein some victims (usually male) stopped listening to new music in 1978, but many new victims are still claimed on college campuses annually. Boys go into college listening to all kinds of music, and graduate fixated on Pink Floyd. It's sad, really.) My friends used to laugh at The Whitesnake Phenomenon. And now they're suffering from The Gin Blossoms Phenomenon. They started reading books they heard about on Oprah!. Wait. They watch Oprah!? Yep. They started watching Oprah!. They read Parents magazine. They "don't have time" to read national newspapers but devour the lifestyle section of the local newspapers. They love the parenting and marriage advice columns. They watch Lifetime. And. They like formulaic, contrived, always-a-happy ending, "romantic" chick flicks featuring the popular actress du jour and a couple random good looking men.
Consequently in recent years I started to dismiss most of their movie recommendations. Every now and then, on the increasingly rare occasions they have time and desire to see a movie in the evening or on a weekend (the only time I can go to a movie because I have a job which requires me to work during the days Monday - Friday (and often weekends)) they want to see chick-flicks. Lame, predictable chick-flicks. I go because I want to spend time with my friends, not because I want to see the movies they want to see. But. When they recommend a movie to me I just smile and nod like I'm trying to be polite to someone whose language I don't speak.
That's how I feel most of the time: I don't speak their language. They're foreigners to me.
When one-by-one they sent me emails telling me I had to see 27 Dresses I just hit delete.
Why so much prodding for this particular movie?
My "number."
Apparently I have an above average "number." They tell me the average woman's "number" is three, but I recall reading a survey saying the average "number" for normal, healthy women has increased to five.
My "number" is 13.
Which is 14 less than 27. But still on the high side for times down the aisle as a bridesmaid.
If I include flower girl duty and obligatory sibling wedding party participation I've logged 19 trips down the aisle. But I don't count those. Being a flower girl is the first base of wedding party participation, and siblings' weddings are like second base.
Oh, I saw the ads for 27 Dresses. I was aware of it. I knew the premise. And yes, I did chuckle at the idea.
But when my friends started sending emails saying, "OMG! You could have written that! It's a movie about you...well...except you haven't found a great guy yet,” I felt that familiar tug at my heart. I’m single. I have no boyfriend and no prospects. I haven’t even had a good date in, well, a long time. My friends’ lives are moving forward in the usual progression. Mine is not.
Thanks, pals. Twist that knife in my heart, why dontcha.
Married women, I'm talking to you. Once and for all: Single women know they're single. Single women do not need reminders that they're single from married friends.
I shunned 27 Dresses even more vehemently that I shun other chick-flick recommendations.
And then a ton of really awful stuff happened and I didn't see any movies for several months.
My condo assessment includes satellite tv. I have a bunch of movie channels. I rarely watch them. Not because I'm a movie snob. But. They do show a lot of 27 Dresses types of movies.
So. I had my first weekend home in a long time. I vowed I would do all the things I've been putting off since I've been helping my mother every weekend. The dishes piled in the sink would be washed. Groceries, real food would be procured. The pile of magazines and catalogs would be sorted and recycled. Summer clothes would be put in storage. Friday and Saturday nights would be spent on the couch with facial treatments, glasses of wine, magazines and movies.
I checked the lineup on my movie channels. There staring back at me in heavy rotation was: 27 Dresses.
I was deep into my second glass of wine, feeling lonely and down anyway, so I decided to seal the deal by watching a movie sure to make me feel emotionally worse but intellectually superior. In the comfort of my home, alone, I could talk back at the tv and make fun of how insipid and insulting the plot, dialog and acting is in the movie.
And, at any point in the movie, I could simply change the channel.
27 Dresses did not disappoint. It lived up to my expectations. In fact it exceeded them. It managed to not only make single women look like sad, desperate, emotional wrecks until they meet Mr. Right and have a wonderfully romantic wedding, it also covered the single woman as conniving, manipulative, single-minded mission to get a man liars angle, too.
Yay 27 Dresses producers, directors and actors. Applause, applause.
Yes. I have been in 13 weddings. I have worn three really, truly laughable dresses (pink and/or butt bows and/or taffeta), six not awful but straight out of the "make the bride look stunning in comparison" school dresses, and four very nice "regular" dresses (which, yes, I have indeed worn again). Eleven of those dresses required special accoutrements, and all of them cost a lot more money than I could afford to spend on any garment, let alone a dress I didn't need or want. Attached to those dresses were a lot of obligations. Bridal showers. Bachelorette parties. Gifts. Plane tickets. Hotel rooms. Hair appointments. Affixing a pleasant but not show stealing smile on your face and keeping it there at all times when the bride is present. Sitting at whatever table is available - usually with the groom's bitter aunt and two of the grooms drunk fraternity buddies.
One point 27 Dresses did make was that the lead character, Jane, wasn't bitter about "being there" for her friends. She defended her friends and claimed she had fun at their weddings. (Though the flashback sequence of those "fun weddings" showed her looking like a fool, cringing with embarrassment an generally not having fun. Ahhhh. Hollywood.) Flashback sequences aside, I agree with the sentiment about "being there" for friends and having fun at their weddings.
No. I didn't have fun at all 13 weddings. I had fun at some of them. Some of them were torturous. A couple of them have become fuzzy, distant memories. Much like the brides, my friends. Interesting how, the better the friend, the more likely it is that I had fun at, and being in, her wedding.
At the happy, obvious end of 27 Dresses (spoiler alert) Jane marries the male friend who was there for her all along but she was too wrapped up being mad/jealous of the bride and/or in love with the bride's fiance that she never noticed her own Mr. Right was right there all along. I know! What a surprise ending! No, really, there is a surprise twist! All of the 27 women for whom Jane served as a bridesmaid were bridesmaids in Jane's wedding! But wait! I mean, this ending is just such a priceless surprise! They're all wearing the dresses Jane wore as a bridesmaid in their weddings! I know! I didn't see that coming, either! So cute! So funny! So sweet! So romantic! Such a happy feel good movie.
Whatever.
And here's where I sound like a bitter, resentful, jealous shrew.
Seven of the 13 women, the brides, my friends, have drifted from my life. I moved. They moved. They changed jobs. Had kids. Quit jobs. Moved. We've just fallen out of touch. It happens.
But.
If I were to get married I have no way of getting retribution. I couldn't put them in a questionable and expensive dress. I couldn't even send them an invitation to the wedding and tell them where I'm registered.
Those 13 dresses and affiliated expenses for the weddings cost me a lot of money. I agreed to participate in those weddings and therefore agreed to take on the financial responsibility. I didn't agree because I thought, "One day I'll get married and I will expect you, bride, to repay this favor." I agreed because the women were my friends. They thought enough of me to want me in their wedding or they needed a "fill in" to round out the wedding party where there were more groomsmen and ushers than bridesmaids. I thought enough of them to agree to take on the responsibility.
But 27 Dresses gave me pause for thought about this. I tallied the estimated outlay of money for each of the dresses, the affiliated expenses, the shoes, the hair, the gifts, the airfare, the hotel room expense.
Holy matrimonial expense. Sheesh.I try not to think of friends in terms of money and expenses. Or debts. But. I've had a lot of medical and unexpected expenses in the past year. The money I spent on those 13 weddings would come in really handy.
I'm not married. There is no wedding on my horizon. Those 13 women got a free-ride with me in terms of wedding expenses. They've never had to repay the favor it it's looking very unlikely that they ever will. Certainly those seven women who've drifted out of my life came out ahead in the financial aspect of our friendship. They got a bridesmaid who bought a dress she didn't like, plus accoutrements, and gave bridal shower, bachelorette and wedding gifts, and in a few of those cases, also gave baby shower presents, too. I got nothing, nothing financially in return.
I know. I know. That sounds petty. Calculating. Jealous. Bitter. And I'm not any of those things. I don't go around thinking, "They owe me." But. Ya know. Um. It would be nice if they acknowledged the unbalanced financial outlay scale. I don't have a lot of things. I bought my first home last year. I need everything. Heck, forget the usual wedding presents of china and crystal. The sort of gifts you get at a bridal shower would be really helpful for me. Some towels and sheets would be awesome. A spoon that doesn't bend when I mix cookie dough would be really helpful. Heck, while I'm dreaming, why not dream big and fantasize about an electric mixer?! Every one of those bridesmaid dresses cost more than $100. Most were over $200. Putting aside the cost of the gifts, the expenses for just one of the dresses, shoes, accoutrements, hair and travel expenses would pay for just about everything I need for my new home. If just one of those brides gave me Bed, Bath and Beyond and Lowe's giftcards totaling the amount I spent to be in her wedding I could make a nice little comfortable home for myself. Instead I make do without home goods or use hand-me-downs from my mother and stuff I've schlepped from apartment to apartment. Stuff I bought to get by with until I could afford better quality versions. Somehow I've managed to keep house without a zester. No, they're not that expensive, but make do with an olive fork I won playing a bridal shower game. It would be really nice to have real home goods. It would be nice to register at stores and have people buy exactly what I want for me.
But. Since I haven't achieved the success of finding a man to marry me, I do not deserve gifts. I understand. However. I have been a good, uncomplaining, supportive, responsible friend and bridesmaid. 13 times.
6:34 PM
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I have boobs. Two of ‘em. I have the sort of boobs which are described in polite company (e.g.: Playtex commercials, mom’s “foundations” catalogs, church potlucks) with words like ample, full, well endowed and buxom. Pendulous is sometimes used in an effort to remain polite, too. In less polite company words like bazongas, knockers, hooters, ta tas, jugs, melons, magumbos, and rack come up a lot. I’ve heard ‘em all. I could write a pages long list of the terms I’ve heard applied to boobs. My boobs.
No.
I’m not bragging.
Note the long list of derogatory slang for breasts compared to the relatively short list of “polite” slang for breasts. Having derogatory sexual slang applied to you on a regular basis is not cause for bragging.
When I was young I vowed that breasts would always be called breasts and nothing else. Especially my breasts. Anything else would be childish, rude and offensive.
Ahhh, youth. At some point in my college years I gave up the fight for anatomically correct and mature reference to that part of the female anatomy. It’s no coincidence that my breasts came into their (pardon the pun) full development when I was in college. I was a late bloomer. And boy did I bloom. My body made up for lost time over the course of a semester of college. People find it difficult to believe that until I was 18 I was flat as a board, and it wasn’t until I was 19/20 that they started taking on proportions which gave them a life of their own. It’s also no coincidence that also was when I began my journey through anorexia.
As my breasts became ever fuller, I suddenly started getting a lot of attention from boys. Unwanted attention. Negative attention. Sexually objectified attention. Boys who never noticed me when I was flat as a board, and even the boys who used to mock me suddenly began making sexual comments or “jokes” about me. Or more specifically: about my breasts. More difficult than those taunts, though, was the reaction from the boys who were once my friends. Boys who hadn't wanted to date me prior to the advent of my breasts, but liked me as a friend, for my personality, suddenly became crude, salivating testosterone driven jerks who stared at my breasts instead of talking about new bands and sharing laughs and ideas for homework assignments.
It seemed like it happened overnight. One day I was the quiet, unpopular nerdy girl and the next day I was the subject of jokes and sexual taunts regarding my breasts. Boys were crude and girls were catty. Girls thought I got breast implants. Girls I didn’t even know made eye contact then poignantly dropped their gaze to my breasts, then rolled their eyes at me. Some were more vocal, accusing me of selling out to the male stereotypes of women.
At the time I was in art school. One evening I returned home after a long day of classes, dumped out my tote bag, and along with tubes of paint, pens and pencils were two kneaded erasers formed into the shape of breasts. On a weekly basis there were drawings of me, or, well, mainly my breasts, circulated around classes. If “caught,” the illustrators would say, “Geesh, can’t you take a joke?” The blame for their disrespectful antics was placed on me. One of my teachers, a person I deeply admired and respected, lost all respect and credibility with one statement to me, “Well, Trillian, they are enormous. What do you expect?”
I expect respect. I expect to attend college without being openly harassed.
The message I heard was: You have large breasts so you deserve (and should expect) a lot of sexual attention and jokes. No one called them breasts. I eventually came to the realization that the “kindest” term I heard about them, the term that was said with the least crudity, was boobs. So. Boobs they were. I hate boobies. But made peace with the term boobs. I liked it because boob is the term for an idiot. And people seemed to assume that I was an idiot because I had large boobs. It was appropriately ironic. I grew breasts and suddenly the perception of my IQ dropped several points. But the biggest reason I made peace with the term boobs is that my breasts turned men into ignorant boobs. It was my joke on the entire male population. Since then the term boob and has come and gone and come and gone in and out of favor with me, but generally I’m okay with it. They’re boobs. Once I made peace with them (which took a long, long time) I made peace with the term boobs. I’m even okay with rack. Probably because those terms don’t specifically imply size or sexuality. Most women have boobs or a rack. Some boobs/racks are small, some are medium, some are large, but we all have boobs/racks. Any adjective can be placed in front of the words boobs or rack to fit the appropriate description of the boobs or rack up for discussion.
Back then I hated my breasts. Absolutely hated them. I did everything I could to minimize them and camouflage them. I wore two and sometimes three jogging bras in an attempt to flatten them into my lungs. I wore the baggiest sweatshirts I could find. Consequently I spent years walking around looking like the Michelin Man’s daughter. I did every possible form of chest/pectoral exercise and weight lifting. They didn’t get smaller, but for a while they were the firmest DDs on the planet. I was one of the few women with DDs who didn’t “need” to wear a bra.
I talked to a doctor about reduction surgery. She empathized but said until I developed physical problems due to my breasts (back and neck problems) insurance wouldn’t pay for any portion of the surgery. Back and neck problems??? At that age I hadn't considered that possibility. I was athletic and fit. Strong and healthy. The physics of the added weight in front pulling on my back and neck hadn't occurred to me. The doctor attempted to console me by telling me that since I was tall, broad shouldered, strong and fit I probably didn't need to worry about back and neck problems. "This is the way nature intended - you can carry them, you have the stature and strength for them." Oh lucky me. I begged my parents to help me pay for breast reduction surgery. It was extremely expensive. I didn’t have the surgery.
I thought by losing weight I’d lose some breast. At the time I was already 10 pounds underweight. That was not a huge deal – I was very active and riding a lot of bike marathons at the time, and all those chest/pec exercises were giving me well toned arms, so there was no cause for alarm. I looked healthy. I was healthy. So when I dropped another 10 pounds no one noticed – the baggy sweatshirts I’d taken to wearing to hide my boobs helped conceal some of the weight loss. (I later learned this is an anorexia “trick” girls use around parents to hide their weight loss.) But even though I was then 20 pounds underweight, my breasts remained swollen mounds of flesh on my otherwise lean (and getting scrawny) body. I stopped eating everything except a small portion of oatmeal, some tofu and an apple a day. I was taking in about 400 – 500 calories a day and burning many more calories than that in bike training. Before anorexia hit I could build muscle quite easily, particularly on my legs and arms. Thanks to a lot of bike riding I had thighs and calves of steel. But. Anorexia robs you of fat and muscle. I used to clock great times in marathons. Within a few months I’d lost so much weight and muscle that my times dropped to shockingly long levels. Within a year I dropped out of competitive riding altogether. I craved the bike riding and exercise but didn’t have the muscle or energy to power the bike at a time that wasn’t ridiculously embarrassing. I’m not a competitive person, and I don’t “mind” coming in last, someone has to lose. But. When I was coming in not only last, but long after everyone had left, it was time to call it quits. I made a painful conscious choice: I wanted to be thin with smaller breasts more than I wanted to continue doing an activity I loved.
Do I blame my breasts for this? Not entirely. But they were a factor in my becoming anorexic. I remember the triumphant day that I fit comfortably into a bra which was a cup size smaller. Many anorexic girls mark their “triumphs” with smaller jeans or a number on the scale. For me it was cup size. When I got down to a C cup I felt that I was almost normal. I started to wear clothes other than baggy sweatshirts.
The boys who’d teased me were now replaced by men who tried to seduce me, or rather, my breasts. I didn’t completely comprehend this at first. They didn’t tease or crudely comment on my breasts. Instead they’d cloak their desire to see my breasts as interest in me. It took some horrible heartbreak to learn these men were not interested in me, they were interested in my breasts. They did not find me attractive, they didn't care about me or my personality, they just liked my boobs. I felt stupid, ashamed and indignant that a) men could be as shallow, hurtful and stupid and b) that I was naive and stupid enough to not see through them from the get-go.
I started wearing loose shirts again and lost another 17 pounds. At this point I was fasting three days/week. I ate every other day. And still the boobs were filling C cups to the rims. At the worst point I was 53 pounds underweight.
Eventually I got so malnourished that I was sick. Really sick. If I used my asthma inhaler I’d get dry heaves – there was nothing to throw up – and that would make me dizzy and I’d pass out. I knew I was sick, that it was more than a bout of asthma but I didn’t want to see a doctor. A doctor would make me eat.
Eventually I collapsed and was hospitalized with double pneumonia. The attending physician sized me up and knew I had anorexia. He treated the pneumonia and wouldn’t let me leave hospital until I gained 15 pounds. He spent a lot of time talking to me about health and fitness and how fragile the balance is – and how ridiculous and unattainable the modern image of the ideal woman is and how sad it is that intelligent women fall prey to media images. He told me he’d bring me anything I wanted to eat - non-hospital food. It had been so long since I’d eaten “real” food. I’d been forcing away cravings for so long that I didn’t even know what I liked to eat.
Every day he brought in something different and would make me try it. When I was well enough to talk without coughing up what appeared to be vital organs I confided my plight to him. All of it, including the breast issues. He’d been treating my lungs, listening to them, he’d seen my breasts. I figured he knew better than just about anyone what I was dealing with in that area.
We talked a lot about the negative attention my boobs garnered. We talked about what purpose boobs serve. We talked about how stupid men can be. We talked about how competitive women can be. We talked about how insecure both genders are. We talked about what I wanted to do with my life. My goals, my dreams, my hopes, my interests, my likes and dislikes. None of my aspirations or likes involved anything remotely to do with men who covet large breasts or women who criticize other women. Nothing I enjoyed or wanted to try required smaller breasts. Anyone who was petty and superficial enough to use, hurt, insult or judge me by my breasts was not worthy of a second of my time or consideration. When we talked, when he pointed out those obvious facts, I felt reassured and relieved. I knew all of that all along, but no one else had ever confirmed any of it.
My breasts were either a source of negative attention or were simply not discussed in polite company. Finally someone, a man, no less, spoke the realistic and sane perspective on breasts. My breasts. This guy was probably 15 years older than me, intelligent, funny, kind, educated and respectful. I trusted him and I trusted his opinion. I thought, “Okay, this guy respects me. He’s an intelligent, kind man. The sort of guy I’d want to date. If he feels this way surely there are others like him.” I started eating. He saved my life and I’m grateful for his intervention and help.
I went back to work and grad school. I gained a few pounds and within a few weeks was right back up to a D cup. I focused on being healthy. Eating healthy. Exercising healthy. Gaining muscle and energy. Feeling healthy. For the first time since they “grew in” I thought of my breasts in terms of their function. One day those boobs would nourish a baby or two. I thought of them as useful, purposeful and for the first time ever: I still didn’t see the need for such large ones, but I was proud of what they would one day do for my babies. I wanted to be healthy so they would be healthy so my eventual babies would be healthy. (Cue The Circle of Life.)
A few months later, as if on cue, I met a guy who wasn’t a “boob guy.” He liked my personality. It was the first sane, rational, healthy, respectful dating relationship I’d ever had with a man. He liked me. When he talked to me he looked at me, my eyes, not my boobs. When I talked he listened to what I was saying, and gave thoughtful responses. When he touched me he touched my hand, my arm, my face, my neck, my waist – and never “slipped” and “accidentally” touched my breasts. He encouraged me to gain weight. We cooked meals together and I learned to enjoy food again. We had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs.
And then we broke up. For a lot of reasons.
Then I moved. And moved on.
Many years later via a friend of a friend, he contacted me. And we talked. I found out one of the reasons on his “list” of reasons why we didn’t make it as a couple was that his friends made a lot of sexual jokes and remarks about my breasts. It bothered him that his friends were fixated on his girlfriend’s breasts. It bothered him that when we went out together other men stared at my breasts. It bothered him that women thought he was a stupid superficial man because he was dating a woman with breast implants.
Yes. My breasts embarrassed him.
When we were dating he never mentioned any of this to me. But, there he was, years later, “coming clean” about it. He said at the time he didn’t know how to approach the topic without hurting my feelings. So instead we broke up. Which hurt my feelings.
So there’s the back-story on my boobs.
I’m older and a lot more jaded and don’t care what anyone thinks about my body. Sure, I’d rather not be objectified. I'd rather not have men stare at my boobs. But I’ve learned that’s unrealistic. I do the best I can to minimize them, keep them covered and draped so as to deflect attention away from them. But if I feel like wearing a t-shirt, I wear a t-shirt. Negative attention be damned.
After HWNMNBS dumped me I was devastated. Emotionally dead. The fact that he dumped me because I’m ugly left very deep wounds. I vowed I wouldn’t let them be permanent wounds. But. As time has passed and repeatedly men tell me they’re not attracted to me (in varying tones of disgust and bluntness) I’ve learned that it wasn’t just HWNMNBS. One guy said, “Nice rack, shame about the rest of you.” It was at a concert and he was drunk so it’s not as if coming from him I was insulted. But. Remarks like that chink away and take their toll. I understand. I’ve heard it all. I know. Many, many men do not find me attractive. Okay. Whatever. I’m going to spend my life alone and loveless. I’m learning to accept that. I was dealt this set of DNA. It is what it is. And it is apparently not attractive to men. And I’m not getting any younger and whatever positive physical aspects I might have had are waning.
But. Har har. Gotta laugh at this. If I wear a t-shirt or top that isn’t loose/baggy/draped men look at my boobs. Then they look up at my face and quickly turn away and continue on their way. But. The boobs snare them for a few seconds.
Yes. It has occurred to me to put them out there more, to use them to attract men. I’ve tried it. And yes, it attracts a few men. Men who stare at women’s breasts. Men who are interested in breasts and nothing else. Men who think conversation is a necessary nuisance to get past so the real fun can begin with the boobs. I prefer to remain alone and loveless, thanks.
Complicating the boob issue is my height. At 5’11” I’m taller than a lot of men. If I wear even a 1” heel I’m 6’ tall. Very often men have to look up to me to make eye contact. My boobs are more in their line of vision than my eyes. Shorter men can’t help but “notice” my boobs. It can be awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved. If the guy is polite and bothers to try to pay attention to me and not my boobs, the resulting awkwardness pretty much kills all hope for getting to know each other. One shorter man I met via an online dating site finally just came out and said, “I didn’t think this height difference through as well as I should have, I don’t think this is going to work out…” he nodded toward my chest calling my attention to the fact that his chin was exactly at cleavage level.
Apart from dating issues I don’t mind, now, that I have them. I still wish they were smaller. I wish instead of noticing my breasts people would notice my brain, my creativity, my eyes or my smile. I wish I didn't have to compensate or make adjustments to some of the things smaller breasted women don't even have to consider.
They’re a pain at the gym – even a mild clip on the treadmill requires wearing two jogging bras. Buying blouses is difficult – I have to buy tops to fit my boobs, which means going up a couple sizes larger than the rest of me. And forget trying to find a dress that fits without a ton of tailoring. Bathing suit shopping is universally dreaded, but adding a long torso and disproportionate boobs to the equation makes for comedy worthy of the good seasons on Saturday Night Live.
The pretty, dainty bras sold at popular shops aren’t made in my size. Or, rather, the few pretty dainty ones which are made in my size don’t do anything a bra is supposed to do. One of the popular “intimates” stores has a special drawer in the back of the store for women my size. Yes. They hide the bra, singular, they have one style of bra for us, in a drawer in the back of the store. It’s not a pretty bra. It’s not dainty or sexy or lacy or see-through. It’s not quite as bad as a ‘50s Sears catalog bra, but it’s close. And even that bra at that store doesn’t really “work.” It’s better than the ridiculous lack of support and accentuation the other bras they try to pass off as my size offer, but, that’s not saying much. So instead I buy utilitarian bras which are packaged in boxes (as opposed to pretty dainty little hangers) and conjure images of Communist regime work camps and “mature” women named Helga.
My breast exams are always a treat, I do them in the shower while conditioning my hair. I get a really deep condition treatment on breast exam days. I often wonder and worry if I've missed a spot. When a doctor does it it takes so long it gets kind of awkward laying there for a prolonged period of time while she works away at my breasts. But I’m used to it, now. I don’t really mind anymore. The compensations I make and the negative attention they attract is just part of my life. I’m used to it. They are bigger than average. I should expect it. So far my back and neck are pain-free. Apparently I can carry them, I am built to handle them.
It's becoming obvious I won't be a mother. I won't have babies and my breasts will not perform the function they're intended to perform. The reason, their reason, which gave me perspective and solace, won't be actualized. The sting and sorrow of not having children is amplified twice as much. Not only am I trying to accept and come to some sort of peace with not having children, I have to find other forms of solace in "dealing" with my breasts. There they are, ready and waiting...and waiting...and waiting...the biology which I found so much comfort and pride in is losing its purpose and hence its calming influence on me. They're no longer sources of life and nourishment for my babies. They're just boobs.
Why all this boob talk? Why not? Why the fascination with boobs? Why not demystify them?
Plus, I forgot to post this in October for breast cancer month. ooops. I'm such a boob sometimes.
3:25 PM
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Being an indie filmmaker is hard.
The Barack Obama Owes Me Money project is stalled due to a lack of funding. And resources. And time.
Renting equipment and people who know how to use it is really expensive. I have a new…something, I’m not sure what…a new awareness, I guess, for publicity and media desperate “stars” who hire crews to follow them around for a day. It ain't cheap. Or easy. Getting equipment is very expensive, hiring a crew to use it is even more expensive. If you're down, and out, and desperate enough to want or "need" to resort to that sort of publicity you can't be on your last $20. You have to at least have some goods to pawn to hire the crew.
I’ve always admired the pioneering and creative spirits who toil away at their project, driven by creativity, integrity and a diet of Ramen noodles. The ones who see it through to the end and make great, well, okay, good, films on shoestring budgets with no studio or commercial or trust fund financial backing. Real independents. Not the faux independents. The real independents who have day jobs, a second weekend/night job, crappy apartments and barely running cars because every penny they earn goes toward The Project.
The internet is a boon to those filmmakers. (Thanks, Al Gore.) Remember The Blair Witch Project? All internet. Minimal investment compared to studio films. It looks cheesy and stupid, now, but, back then it was huge. And heck yes, I paid money to see it – and heck, yes, I got a couple good scares. YouTube gives those types of filmmakers a free venue to showcase or premier their films. There are a ton of “film in progress” YouTubers who post segments of their film as they are able to shoot it. Beware: Some of those “indie” filmmakers are actually backed by studios or commercial sponsors. Not a big deal unless you don’t like being taken in by gimmicks. If you were a) surprised and b) bothered to learn that LonelyGirl was actually a paid actress, then the faux indie films aren’t for you. YouTube is a buyer beware, swim at your own risk zone.
I thought, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I actually tried to make Barack Obama Owes Me Money?” After a couple glasses of wine with MAF it started to sound like a really funny idea. It also sounded viable, what with YouTube and everything. Make it super cheap and cheesy. Which isn’t a problem for me. I’m the real deal. I’m authentic. I have no money. I have no choice but to make it cheap and cheesy. Authentically cheap and cheesy.
MAF and I outlined a to-do list.
1) Procure video recording equipment. 2) Send Barack Obama a copy of my $20 assessment fee for security during election night. 3) Wait for the check to arrive. 4) Video the glorious day the check arrives. OR 5) Find out where the election campaign financial headquarters is. 6) Call them and ask if they received my request for reimbursement. 7) Wait for response. 8) Request a meeting with Obama. 9) Wait for response.
That's as far as we got.
Yes. There’s a lot of waiting in this film. A lot of downtime. I figure I can fill in with all the ways the financial hardship of having to pay an extra $20 assessment effects my life, play out the what-if scenarios. A friend calls and wants to go to dinner. I can’t go because I had to pay an extra $20 assessment. I miss the opportunity to meet the friend’s husband’s brother-in-law who’s looking to hire someone exactly like me for a great job. Or, my online dating profile expires because I had to pay an extra $20, and finally, a great guy, Mr. Right, tries online dating and I miss the opportunity to meet him because my membership expired. Or, there’s a charity raffle for a new car but because I had to pay an extra $20 assessment I could only buy one raffle ticket. Had I bought two I would have won the car – the ticket sold after mine was the winner. Or, I’m $20 shy of the rental fee for decent video equipment and so I can’t shoot my indie movie and someone else takes my idea, launches a website, gets some buzz, shows it at Cannes and Sundance, makes enough money to quit their miserable day job and starts a charitable organization doing good all over the world and lives a life of a charitable, at times eccentric and sometimes reclusive philanthropist.
It’s not only a study in the bureaucratic process, it’s the age-old story telling technique of exploring: What if I hadn’t done this? What might have happened? Or not? What if being a day late and a dollar short (or $20 short) really does give someone else the opportunity to live the life you want, and could have had…if you weren’t a day late and a dollar short (or $20). It’s not about blame, it’s about choices. It’s not about fate, it’s about time. It’s not about failure, it’s about consequences. It’s not about Obama, it’s about the ramifications of unfulfilled promises.
No, you won’t find a lot of hope in this film And sure, it’s formulaic. But c’mon. It’s all been done. Ask Sylvester Stallone, George Lucas or the makers of the Saw movies if they are concerned about being formulaic.
So. Here’s my first hurdle. #1 on the list. Procuring video recording equipment. I have two cameras with video functionality. But. The sound is worse than cheap – and not in a cool indie film kind of way. In an annoying, “Huh? What did she say?” kind of way.
I have my dad’s 12-year-old video camera. In its day it was a good camera. But. Its day was 12 years ago. It’s not digital. Okay. Sure. That hurdle can be overcome, but not without more equipment and work and time. Equipment and time that I do not have.
I thought, briefly, about animating it.
Ahhhh, now, see, that would be something, wouldn’t it? An animated mockumentary. I’ve dabbled with animation software. I don’t actually own any, but I have access to it. And I’ve dabbled. Way back when, in the olden days when I was in college, I made an animated short feature. It was a long, labor intensive project which took an entire semester, all the school’s editing resources and resulted in a 3 minute clip. Times have changed and I’ve tried to at least read articles about animation developments, but I’m not exactly on the cutting edge of knowledge in that area. Nor do I have access to cutting edge technology. I only have access to dull edged technology.
And I dunno. It might lose some of its gritty punch.
So here I am, back where I started. Or, actually, I never really started. Which I guess means I’m just back. Way back. End of the line.
I could “shop” my idea. Write it up and send it out to all those studio execs who are always looking for something new and different…but…then…whoops, there goes the integrity.
And, har har, slight challenge there…I don’t actually know any studio execs who are looking for an indie mockumentary idea about Obama’s election night party promises and one citizen's literal interpretation and her attempt to get $20 from Barack Obama.
So, using my college animation short as an equation model, in 25 years (if I’m diligent and pursue this with dogged determination and single-minded focus) I might have a 30 minute mockumentary. You might want to set your fare watchers to France and Utah for the year 2033. It’ll be cool to be at the premier and say, “I remember reading about this on Trillian’s blog 25 years ago.”
MAF thinks I should make t-shirts, coffee mugs and tote bags and give them away as donation premiums, like on PBS. And sure, there is a certain “Frankie Says Relax”-ness to “Barack Obama Owes Me Money.” But people are so in love with him I’m not sure they’d be willing to risk the possible controversy. No one will say anything funny or remotely negative about Obama, let alone wear a t-shirt or sport a tote bag or coffee mug which could be construed as critical of Obama.
So. I dunno. Maybe I’ll test the market. Watch this space.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Barack Obama owes me money.
My building (home) security had concerns about election night festivities getting out of hand and wanted to take the advice given by the local authorities and bring in extra security personnel for election night.
Okay, fair enough. My new ‘hood is an area plagued by vandalism and hijinks under normal circumstances, so add the celebratory element and it’s fair to assume our lone night security guard could have his hands full.
We’re a small condo association. We run a neat, organized, tight ship. But there are no frills. There is no fat in our condo association budget for extra security personnel. So. It was decided by our board that we’d all have to pay an extra $20 in our assessment fee next month to cover the cost of extra security for election night. The board and many of my neighbors felt it was a small price to pay for the safety of the residents in our building.
We have an entry door and garage door on the back side of our building. The back of our building is adjacent to an alley which is a hotbed of activity. I don’t mean athletics and neighborhood get-togethers kind of activity. We don’t even put our dumpsters back there until minutes before the trash guys arrive because a) homeless people sleep in them, b) drug dealers hide their stash in them, c) drug users throw their needles in them, and d) local youths set fire to them. (But not until they paw through them looking for stashed drugs and getting jabbed with used needles.)
Our security guard has his hands full on normal nights. So the election night increase in security was helpful for him.
As I type that out the plan for extra security sounds reasonable enough. I guess.
And there was a lot of gunfire last night. Yes, guns. That’s what “we” do here in Chicago to celebrate. New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July everyone goes out and shoots their guns into the air like Yosemite Sam.* Yes. Chicago has “illegal discharge” laws which prohibit the firing of guns “for fun” or “without a permit” in the city. And yet. When it’s time to celebrate people take out the guns and fire them into the air. In a densely populated urban area. I dunno. I can’t offer an explanation or excuse. I’m not from here. I’ve heard celebratory gunfire is culturally acceptable and expected in the Balkans, most of the Middle East, Pakistan and Afghanistan. And Chicago. I dunno. I’m not from here. I just observe and report. And pay Mayor Daley my tithe to his regime in the form of criminally high property taxes for the privilege of living here in the land of celebratory gunfire.
And sirens blared up and down the streets around my building all night long. I heard a lot of yelling and police talking through their loud speakers. So obviously there was a lot of celebratory hinjinks going on in the ‘hood. I admit I felt “good” about having extra security guys on hand – if for no other reason than to give our regular night guy some breathing space. I like our night security guard, he’s nice and he keeps a good watch over us. The neighborhood dealers, vandals and miscreants know he has a zero tolerance policy about our building and the residents and when he's on duty they stay away. One of my neighbors told me he once stopped a mugging and held the perp in a head lock with one hand and called the cops with the other. Put it this way: If there were a real emergency he’s the guy I’d want to have around.
I guess I was relieved he'd have back-up, some extra security on duty.
Obama said he’s going to pay for everything related to his election night celebration. Well sir, let me add my $20 special assessment fee for security to his stack of election night bills to pay.
And.
We have 40 people in my department. Two of us stayed until 4 PM on election night. We finally left because our office building security was making rounds every half hour and kept coming by and telling us to go home. Never mind that I ended up cutting short a conference call with some West coast clients.
Five of us showed up for work the day after the election. I expected some absenteeism. But not 85.5%.
We’ve been having a lot of ongoing complications with a project. I say "we" because I'm a team player, not because the complications are a result of anything I did or did not do. The client is growing ever more frustrated. They couldn’t reach anyone directly related to the project by phone yesterday afternoon (and I was on said conference call) and no replies were sent to their emails. (Said conference call involved me looking at a website and I didn’t check my email for a couple hours – I know, how dare me?! The nerve!) So I spent several phone calls and emails today trying to salve the growing wound my colleagues have created with this client. They created this mess, and now, when it’s coming to an ugly head, none of them are here to deal with it because a) Obama invited them to his party and b) they were too hungover and/or high on life to come to work the day after his election night party.
Though, on the plus side, my commute to work this morning was the best I’ve had in years – the train and bus were practically empty.
And there's a woman from another department who's been singing hymns at the top of her voice in the ladies room off and on all day. She has a nice voice and from way down the hall and around the corner it makes a sort of gospel Muzak background noise. Though it's kind of weird to go in there to use the bathroom with her wailing away about faith and Him in there with tears streaming down her face so I went to another floor to use their bathroom.
Not to be a funsapping shrew, but...who’s paying for all this loss of business? Obama said he’s going to pay for the expense of his election night party, do you think he’ll pay the bill I send him for losses resulting from my colleagues not being here because of his election night party? Is it reasonable of me to make that request? At the very least is it reasonable to ask him to reimburse us for the hours of pay my colleagues used to attend and recover from his party?
Or am I being a nitpicking hardass? Lately it's difficult for me to tell the difference. I was told the definitions of professional and responsibility and obligation vary from person to person. It was suggested that I lower my expectations of some people in our office. I didn't think my standards were very high. In fact I thought some of the problem was that my expectations weren't high enough. I thought maybe I'd created this monster by cutting too much slack and taking on responsibilities which belong to other people. I'm super easy going about absences. If you're sick, don't come to work. If you have car trouble or your kid has a problem at school, so what if you're late? Life happens. You need an extra vacation day because the air fares are cheaper if you wait a day? Fine. Yay you for finding a good deal. On the other hand, you're paid to do a specific job, and you do it as outlined in the job description. You come to work and put on your game face for the team and do the best you can. You understand that your salary and the success of the company is based on earning money from clients. We trade products and services for money. That's how business works. And everyone plays a role in that process. So. You treat your clients as if your salary depends on them. Because it does.
But my expectations of other people are too high. So. I'm confused about the line between reasonable expectation and nitpicking hardassness lately. It would be nice of my colleagues realize and remember that I covered for them when they were reveling in election night and day after hangovers. But they won't. One of my colleagues who showed up for work and I discussed this. He said, "I had to be here today. I have a site going live tomorrow. That's my excuse. Why are you here? Why aren't you absent like everyone else? You can't be upset with them because you came to work and they didn't. This is history. If you want to spend history in your office that's your business, not theirs."
See what I mean about expectations? It's all relative to your personal perspective. And apparently I'm a nitpicking hardass.
Work-related expenses aside, it seems fair to request reimbursement for the $20 I had to spend on extra security for my building. Does anyone know where I send the bill? Democratic convention headquarters? Mr. Obama's senatorial office? His personal residence?
I hate to get off on the wrong foot with Mr. Obama, but, $20 is a lot of money for me. I've had a ton of unexpected and medical expenses in the past year. My budget is already tight. And I had to pay a larger tithe to God Daley in October. (he doesn't like to raise property taxes but, heh heh, funny thing is, I moved-in to my place in April of '07. I've paid three property tax bills and they've been progressively higher with each installment. Since I'm a new homeowner I have almost nothing in escrow so I've had to cough up extra money every six months to cover the tax increase. But Daley doesn't like to increase property taxes.)
Anyone want to make it interesting and bet on whether or not I get reimbursed my $20 from Obama?
Maybe I could make an indie documentary a la Roger and Me. Barack and My $20. Or, Trillian's Big Adventure. Or, Tax, Lies and Campaign Promises. Or, Looking for Mr. Good... oh wait, no, that was Clinton. How about, Trillian and Barack Make a Deal. Or, wait, wait, I know, I know! The Lost Barack Covenant. (That's how brainstorming works. You just freely associate, go wherever the ideas and words take you and voila! Cool, huh?!) I dunno, though. I think for now the working title will stand at Barack Obama Owes Me Money. It has an air of indie simplicity and edge to it.
*Hey, wow, that’s two Yosemite Sam references in three weeks. And he’s my least favorite Looney Tune. Hmmmm. Wonder what that means?
2:03 PM
Monday, November 03, 2008 You know I’m a big fan of Freedom of Speech. Any blogger should express their gratitude for freedom of speech every time they hit publish on their blog. I’ve made it my habit to say, “Thank you for the right, privilege and responsibility of the Freedom of Speech” every time I hit publish. If you think I’m kidding guess again. I’ve made it part of my conscious to be conscientious.
I know. Acknowledging Constitutional rights one day, praying to a supreme deity the next. I know. It’s a short leap to prayer. Or superstition. I’m neither religious or superstitious so I’m confident my acknowledgment of my rights won’t spread to scary places. But. Speaking of free speech, it’s nice to know that if I get religion, or superstition, I have the right to pray or de-jinx. It’s also really great to sleep soundly in the knowledge that I have the right to say I’m not religious. Or superstitious.
So. Hot on the heels of Freedom of Speech week I exercised several Constitutional rights and voted early. That was my plan all along. I cherish my right to vote, but the official polling place for my new address is, well, scary. It’s tucked in the middle of a block on a street which is so crime ridden that the city police cameras are habitually shot and disabled. It takes months for them to be repaired. Meanwhile drugs are openly sold on the sidewalk and young kids walk in packs carrying baseball bats, golf clubs and other heavy stick-like objects. A few weeks ago walking from the train I looked down the street and saw five boys carrying hockey sticks. It’s highly unlikely they were heading to a pick-up game of street hockey. So I’m not exactly keen on trotting down there at 7 in the morning to cast my vote.
It’s the first time I’ve ever had to consider if I value my right to vote enough to die (or get mugged/assaulted) for it. Would I die to cast my ballot? I hope it wouldn’t come to that. Or, at the very least, if I were considering dying for my vote I would hope that some sort of huge war had taken place and I was one of the few remaining people alive and able to vote out the war mongering dictatorial regime which started the whole situation. I’m envisioning something along the lines of a Mad Max type of situation, good, evil, violence, destruction, each day a struggle to survive, and risking life to vote is a heroic measure because the ramifications are bigger than personal fears. The entire human race, the lone chance for a safe future for the human race and the entire planet hangs in the balance of my vote. In that scenario, heck yes, of course I’d die for my vote. I mean, duh. I’m not religious but I’m not evil, selfish and stupid.
But. Would I risk my life, or, in a more likely case, would I risk being mugged or raped to cast my vote? I’ve been mugged four times in 6 years. Once I was shoved down a crowded CTA staircase, another time I was violently beaten in the process. On a Sunday afternoon in broad daylight with at least 20 people as witnesses. Once while my leg was in a cast and I was on crutches waiting at a bus stop. Pardon my cynicism. Pardon my lack of optimism. Pardon my very real understanding of what assault and battery means. Pardon my assumption that there are a lot of people who see election day as an opportunity for something other than exercising their right to vote. In my neighborhood our polling place is on a stretch of street where no one goes unless they’re selling or buying drugs or involved with a gang. When I moved in one of my neighbors warned me about it and advised me to make sure I voted by absentee ballot. Yes. It’s that bad.
So. Would I risk my life to vote? Sadly, given these circumstances, I’m not sure. I would die for my right to vote in a Mad Max type of scenario. But I’m not sure I’d die for my right to vote simply because the neighborhood crack dealer is feeling the pinch of the economy issues and is raising his prices forcing his patrons to mug and attack more people to get money to feed their habit.
I know. You’re thinking, “Sheesh. They should move that polling place. Or at the very least make sure there are more cops on patrol on election day.” I know. That’s exactly what I thought. But. Har har. We’re too logical. Too sensible. Or, rather, you are. I’ve lived under the Daley Regime long enough to know that’s not how things work in this city. Logic? Are you kidding? Democracy? Freedom? Safety? Ha! Request a meeting with the mayor and get back to me with the results.
So. I was very excited to learn we’d have early voting this year. And that we could vote at any early voting polling place. One right by my office and one very close to home, on a safer block of a safer street. (You know, one where the police cameras are not shot out as often and when they are, they are actually replaced very quickly.)
I got up early a few Saturdays ago and went to the polling place thinking I'd be first in line when they opened. I was wrong - there was a line waiting for the place to open. It wasn't horrifically long, 40 or 50 people, so I opted to wait. I figured once the polling place opened the line would move quickly.
Two hours later I left with my vote cast.
There was a lengthy delay mid-stream due to a 60 something-year-old stoner hippie (seriously) who attempted to cause a scene about how America isn't really free and the election process is a sham and we're all prisoners of the government. No, I’m not assuming because he was a hippie old enough to have protested Viet Nam and attend Woodstock that he was a stoner. He smelled, nay, reeked of pot. His eyes were red. He was obviously baked. Everyone in line just chuckled or ignored him.
He made a big show of his protest. I’m not really sure what he was attempting other than protest for the sake of protesting. His points, while at times valid, were all over the place. He seemed to be throwing out random provocative statements and waiting for a reaction.
The rest of us dutifully waited our turn in the three lines required to cast our votes. Quietly, with a little general, good natured conversation amongst us about the weather, the great turnout and the sale on spinach at the grocery across the street, we filled out our forms and waited our turns.
I was just mentally noting how impressed I was with the election workers compared to other polling places I’ve voted in Chicago when Baked Hippie Dude appeared trying to cut in line behind me. I smelled him before I heard him. I heard him before I saw him. He came in, cutting in line, muttering and mumbling something about censorship. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying due to his slurred speech. He cut in line and approached the two guys working table on the first stop on the road to voting. “I just have some questions, I want to know if I can vote for anyone here or if this is being monopolized by the Democratic talking monkey organization."
You could see every spine in the room stiffen. It was already quiet but it was now silent.
The voting judges and election volunteers were remarkably calm and nice to him.
Interestingly (to me, anyway), two of the judges were clearly about this guy's age and based on their appearance I would wager a hefty bet they also spent a good portion of the ‘60s and '70s at protests. But they obviously decided (sold out?) that they’d be part of the process, work for change, rather than doing nothing except carrying a sign and shouting against it. Their gray hair was still longer than the average guy their age, and they still sport the beard, but the similarities in appearance end there. Where the stoner hippie dude clearly hadn’t used a brush or comb in weeks and wore the CPO jacket worn, frayed and held together with American flag patches and protest buttons he probably wore in the ‘70s, along with dirty jeans and shoes (none of which appeared to have been laundered since the ‘70s) and still sported John Lennon round wire glasses, the two guys working the election poll were clean and wearing freshly laundered clothes purchased sometime in the last decade. 40 years ago these three guys could very well have stood side-by-side at a concert, protest or whatever else college kids did for fun en masse in 1968. I suspect the two guys working the election were thinking the very same thing. They clearly wanted to cut the guy some slack. They were trying to treat him with respect.
The stoner hippie wasn’t having any of it. He was on a mission. He had some point, some issue, and he was going to make himself known. I suspect he came in there expecting to be immediately kicked out for causing a disturbance. When that didn’t happen he had to resort to lame attempts at being “threatened.”
“You’re all brainwashed! Voting early is the work of the establishment! Do you know where your votes are going? Do you know if they’ll be counted? This isn’t democracy!”
Then he just had to go and ruin it for all of us independent voters.
“The only true democracy is a government that isn’t sucking on the breast of the Democratic or Republican banks! You think you’re free? You think you have a choice? No! There is no choice. It’s Republican and Democratic lobbying and funding. They’re all in bed together. You ain’t free, you’re being held down, tied up and whipped by the establishment. You’re sadomasochists!”
Aw crap. It’s guys like him that give us a bad name.
The two election guys calmly told him that if he didn’t quiet down they’d have to ask him to leave. They asked him what they could do to help him vote. One of them used dulcet tones which I suspect came from years of listening to patients in his psychotherapy office. The more he tried to calm down the stoner hippie the more I picked up on a psychotherapist vibe. I found that comforting. Having a psychologist in the room could be helpful if the stoner guy whipped out a Viet Nam era grenade.
Stoner hippie said, “All I wanna do is vote, man. I want to know if I can vote for the Green Party in here or if this is a Democratic Convention Headquarters.”
Okay, the thing is, for three days prior there were people handing out flyers in front of the local train station which is half-block from the early voting place. The flyers said, "Early voting for Obama" in big bold letters and in smaller type it gave the address and hours for the early voting polling place. If you take the flyer literally you assume that it's early voting for Obama. Just Obama. Not general early voting. I noticed that bit of campaigning (and presuming and assuming) and while I was bothered by it, I'm not stupid and I know that polls are neutral and all votes for all candidates are welcome. However, I can understand how the wording could bother or even confuse some people. If they were handing out the flyers a few feet closer to the polling place they would be committing the crime of electioneering. I'm guessing this guy, the stoner hippie, was given one of those flyers and he took offense to it.
It was then I realized that the stoner hippie was very careful to not mention any candidate names. This guy has clearly learned how to teeter on the edge of polling place rules but not get kicked out. I took a closer look at his buttons. None of them promoted any candidate.
But. Either my looking at his jacket prompted one of the election guys to look at his jacket also, or, we both had the same thought at the same time: What do those buttons actually say?
Two of them said Green Party for Real Change in ’08.
The psychologist-esque election worker hippie said, “You have to remove those buttons. No electioneering within 200 feet of the polls.” He wasn’t mean or snotty, he was very much, “Hey man, quick, before the boss sees you, you’ll get us all in trouble.”
Oh boy.
That set off a tirade about freedom of speech. And how censorship is un-American and once you lose your freedom of speech you might as well be dead and only those who stand up for their beliefs are truly free. I’m synopsizing for the sake of time.
Okay, sure, all salient points, but not the time or the place for a 60 year old stoner hippie to make those points.
The two election worker hippies said, “Right on, brother, but we have to make sure this place is fair and free of campaigning for everyone. This is for your sake, too. Take off your buttons and then you can vote.”
I was just waiting for the stoner hippie protestor to say to them, "What happened to you, man? You used to be cool."
Then things got ugly. Another judge came over to see what was going on. She was clearly "in charge" and not the type to put up with any kind of polling place nonsense or shenanigans. She took one look at hippie guy and said, "You cannot wear any sort of campaign items within 200 feet of the polls. Please zip up your jacket or remove your buttons."
The guy started yelling that censorship is unAmerican and he'd die before surrendering to censorship and that his freedom of speech was being threatened. I kid you not, he started yelling, yelling “I’m being repressed! I’m being oppressed! I’m being repressed!”
Most of us in the room were the types to be well versed in Monty Python. And collectively we burst out laughing at him. Well. Not at him, at his “help help I’m being repressed!” pleas.
The large and in charge woman told him he had to quiet down or leave or she’d call the police.
Oh brother. Which is exactly what the two election worker hippies thought. One of them even said, “Oh no. Here we go.”
Sure enough, as if on cue, the stoner hippie went completely limp and collapsed onto the floor.
Ya know, I’ve seen documentaries on the ‘60s and ‘70s. I’ve seen film footage of riots and protests in that era. In those film clips protesters often do that when confronted by cops. I guess they know when the cops are surrounding them they’re going to have to surrender or be carried away. I guess the most self-righteous option is to be carried away. And to make it as difficult as possible. And collapsing, making yourself as much dead weight as possible, is probably the last resort tactic. But I’ve never actually seen this maneuver live, in person. It’s kind of disturbing because for a moment, there, you think the person is fainting. Or having a heart attack. Which is exactly what one woman thought happened. From across the room she yelled, “I know CPR! I know CPR!”
The two election worker hippie guys said, “He’s okay! He’s okay. Everyone stay calm, we’ve got it under control.” The thing is, everyone did stay calm. Apart from getting a laugh out of the guy no one out of the immediate area seemed to pay much attention to what was happening. Which is good.
And bad.
Good because this guy was clearly just trying to make trouble because apparently that’s what he does. It’s apparently what he’s been doing since the ‘60s. It’s his thing.
Bad because if he’d been a serious threat we could have all been in danger. Bad because, wow, someone walks into a polling place, causes a ruckus, tells us we’re all brainwashed sadomasochists and we just stand there waiting our turns to vote.
Cripes. Maybe he’s right.
The two election worker hippie guys and the large and in charge woman talked to him. The psychologist-esque guy apparently got through to him because stoner hippie dude finally stood up, took off his buttons, filled out his form, showed his id and quietly stood in line to vote.
When I left he was next in line to use a voting machine.
I went across the street to score some on-sale spinach at the grocery. When I came out of the grocery he was outside the polling place, one foot away from the electioneering warning sign, staging a one-man protest demonstration about freedom of speech, or lack thereof.
Would I die for my right to vote? Or my right to free speech? I like to think I would. And yet one stoned, aging hippie comes along and tries to shake things up and all I got was a chuckle out of him. Sure, he was laughable, but I've been thinking about him. Even in his baked brain he was passionate about his politics, his right to vote and his right to question authority. The fact that he was not being repressed, oppressed or in any way threatened aside, he still, after all these years, has fire in his belly about his freedoms. His little one man protests seem pathetic and unnecessary to us. But to him they are monumentally important.
Which is the whole point of free speech. He has the right to speak out against anything. As long as he doesn't make threats or incite illegal activity (or electioneer in a polling place), he has a right to speak his mind. He has a right to call me a brainwashed sadomasochist (assuming I don't take those to be fighting words). And I have a right to deny his allegations. I have a right to speak my mind. But I didn't. I was a good little well behaved voter and tried to mind my own business and let the election workers handle the guy. If I won't speak out against a stoned aging hippie calling me a brainwashed sadomasochist, it's fair to assume that I wouldn't die for my vote or my right to free speech. No, he wasn't worth the effort. Of course not. It wasn't worth the effort. But. Isn't that often the root cause of problems that spiral out of control? At first things seem harmless. Better to be polite and "above" it than engage and speak up for yourself. The next thing you know you have a Mad Max post-apocalyptic situation on your hands.
