In the Fast Lane
I admit it. Not that I was bragging ~ I wasn’t really bragging. But a few times lately, I may have mentioned the fact that I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket since 1978 or ’79. Just mentioned it because, lately, a couple of people have acted like they thought I drive fast.
Anyhow, I guess that was a mistake, mentioning it. Because ~
Wednesday morning, I’m driving up I-65, on my way to work. Listening to John Mellencamp on my CD player, just cruising along, enjoying life in the fast lane.
So when I see the flashing lights behind me, hear the quick blast of the siren, I think, “Oh ~ I better get out of the way.” And I start to change lanes. Only ~
~ He starts to change lanes right behind me. And I think ~
“Oh, shit,” and he kind of gestures to me, and I pull over , with him right behind me, and I stop the car.
Now, I gotta tell you, when I get stopped by the police ~ and it doesn’t happen very often ~ but when I do, I am immediately convinced that they’re going to find out there’s a bench warrant on me, one that I didn’t know anything about, and they’re going to arrest me on the spot.
Take me to jail.
Strip search me.
So I’m terrified.
Sitting there with my hands on the steering wheel, keeping them in clear sight so he knows I’m not going for a gun or anything, right? Terrified.
And he walks up to the car.
Making sure he can still see my hands, I reach down and hit the button to roll the window down. He leans down, towards me a little.
“I clocked you doing seventy-four,” he says. Grim. “The speed limit here’s fifty-five.”
My heart is racing.
“Now up the road aways,” he says, “the speed limit’s sixty-five. If you’d of been up there, you’dda been fine. But it’s fifty-five here. AND ~”
He looks down into the car ~ “AND ~ you’re not wearing your seat belt!”
I glance down, omigod, he’s right, I’m not, I always, always wear my seat belt ~~ and I realize ~ omg ~ and I blurt out ~
“I was ~ I took it off when I stopped!”
“Why’d you do that?” he snaps back.
“I don’t know!” I say, helpless to explain, horrified at myself.
“I’ll buy that,” he says, with a nod. “Give me your driver’s license.”
Shaking, but still being careful that he can see my hands ~ no gun here, Sir ~ I hand him my license. And wait ~
~ certain that my arrest for something I didn’t actually do is just moments away.
At last, I see him in my sideview mirror. Walking back towards me, a piece of paper wrapped around my license in his hand.
“A ticket!” I think. “Just a speeding ticket! Okay… I can handle that.”
At my side again, he says, “I’m gonna give you a choice.”
A choice? I think. Omigod, it’s a test. Ok. I can do this.
“A choice,” he says. “Which would you rather have? A speeding ticket for $150, and lose four points off your license, and have to go to traffic school? Or a $25 ticket for not wearing your seat belt.” Quickly, he adds, “I know ~ you were wearing your seat belt. But you’re not now.”
I’m in a panic. It’s a trick, right? If I say the seatbelt, then I’m guilty of trying to get him to do something wrong, right?
So, shaking, I say, “Well, I deserve the speeding ticket…”
And he interrupts. Shaking his head, he says, “I’m trying to give you a break here…”
and I get it!
“THE SEATBELT!” I say, triumphantly. “The $25 ticket for the seatbelt!” And real quick, I add, “Sir.”
He hands it over ~
and I go on my way rejoicing.
Bought a lottery ticket.
Promised myself I’d slow it down ~ no more than 10 miles an hour over the limit. For sure.
AND ~ I won’t be talking about how long it’s been since I got a speeding ticket any more. Never again.
A Day of Mindfulness
I ran across this quote today:
“From time to time, to remind ourselves to relax and be peaceful, we may wish to set aside some time for a retreat, a day of mindfulness, when we can walk slowly, smile, drink tea with a friend, enjoy being together as if we are the happiest people on Earth.”
~~ Thich Nhat Hanh, Being Peace
And I got this mental image of what that would be like. It’s been several years since i’ve taken a few days to go away for a bit, alone, to just be.
So I was thinking I’d do that after I retire in July, only I thought instead of going away, maybe I’d just set aside a day here.
I imagine what that would look like.
I get up in the morning and don’t turn on the computer. The house is in good order, and I make some special tea to start the day. Or coffee, fresh ground, with frothy milk, of course.
I fix a special meal, with pretty colors. Tomatoes. Tomatoes with olive oil and a little basil. Corn on the cob. Or squash. Zucchini and squash. Maybe a salad. A little bit of some whole wheat bread.
I invite a friend, and we eat slowly, turning our attention from the food to each other and back again.
When we finish, I wash the dishes, slowly by hand. I attend to each moment of the experience ~ my hands in the soapy water, the weight of each dish. I let my friend dry them, with gentle care.
Maybe we go for a walk. Not a brisk, exercise kind of walk, but a gentle stroll. We walk as if our feet are kissing the ground. Aware of the sky, the air, the grass and trees, the sidewalk. Aware of it all.
I spend some time writing. Not at the computer ~ where facebook and email pop up.
No.
I write poetry. By hand. In my really cool notebook with sparkly unicorns. It may be bad poetry, but I like it.
The day stretches before me, full of promise and invitation. I think there is music. And dance.
I wear something flowing and fun. Something that moves with me, something that swirls and swishes.
I smile often.
When I slide into bed, I feel clean sheets against my skin, fresh and cool. I stretch, and feel my body relax completely. I fall asleep easily, and wake refreshed.
It’s a nice vision. All I need to do now is pick a day…
Contrasting Articles on Women
On facebook today, i saw two articles, both posted by people at UniteWomen.orgKY, but so different in perspective that i had to look twice to make sure they really posted both of them.
The first one ~ How Not to Get Raped ~ is based on interviews with rapists about what they look for in a victim. It ostensibly gives us ideas on how to avoid being raped. It says things like:
1) The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun, braid or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed . They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.
2) The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around specifically to cut clothing.
3) They also look for women on their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.
The second article ~A Message to Girls ABout Religious Men Who Fear You ~ is a recognition of the ways many cultures, and particularly patriarchal religious systems, seek to control women. It says things like:
… they single-mindedly focus their attention on you, your body, your clothes, your hair, your abilities, your physical freedom. When their “manners” and “morals” are not universally applicable, but different for boys and girls, you can be sure that this is why. They seek to teach you, subtly, through small slights and gendered expectations, that you are “different,” weak, unworthy, incapable. The sadness is that, in their perception, if you are none of these things, then they are not strong, worthy and capable. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. It’s why they find infinite “benevolent” ways to undermine and disparage you, all in the name of “God’s word.” When that fails, they resort to violence. All over the world, their anxiety is manifest in a spectrum of actions ranging from mild paternalism, respectful of “proper boundaries,” to deadly enforcement of their rules.
The first article is an excellent example of what the second article is talking about.
I had to laugh at some of the things in the first article. For example, if rapists go for women who are wearing clothes that are easy to remove {and what does that look like?} then why would they carry scissors for that purpose?
Oh, wait -I get it. Light clothing would be easier to cut through. Heavy clothing that covers your whole body might be more difficult. And layers of clothes would be really good. I bet if I wore enough layers, and covered myself thoroughly enough, they couldn’t even cut through it all.
Ok, not laughing any more.
Further on in the article, they give a lot of suggestions about being on guard and ready to attack if necessary at all times. I picture myself carrying an umbrella (an actual suggestion) and any time a man walks towards me in a public parking lot, I wield the umbrella like a sword and scream, “Get back, you crazy rapist!!!”
I imagine that most of us recognize the problems inherent in women trying to prevent our own rapes. Rape happens because we cross paths with a rapist at a time that we’re vulnerable in some way. That vulnerablity might be age ~ children are particularly vulnerable ~ or place, or lack of sobriety, or all kinds of things. But the rape happens because we cross paths with a rapist.
You’ve probably seen the lists of advice for men on how to avoid rape. There are many of them, but I think this blog post ~ 5 Rape Prevention Tips (for guys) ~ is my favorite at the moment.
Also, there are organizations like Mens Work that help men recognize ways to end violence against women. This isn’t a men vs women issue. It’s women and men who support us vs men and women supporting patriarchal cultures that try to control women through intimidation and shame.
Anyhow. I saw the two articles this morning on the same website, and had to say something. Now I feel better.
{In case my short links don’t work, here’s the sources for the other blogs and the stumbleupon that I reference.}
How Not to Get Raped:
https://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2vEKx0/www.joyfulinspirations.com/rape_deter.htm
Message to Girls about Religious Men Who Fear You
5 Rape Prevention Tips (for guys)
http://community.feministing.com/2011/12/18/5-rape-prevention-tips-for-guys/
Mens Work
Apologies…
Apologies have been on my mind, and in the air.
Rush Limbaugh says something totally offensive, and does a bullshit ‘sorry, but I didn’t do anything wrong,” apology. Ugh.
We’ve all been on the receiving end of those.
In an article here on thefarschidside ~ Gina describes an apology she made to a coworker . Gina hadn’t done anything wrong, and didn’t think an apology was necessary. Mandated to do it, she purposely made it weak and less than heartfelt.
I’m thinking Rush is awful, but Gina’s all right. Which leads me to wonder ~ how do we decide when to apologize, and how to frame it? Lots of things to consider.
How much harm did we do, did we mean to, were we careless or reckless or downright negligent? Should we have known better? Was it really our fault?
How well do we know the person we’ve hurt? Do we care how they feel? Want them to forgive? Or does it not matter at all?
What if we didn’t do anything wrong? What if it was all a misunderstanding? What if they don’t understand what we meant?
And so on and on, lots of thoughts, lots of factors, lots of things to consider and weigh.
Then something happened with a friend of mine and my feelings were hurt. It triggered some old hurts for me, and even though it might have seemed like a small thing, it felt huge to me. I cried.
My friend didn’t know he’d hurt my feelings. I knew he didn’t mean to. But it hurt a lot anyway. So I told him. I explained what I thought and felt. Then I held my breath. I didn’t know how he’d react.
He could have felt defensive ~ he hadn’t really done anything “wrong.” He could have said I was over-reacting. He could have done a bullshit apology and I probably would have accepted it. I might not have felt real good about it, but I could have talked myself though it.
But he didn’t. He did a real apology.
He explained what had happened from his perspective. He said he was sorry. He told me something he was going to do that would make it less likely that this would happen again.
It’s rare to get that kind of apology, and I appreciated it.
I wish that were the end of the story. But ~
~ at the same time as Limbaugh’s bullshit apology, and my friend’s great apology, I was involved in something that offended some people I’m close to. People I care about a lot. They were hurt and offended, and naturally they reacted to that.
It was an opportunity for me to come back with a great apology myself, and I’d like to say that I did…
… but I didn’t. I was hurt and offended back. Trying not to be, trying to stay open, but you know ~~
~~ It’s not like I’m Rush Limbaugh! Didn’t they know I didn’t realize it sounded that way? Didn’t they know I wasn’t talking about them? That I wouldn’t hurt them on purpose? Didn’t they know…
Yeah. Not my finest moment.
And now I need to find my way to apologize. And make amends. And try to heal the breach.
Apologies…
Audre Lorde and Women in 2012
I’ve been reading quotes from Audre Lordes. writer, poet, and activist. She says:
“Unless one lives and loves in the trenches, it is difficult to remember that the war against dehumanization is ceaseless.”
― Audre Lorde
I spend time escorting at the abortion clinic. I see new laws introduced daily seeking to control and limit women’s reproductive health options The anti-abortion and anti-contraception movement makes me acutely aware of the dehumanizing of women that is happening.
I feel overwhelmed with it.
~ One politician suggests that for married couples, abstinence is the best form of contraception.
~ Another one quotes the old, and always stupid, joke about contraception being “an aspirin she puts between her knees.
~ Someone I know, who I would have expected to be open-minded and sensitive to women’s need for choice, commented in an on-line discussion that he “didn’t care if women got abortions, but they should pay for their own ‘abortifacients.’ After all,” he said, “I have to pay for my own liquor and nicotine.”
So sex is for procreation, women are the gatekeepers, and if we get knocked up, we need to pay the price. Got it.
It amazes me to know there are people who would read that and say “Yes. That’s exactly how it is.”
I’m just waiting for someone to add the old cliche against pre-marital sex: “And you know, why would they buy a cow when they can get the milk free!”
All that is painful. Worries me. Makes me angry. But the “transvaginal ultrasound bill” breaks my heart.
The bill requires a woman seeking abortion to have an ultrasound. No news there. But if the embryo is too small to be clearly seen on a regular ultrasound, {which is the case with most women seeking abortion} it would require a transvaginal ultrasound.
That means the doctor will stick a rod up the women’s vagina and shove it around to get the clearest possible image of the fetus.
Not because of any medical necessity.
Not even because research shows that it convinces women to change their minds ~ it doesn’t.
The Christian Taliban thinks it is a way to discourage women from seeking abortions.
Let’s be clear. Back in the day when abortion was illegal, women who could afford it went to other countries for their abortion. Women got abortions from back-alley doctors. Women stuck coat hangers up their own vaginas trying to end a pregnancy. A transvaginal ultrasound will increase her misery, but it won’t deter women who need an abortion.
As a medical procedure, tranvaginal rape is unpleasant and uncomfortable. I had one a few years ago, checking for ovarian cancer. I didn’t like it, but I agreed to it for the sake of my health.
As a mandated experience for no medical reason, it is a form of rape. A foreign object inserted into your vagina and moved around without your full consent to it IS rape.
Yes, the women will have “consented” because they want an abortion and the law requires it. But “consent” mean agreeing of your own free will, not under coercion.
Rape. Legal rape, mandated to medical professionals.
Have we lost our minds? I don’t understand. Where is the AMA?? Where are the doctors against politicians mandating medical procedures? Where are the nurses, the technicians who will have to assist at these procedures?
If you have links to those articles ~ the ones where those folks speak out, please let me know. ‘Cause I haven’t seen them.
I am beginning to see articles by women who are realizing that this is a war against us. And that gives me hope.
Audre Lorde reminds us:
“I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.”
― Audre Lorde
She testifies:
“My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.”
― Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals
And she calls us:
“Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will just up and punch you in the mouth from the inside.”
― Audre Lorde
Me and the Heat Pump
It must have been last Tuesday when the furnace quit working. It was fine when I went to bed. The next morning, I got up and noticed it was chilly.
65 degrees, to be exact, with the thermostat set at 69. Only 4 degrees off, but clearly something was wrong. Then i noticed a little icon under the temperature. Like a flame. Hmmmmm.
So i go downstairs to the furnace and discover that there are these metal cylinders shooting out fire, which seems to light the furnace, but when they go out, everything goes out. Hmmmm.
Clearly not good.
So I fool around with it for a minute ~ the fan’s working ok ~ but apparently the pilot light is not working. Ok. That tells me nothing. I turn the furnace off.
It’s chilly, so I crank on my gas fireplace. No problems here, I’ll be fine.
It’s not an emergency, so we arrange for the technician to come out Thursday morning. That fits into my work schedule. I go on with my day, happy that I have the fireplace, looking forward to getting the furnace fixed.
Thursday morning, there is a torrential rain.
About 8:15, I get a call from Debbie at the heating place. She explains that they have to cancel the appointment because he ~ the technician ~ can’t work on the heat pump when it’s raining.
I’m annoyed. What do you mean he can’t work on it when it’s raining?
Well, she explains, if you open the casing of the heat pump when it’s raining, it can damage it, possibly ruin it.
Of course I don’t want my heat pump ruined, right? So we start this dance with the weather.
Friday would have been perfect, weather wise, but I was scheduled to be in a training all day, so we scheduled for Monday afternoon.
I leave work early to be here. All is well right up until the minute he’s on the way ~~ blocks from my house ~~
~~ it starts to rain.
Tuesday morning? Rain. At this point, I’m worried. Xmas weekend is on the way, no dry weather predicted til Friday ~ when they’re closed for Xmas. We schedule an appointment for Wednesday morning, and one for Thursday morning, just hoping.
Wednesday morning??? Yes, more rain.
The repairman, Chet, is on my speed dial at this point. He and I agree that if it clears up enough to be safe, he’ll call me at work and I’ll rush home to meet him.
At last, finally, yes, Wednesday afternoon, the sun comes out a little, it doesn’t start raining ~ I get the call. I drop my Christmas shopping and head home ~ holding my breath as he drives to my house.
At last ~ yes! Here he is, and it’s not raining! And now I ask him the question that’s been burning in my mind.
“How did you all even know the heat pump was the problem?” I ask.
“Well, what did you tell them when you called?” he asks.
I explain what I’d told Debbie, about the fire going off and on rapidly and the pilot light not staying on.
Chet gets this odd look on his face. “Well, now, you’ve just told me a whole lot right there,” he says. “A whole lot.”
There’s a pause, suspense just about as high as it can get, and then he says, “You don’t actually have a heat pump.”
WHAT?????
No.
Yes, that’s right.
I don’t have a heat pump. I have a regular gas furnace.
So, yeah, all that weather stuff? Totally unnecessary. He could have fixed it in the pouring rain. Nice and dry in my basement.
And ok, that’s one of those things I should have known, right? But you know, they put the furnace in, for some reason, I just assumed they knew what they were talking about.
{I know, I know what you do when you assume…}
Apparently, Debbie’s desire to be helpful extends to doing some diagnostics, without the requisite training. It made me think about this management workshop I was at Friday, where the presenter was talking about the need, in the current job market, to give your employer “added value” beyond what they pay you for.
I figure this is Debbie’s idea of added value. Apparently, a lot of the homes they work on have heat pumps, so she just assumed ~~
And yeah, there we are at the “assumed” word again.
Sheesh.
I had to laugh. At myself, at her. If I’d asked my burning question ~ how do you know it’s the heat pump ~ a week earlier, I could have saved myself all kinds of hassle.
If Debbie had checked on what kind of furnace I had before deciding she need to arrange the appointments around my non-existent heat pump, she would have saved me ~ and Chet ~ some hassle.
If… if “whatever” had happened instead, it would have been easier.
But I wouldn’t have this opportunity to reflect on the importance of seeing things as they are, not as we think they are… asking the right questions at the right time… not practicing outside one’s area of expertise. Lots of things to reflect on.
So I’m passing the story on to you. I can foresee years myself years from now, listening to some one tell a complicated story about some situation.
I’ll listen carefully, nod sagely, and say, “Yes, but have you checked to see if you even have a heat pump?”
Time to Say No? {Part III}
Community.
Community and the spiritual connectedness I feel with the community. That’s the main thing that keeps me linked to my church.
The first Sunday in January, 1996, i came back to this particular Catholic church for the first time since high school. It was odd and wonderful. A homecoming, so much was familiar, even though no one recognized me.
I remember ~ we do this thing, like lots of churches, where we ask new people to introduce themselves at the beginning of mass. Well, the first week I was too shy to stand up. The second week, I didn’t stand up because I didn’t quite feel like I was new, I felt like I was returning. By the third week, I didn’t stand up because, you know, I’d been there three times already. Too late.
But for the longest time, when the greeter would ask people to stand up and introduce themselves, I felt like they were looking at me and waiting for me to do it. I never did.
The first week we were there, I noticed that when we made the sign of the cross, we said “In the name of the Creater, the Redeemer, and the Holy Sanctifier. The Lord’s prayer was the Our Father/Mother.
The second week, we had a baptism for a baby who had two mothers.
The third week, I noticed more inclusive language built into the mass. And i noticed that the priest didn’t always do the bread at Communion. He was just as likely to offer the wine.
Every week for the longest, i noticed something different. A woman who prayed that the Church would recognize the vocational call to priesthood of women. The way we treated children.
I was thrilled.
I had not realized that a “male” God was an issue for me ~ in fact, i would have insisted that it wasn’t. After all, my mother had always said that God was a spirit. That we referred to God as “He” because we don’t have a gender-neutral pronoun and we couldn’t very well call God “It.”
So i thought i got it.
But exposed to language that either avoided “he,” or that alternated “He” and “She,” when talking about God, I felt something inside me blossom.
I remember being glad that I hadn’t started back to this church while I was still married. I thought that in the context of my marriage there had not been room for the kind of feminism I was feeling now. Or for the image of servant leadership. Or for acceptance of all kinds of diversity in all kinds of ways.
Don’t misunderstand me. It wasn’t about feminism, per se. It was about being able to imagine a God who was as much like me as He was like my father, or my ex-husband.
Yeah.
It opened up all kinds of room for spiritual growth. And joy.
Family Story
I don’t think I’ve written this story before, so when Julia referenced it on Facebook today, I thought I should write it up.
After our Thanksgiving dinner last night, I was looking for a quote for Facebook on families,and found this:
“Every family has a story that it tells itself, that it passes on to the children and grandchildren. The story grows over the years, mutates, some parts are sharpened, others dropped, and there is often debate about what really happened. But even with these different sides of the same story, there is still agreement that this is the family story. And in the absence of other narratives, it becomes the flagpole that the family hangs its identity from.”
~~ A.M. HOMES, O Magazine, Apr. 2007
Julia the Younger commented: “ha, some families also have narratives in their mothers’/grandmothers’ language where parts get morphed and become the “true” line…”
And I knew exactly what story she was talking about.
My mother had her own way of making a point. So – for example – when we were too demanding, she would say, “You want, you want, you want. You know where the grass ‘I want’ grows, don’t you?’
The right answer was “In the Garden of Boboli.”
My kids used to say, “In the Garden of Stupidness,” which was annoying. And wrong. But in either case, the point was made. Whatever it was, we weren’t getting it.
Another story for when we wanted something was handed down in Italian. It involves a mother and her son. It is acted out with some drama.
Mother: (lovingly) “Ah, vuoi brodo?” {Oh, do you want some soup?}
Son: (enthusiastically) “Si, si, voglio brodo!” {Yes, yes, I want some soup!}
Mother: “Alora ~” {pause} “Alora, fix-a-lo!” {clearly almost Italian for “Well then fix yourself some!”}
To which the little boy says, with a shrug, “Oh ~ no, no, non voglio brodo” {No, i don’t want any soup.}
The story is tremendously useful. Within the family, we rarely need to tell the whole thing – in the right circumstances, a raised eyebrow and the question, “Vuoi brodo?” is sufficient.
Sometimes the answer is “if you’re fixing it, I do.”
Sometimes, when I want something and I’m too lazy to get up and fix it myself, I even think it to myself, “Si, si, voglio brodo ~ but not that much.”
So I was only a bit dismayed, and mostly amused to realize, years ago, that my kids and my nephew, um, actually thought that ~ yeah ~ that “fix-a-lo” was Italian…
“Fix-a-lo.” {laughing…}
But~ I have to admit ~
~ if I say it just right ~ and hold my hand like this
and wiggle it back and forth while I say it ~
“Fix ~ a ~lo!”
then I think it might be Italian too!
Time to Say No? (Part II)
Having listed some of the more pressing reasons that I may be called to reject Catholicism, I’ll begin to look at the reasons why I don’t want to do that.
Time to Say No?
At church today, Father Tony Gittins, from Chicago, was a guest homilist. I thought I had heard the name before, and when I google it, I see that he’s renowned for his teachings on discipleship and social justice. Cool.
A Story to Tell 