We went to the KORUS festival last Saturday. We're a hybrid family (Korean-American husband, Caucasian wife, mixed children) so we fit right in. This particular festival, though, was far more US than KOR, and more weird than either.
The top-level parking deck at Tyson's Corner Center is first of all a less-than-festive venue for a festival, particularly on a hot day. Almost all of the tents belonged to corporate or political sponsors; small-time electioneering ahead of the mid-terms was in full swing, and my sons collected stickers, pens, and shopping bags from council, register-of-wills, and judicial candidates. We can't vote for any of them, of course; we live in Maryland.
The stage was occupied by a Korean girl rapper who was accompanied by a Black rapper and backing band. The rap was in English, and Christian-themed. Both rappers claimed to be former thug lifers, almost lost to crack and the street, but now redeemed, having found the Lord. I didn't fact-check them. The audience regarded them with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.
We wandered around to see the other exhibitors, who were mostly food vendors. My husband waited in line for bulgogi and kimchi, while I took my two-year-old nephew for frozen yogurt. Disregarding my advice to enjoy the female attention now when it's readily available, he ignored the two halmonis who smiled and waved and made faces and tried their hardest to get a tiny smile or giggle from the Toddler of Nope. He ate his yogurt and barely deigned to turn his head toward the ladies. When he did, he gave them no more than a baleful stare.
After an hour or so, we'd seen all of the exhibitors once and had just begun one last circuit to make sure that we hadn't missed anything. Anyone in the audience who had thought that witnessing the rap performance had moved them into "Now I've Seen It All" territory had only to hang around for a few minutes, when they'd have heard a Korean version of "Country Roads," made even better by a Korean dance team dressed in rhinestone-studded satin cowboy dresses.
My Korean husband, born in Seoul and raised in the close-in suburbs of Washington DC, has always claimed that he should have been a country boy. He's more urban than a subway pass, but that doesn't stop him from rhapsodizing about country living. He'd bale his own hay, and he'd grow his own food, and he'd live off the grid, if only he were in the country.
"This is what I'm talking about," he said. "See? My people know that I'm a country boy. They're singing my song." On a sun-beaten blacktop parking platform connecting one wing of a suburban mall to another, just off one of the most heavily traveled Capital Beltway exits, surrounded by high-density mixed-use development, which is surrounded by traditional suburban sprawl, an all-American Korean longs for the place where he belongs, which is apparently West Virginia. Meanwhile, the heat reflecting off the blacktop beneath our feet and the relentless sun overhead were finally enough. "Take me home," I said.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Thursday, September 24, 2015
One of these things is not like the other
I'm reading one of those books of funny essays written by popular bloggers. This one focuses mostly on modern suburban motherhood; the author is a renegade who just doesn't fit in with the Botoxed, superfit, Pinterest-pinning, organic/gluten-free, hypercompetitive, pumpkin-spice-latte supermoms who are apparently EVERYWHERE in the town where she lives, sharing homemade muffins and passive-aggression with the lesser mothers (like the author) who can barely manage to (Fill in the blank: put a meal on the table, comb their hair, shower, wear non-stretchy clothes, etc.)
It's funny, I suppose. As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author. She's one of my people. But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do. I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.
There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods. It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them. But of course, we have the words on our side. Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities. Who's the mean girl in this scenario?
*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week. Rick Perry was a guest. I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another. Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him. Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate. Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18. At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written. He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."
It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to. He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug. It was just something that had happened. Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.
*****
There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician. I'm not going to bother looking for it, though. Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists. I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything. Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics. Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring. A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies. A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner. It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.
It's funny, I suppose. As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author. She's one of my people. But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do. I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.
There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods. It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them. But of course, we have the words on our side. Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities. Who's the mean girl in this scenario?
*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week. Rick Perry was a guest. I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another. Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him. Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate. Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18. At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written. He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."
It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to. He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug. It was just something that had happened. Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.
*****
There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician. I'm not going to bother looking for it, though. Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists. I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything. Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics. Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring. A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies. A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner. It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Shelter from the storm
I have these black Kork Ease sandals that I bought in, I think, 2013. They're very comfortable. Last summer, during a family trip to Korea, I wore them almost every day, for seven to ten miles of daily walking, often uphill (I climbed Seongsan Ilchubong in these shoes.) Because I'd worn the sandals for most of the summer, too, my feet were accustomed to them, and I didn't have so much as a callus at the end of the trip.
This summer, I worked only from home for the first time, so even the Kork Ease were dressier than I needed for my daily routine of copy editing from my kitchen table and hanging around at the pool watching swim practice. I wore them to church, and out here or there, but most of the time, I was in flip-flops.
We spent this weekend in Baltimore. After seeing one of the craziest baseball games ever on Friday night (I looked it up; the Orioles' two grand slams in a single inning was not a first-ever feat, but it's only happened six times in modern baseball history), we spent Saturday walking and riding the Water Taxi around the waterfront, seeing sights and eating food. My Fitbit recorded over 19,000 steps.
It was 6:15 or so when we returned to the hotel. My feet were blistered raw in four places, and black from leather dye. We were all damp and chilled and ragged from the rain. After a swim in the hotel pool, though (I scrubbed my icky feet first), followed by a few minutes in the sauna, followed by a shower, we were all clean and dry and warm again. Then we ate more food.
*****
Because I follow what the young people are doing on the social media, I have learned that college-age kids now advise people to "check their privilege." If some juvenile social justice warrior told me to check my privilege, I think I'd suggest that she check her manners. I do not think that word means what they think it means.
Manners aside, though, I'm actually checking my privilege now. My relative privilege versus that of most of the world can be quantified by the word "shitload." I enjoy a shitload of privileges. When my children are hungry, I always have something to offer them, even if it's not exactly what the children want. ("There's nothing to eat in this house." I do not think those words mean what you think they mean.) Filth is a temporary and easily remedied condition. Shelter from the storm is always within short walking distance.
I think that I might have said something that afternoon about refusing to take another step until I had clean feet and dry clothes. I'm sure that refugee women, on a hot and dusty road from Damascus or Asmara, also sometimes threaten to refuse to walk one more step in their dirty shoes or ragged clothes. They keep going, though, and so would I if I had to. I don't have to, though. Most days, I don't have to. Privilege.
This summer, I worked only from home for the first time, so even the Kork Ease were dressier than I needed for my daily routine of copy editing from my kitchen table and hanging around at the pool watching swim practice. I wore them to church, and out here or there, but most of the time, I was in flip-flops.
We spent this weekend in Baltimore. After seeing one of the craziest baseball games ever on Friday night (I looked it up; the Orioles' two grand slams in a single inning was not a first-ever feat, but it's only happened six times in modern baseball history), we spent Saturday walking and riding the Water Taxi around the waterfront, seeing sights and eating food. My Fitbit recorded over 19,000 steps.
It was 6:15 or so when we returned to the hotel. My feet were blistered raw in four places, and black from leather dye. We were all damp and chilled and ragged from the rain. After a swim in the hotel pool, though (I scrubbed my icky feet first), followed by a few minutes in the sauna, followed by a shower, we were all clean and dry and warm again. Then we ate more food.
*****
Because I follow what the young people are doing on the social media, I have learned that college-age kids now advise people to "check their privilege." If some juvenile social justice warrior told me to check my privilege, I think I'd suggest that she check her manners. I do not think that word means what they think it means.
Manners aside, though, I'm actually checking my privilege now. My relative privilege versus that of most of the world can be quantified by the word "shitload." I enjoy a shitload of privileges. When my children are hungry, I always have something to offer them, even if it's not exactly what the children want. ("There's nothing to eat in this house." I do not think those words mean what you think they mean.) Filth is a temporary and easily remedied condition. Shelter from the storm is always within short walking distance.
I think that I might have said something that afternoon about refusing to take another step until I had clean feet and dry clothes. I'm sure that refugee women, on a hot and dusty road from Damascus or Asmara, also sometimes threaten to refuse to walk one more step in their dirty shoes or ragged clothes. They keep going, though, and so would I if I had to. I don't have to, though. Most days, I don't have to. Privilege.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Arachnophobia
That title, while relevant, is somewhat less than accurate, because I'm not particularly afraid of spiders (though I'm certainly not fond of them, either.)
So, this morning, I found what I'm pretty sure was a brown recluse spider in my kitchen sink. I know that the brown recluse has the distinctive violin marking on its back, but I didn't have my glasses or contact lenses, having just awoken a few minutes earlier, and I certainly wasn't going to get close enough to it to examine and identify any pattern that might or might not have appeared on its back.
It looked up at me, calmly and expectantly. It seemed to be waiting for me to offer it a cup of coffee, or maybe some orange juice and toast. As I said, I'm not particularly afraid of spiders, and perhaps this one, accustomed to human encounters accompanied by shrieks of terror, mistakenly thought that my silence indicated welcome.
The thing was already in the sink, not far from the drain. Problem solved, I thought. Instead of the hoped-for coffee and Continental breakfast, the spider got the business end of the faucet hose. Then, after a few minutes of the deluge, I turned on the garbage disposal, just for good measure. I thought for a moment that I'd probably be remembered among the brown recluse community as a monster, a fiend so cruel and wanton that mere drowning of an innocent spider wasn't enough to satisfy me; I had to torture the poor dying thing, too.
Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 minutes or so later, I found a spider in my sink again. Notice that I didn't say "another spider" because I'm not sure, in fact, if it WAS another spider, or the same one, tougher and more resilient than I could ever have imagined. What doesn't kill a spider might make it stronger, I thought, so this time, I squashed it. THEN I ran the water and turned on the disposal again. I tried not to think too hard about either of two distinct possibilities:
1. A new breed of bulletproof, kill-resistant, super spider that can withstand all extermination attempts
2. Spider infestation
No sightings since. Maybe word of this morning's incident has spread, and the spider community is wisely avoiding my house of death. Or maybe they're plotting revenge. I'll find out soon enough
PS--I thought to accompany this post with a photo of a brown recluse, maybe with a funny caption ("Actually, do you have soy milk? I'm lactose intolerant.") but if you've never done a Google image search for brown recluse spiders, then do yourself a favor and don't. It's not the spiders, because if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Necrotizing spider bites, however, are all different and each is more gut-wrenchingly disgusting than the last. You can't unsee some things. Don't say you weren't warned.
So, this morning, I found what I'm pretty sure was a brown recluse spider in my kitchen sink. I know that the brown recluse has the distinctive violin marking on its back, but I didn't have my glasses or contact lenses, having just awoken a few minutes earlier, and I certainly wasn't going to get close enough to it to examine and identify any pattern that might or might not have appeared on its back.
It looked up at me, calmly and expectantly. It seemed to be waiting for me to offer it a cup of coffee, or maybe some orange juice and toast. As I said, I'm not particularly afraid of spiders, and perhaps this one, accustomed to human encounters accompanied by shrieks of terror, mistakenly thought that my silence indicated welcome.
The thing was already in the sink, not far from the drain. Problem solved, I thought. Instead of the hoped-for coffee and Continental breakfast, the spider got the business end of the faucet hose. Then, after a few minutes of the deluge, I turned on the garbage disposal, just for good measure. I thought for a moment that I'd probably be remembered among the brown recluse community as a monster, a fiend so cruel and wanton that mere drowning of an innocent spider wasn't enough to satisfy me; I had to torture the poor dying thing, too.
Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 minutes or so later, I found a spider in my sink again. Notice that I didn't say "another spider" because I'm not sure, in fact, if it WAS another spider, or the same one, tougher and more resilient than I could ever have imagined. What doesn't kill a spider might make it stronger, I thought, so this time, I squashed it. THEN I ran the water and turned on the disposal again. I tried not to think too hard about either of two distinct possibilities:
1. A new breed of bulletproof, kill-resistant, super spider that can withstand all extermination attempts
2. Spider infestation
No sightings since. Maybe word of this morning's incident has spread, and the spider community is wisely avoiding my house of death. Or maybe they're plotting revenge. I'll find out soon enough
PS--I thought to accompany this post with a photo of a brown recluse, maybe with a funny caption ("Actually, do you have soy milk? I'm lactose intolerant.") but if you've never done a Google image search for brown recluse spiders, then do yourself a favor and don't. It's not the spiders, because if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Necrotizing spider bites, however, are all different and each is more gut-wrenchingly disgusting than the last. You can't unsee some things. Don't say you weren't warned.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Don't cry for me, Argentina
Today was a surprisingly productive day. I crossed a larger-than-expected number of things off my unrealistically long to-do list, kept work on deadline, and serendipitously timed my swim to end at the very moment the thunder rumbled, prompting the lifeguard to whistle swimmers out of the pool. Success on every front.
Not every day is like this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. Yesterday, for example, I was working peacefully as clean clothes tumbled in the dryer. When the timer buzzed, I got up to fold the clothes, then I noticed some dirt on the family room floor, so I abandoned a t-shirt mid-fold and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. As I vacuumed, I wondered what the family room would look like if I moved furniture piece A to spot B, and then furniture piece B into spot A. It didn't work as well as I thought it would, so I moved the furniture back to where it had been. Not, however, before vacuuming the spots where the pieces had been, and then moving a few other furniture items to vacuum underneath,
Back to work. But wait, the clothes weren't folded!
The report that I was copyediting contained a discussion of a country whose fiscal position is untenable; however, that country continues to increase spending and cut taxes ahead of looming elections. The day of reckoning will come, I suppose. As I worked, I thought that I saw a metaphor for my life amid the talk of debt-to-GDP ratios and impending fiscal collapse. I should have written it down, but at just that moment, I noticed some dirt on the kitchen floor. The kitchen floor, once clean, made the countertops look pretty squalid by comparison. By the time I had brought the countertops up to my standard, the metaphoric connection between my life and a South American economic disaster, which was already tenuous to begin with, had evaporated altogether. All wasn't lost, though. The laundry was done, the kitchen was pretty clean, and I met my deadline. South America should be so lucky.
Not every day is like this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. Yesterday, for example, I was working peacefully as clean clothes tumbled in the dryer. When the timer buzzed, I got up to fold the clothes, then I noticed some dirt on the family room floor, so I abandoned a t-shirt mid-fold and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. As I vacuumed, I wondered what the family room would look like if I moved furniture piece A to spot B, and then furniture piece B into spot A. It didn't work as well as I thought it would, so I moved the furniture back to where it had been. Not, however, before vacuuming the spots where the pieces had been, and then moving a few other furniture items to vacuum underneath,
Back to work. But wait, the clothes weren't folded!
The report that I was copyediting contained a discussion of a country whose fiscal position is untenable; however, that country continues to increase spending and cut taxes ahead of looming elections. The day of reckoning will come, I suppose. As I worked, I thought that I saw a metaphor for my life amid the talk of debt-to-GDP ratios and impending fiscal collapse. I should have written it down, but at just that moment, I noticed some dirt on the kitchen floor. The kitchen floor, once clean, made the countertops look pretty squalid by comparison. By the time I had brought the countertops up to my standard, the metaphoric connection between my life and a South American economic disaster, which was already tenuous to begin with, had evaporated altogether. All wasn't lost, though. The laundry was done, the kitchen was pretty clean, and I met my deadline. South America should be so lucky.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Transition
It's almost dark at 8:04 PM. We have weeks of warm weather left, but only a few days before school starts and 10 days or so before the pool closes and summer, by my definition, is firmly and finally over.
I predicted months ago that I'd be sitting on the couch one late-August night, sadly wondering where the summer had gone, but I'm actually not as sad as I usually am. After a week of vacation and another few days of little work, I'm ready for a return to a more structured schedule. I don't manage unstructured time very well. I'll miss my kids, though. I could reconcile myself to the end of summer if I didn't have to send them back to school. As for homeschooling, see earlier reference to unstructured time. Left solely in my educational care, my children would have read hundreds of novels and spent many hours swimming and playing music. They would also be unable to count past ten. I know my limits.
******
It's 8:45 AM now. Today's really the last day of summer, REAL summer. High school orientation is tomorrow morning at 7:45, which means that I need to wake a 14-year-old up at 6:45. I'm always up early anyway, but being up myself and dragging sleepy teenagers out of their beds are two entirely different things. School doesn't start in earnest until Monday, but once a kid enters a school building at 7:45 in the morning and returns home with reams of forms for me to sign, the spell is broken. And now, it's time to work.
I predicted months ago that I'd be sitting on the couch one late-August night, sadly wondering where the summer had gone, but I'm actually not as sad as I usually am. After a week of vacation and another few days of little work, I'm ready for a return to a more structured schedule. I don't manage unstructured time very well. I'll miss my kids, though. I could reconcile myself to the end of summer if I didn't have to send them back to school. As for homeschooling, see earlier reference to unstructured time. Left solely in my educational care, my children would have read hundreds of novels and spent many hours swimming and playing music. They would also be unable to count past ten. I know my limits.
******
It's 8:45 AM now. Today's really the last day of summer, REAL summer. High school orientation is tomorrow morning at 7:45, which means that I need to wake a 14-year-old up at 6:45. I'm always up early anyway, but being up myself and dragging sleepy teenagers out of their beds are two entirely different things. School doesn't start in earnest until Monday, but once a kid enters a school building at 7:45 in the morning and returns home with reams of forms for me to sign, the spell is broken. And now, it's time to work.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
The personal is political
I suppose that should be modified somewhat; what's really true now is that everything is political.
A few days ago, I was on Facebook. A Facebook friend (a person whom I've never met personally, but we connected at some point through blogging, I think) posted a sad lament about how she'd been forced to unfriend someone, an actual close personal friend, because the former friend had revealed a political opinion that the poster found offensive.
It's probably not all that remarkable that someone would drop a friend (remember, this was an actual friend, not just a social media connection) with whom she disagrees politically. I think that happens all the time now. What made this particular post stand out was the tone of genuine grief and anguish, and the person's deep conviction that she had been forced to drop this friend; that she had absolutely no choice but to end a treasured friendship because the friend holds distasteful political opinions.
I suppose there are situations in which it would be reasonable and even necessary to end a friendship or friendly acquaintanceship because of politics. If you learn, for example, that your friendly and courteous neighbor or colleague, a person whom you once liked and respected and considered becoming better friends with, is actually a KKK member, or a Holocaust denier, or an ISIS recruiter, then you'd obviously want to end your association with that person immediately. But how is it possible that a person with whom you've been close personal friends for many years is suddenly revealed to be a Nazi or a white supremacist or a terrorist?
The point, of course, is that the political offense that ended this particular friendship was probably of a much lesser magnitude. There is a small, but vocal (and growing) cohort who genuinely believe that perfect conformity of thought and opinion on every social and political issue is not only desirable among friends, but necessary. This group of people feel absolutely obligated to end friendships, cut off family members, and shun neighbors and acquaintances who don't adapt quickly and completely to new modes of thought on everything from gender theory to income inequality to the real or perceived privilege of one group of people over another. Those people, who either cling to opinions that were not all that controversial 25 years ago, or who just aren't aware of how quickly and completely their friends' outlooks have changed, are not given the smallest amount of slack. Once someone reveals herself to be slightly behind the curve socially or politically, she is cut off, cast out into outer darkness where there is, presumably, wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Aside from the obvious cruelty of an approach to relationships that places politics and ideology over people, you have to also wonder about the futility of this approach. If you're convinced that your understanding of humanity is the only reasonable and correct one, wouldn't you want to try to convert others? Wouldn't you respond to perceived errors in thought or speech with persuasion rather than ostracism? Something about flies and honey; I can't remember. Maybe Frog or Toad would know.
A few days ago, I was on Facebook. A Facebook friend (a person whom I've never met personally, but we connected at some point through blogging, I think) posted a sad lament about how she'd been forced to unfriend someone, an actual close personal friend, because the former friend had revealed a political opinion that the poster found offensive.
It's probably not all that remarkable that someone would drop a friend (remember, this was an actual friend, not just a social media connection) with whom she disagrees politically. I think that happens all the time now. What made this particular post stand out was the tone of genuine grief and anguish, and the person's deep conviction that she had been forced to drop this friend; that she had absolutely no choice but to end a treasured friendship because the friend holds distasteful political opinions.
I suppose there are situations in which it would be reasonable and even necessary to end a friendship or friendly acquaintanceship because of politics. If you learn, for example, that your friendly and courteous neighbor or colleague, a person whom you once liked and respected and considered becoming better friends with, is actually a KKK member, or a Holocaust denier, or an ISIS recruiter, then you'd obviously want to end your association with that person immediately. But how is it possible that a person with whom you've been close personal friends for many years is suddenly revealed to be a Nazi or a white supremacist or a terrorist?
The point, of course, is that the political offense that ended this particular friendship was probably of a much lesser magnitude. There is a small, but vocal (and growing) cohort who genuinely believe that perfect conformity of thought and opinion on every social and political issue is not only desirable among friends, but necessary. This group of people feel absolutely obligated to end friendships, cut off family members, and shun neighbors and acquaintances who don't adapt quickly and completely to new modes of thought on everything from gender theory to income inequality to the real or perceived privilege of one group of people over another. Those people, who either cling to opinions that were not all that controversial 25 years ago, or who just aren't aware of how quickly and completely their friends' outlooks have changed, are not given the smallest amount of slack. Once someone reveals herself to be slightly behind the curve socially or politically, she is cut off, cast out into outer darkness where there is, presumably, wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Aside from the obvious cruelty of an approach to relationships that places politics and ideology over people, you have to also wonder about the futility of this approach. If you're convinced that your understanding of humanity is the only reasonable and correct one, wouldn't you want to try to convert others? Wouldn't you respond to perceived errors in thought or speech with persuasion rather than ostracism? Something about flies and honey; I can't remember. Maybe Frog or Toad would know.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Off-task
Well, that's no way to build an audience, is it? After several weeks of stunning circulation figures (as many as 40 readers in a day!) production levels dropped to zero posts per week. I shall have to account to my superiors for my lack of productivity.
Today has been something of an exercise in futility. I've found that multi-tasking is far overrated; however, the habit of trying to do multiple things at once is so deeply ingrained that I can't break it now. Just during the course of this post, I've clicked over to other tabs at least five times; I'm working on vacation-house searching (note: don't start looking for a beach house for August in June) and finishing a weekly newsletter. Mild OCD and extreme ADD are not a good combination. I'm always on task; it's usually just the wrong task. Back to work.
Today has been something of an exercise in futility. I've found that multi-tasking is far overrated; however, the habit of trying to do multiple things at once is so deeply ingrained that I can't break it now. Just during the course of this post, I've clicked over to other tabs at least five times; I'm working on vacation-house searching (note: don't start looking for a beach house for August in June) and finishing a weekly newsletter. Mild OCD and extreme ADD are not a good combination. I'm always on task; it's usually just the wrong task. Back to work.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Paved with good intentions
Isn't that how the road to hell is always described?
Yesterday, I was embroiled in a slight controversy, involving someone who said that she thought that I was trying to push her out of a job, when I thought that I had been helping her. So much for the good intentions; they paved a one-way street to all-day minor-drama hell. It all worked out; emails and texts were exchanged, and a long, emotional phone call put everything right.
I think it did, anyway. The other person said that she felt much better, and everyone else involved seemed relieved and satisfied at the resolution. And I guess, after I washed off the tire tracks and then removed the clothespins that were holding me on to the clothesline where I had hung out to dry for a bit, that I felt better, too. There's really no particular reason why I'd feel compelled to write about it in a veiled and mysterious manner the next day. It's not like my feelings were hurt or anything.
Monday, June 15, 2015
Fiction
I don't check my stats very often, because no one reads this bilge, except that apparently, a few people do. 24 pageviews in a day is nothing, of course, to real bloggers, but since my average is zero, it was pretty astonishing to see that 24 people had actually landed on this blog and possibly even read some of it.
Of course, I used to have readers. I blogged regularly between 2007 and 2010, and lots of people used to read and comment. Because of an unusual work situation, I had time to write and to read and comment at other people's blogs, which brought readers to my blog. Then, in 2010 or so, I dropped off the face of the Internet for a while, not to return until late 2013.
Now I'm wondering if any of my literally dozens of readers noticed my rash threat to write a novel. I'm not sure if I can live up to this or not. I might need to be more careful about what I put in writing.
Of course, I used to have readers. I blogged regularly between 2007 and 2010, and lots of people used to read and comment. Because of an unusual work situation, I had time to write and to read and comment at other people's blogs, which brought readers to my blog. Then, in 2010 or so, I dropped off the face of the Internet for a while, not to return until late 2013.
Now I'm wondering if any of my literally dozens of readers noticed my rash threat to write a novel. I'm not sure if I can live up to this or not. I might need to be more careful about what I put in writing.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Every few days, give or take, I write the book
Who said that a talent for writing does not necessarily mean a talent for writing anything? Everyone whoever sat at a keyboard, probably. Reading novels is easy; writing them is not.
****
Never having attempted fiction, except for a short story that was required for my last college class, I'm finding that it requires a bent of mind that I probably don't have. I like to write dialogue, but everything else is relentlessly hard. Maybe I should try to write a dialogue-only novel (note to self: has this been done already? investigate) or maybe I should try to just adjust to the relentless hardness and continue with the one that I started.
****
It's been months since I wrote those paragraphs, and the novel has been set aside. I like the voice of the main character (she reminds me of someone--who could it be?) but I can't figure out what to do with her. I could:
****
Never having attempted fiction, except for a short story that was required for my last college class, I'm finding that it requires a bent of mind that I probably don't have. I like to write dialogue, but everything else is relentlessly hard. Maybe I should try to write a dialogue-only novel (note to self: has this been done already? investigate) or maybe I should try to just adjust to the relentless hardness and continue with the one that I started.
****
It's been months since I wrote those paragraphs, and the novel has been set aside. I like the voice of the main character (she reminds me of someone--who could it be?) but I can't figure out what to do with her. I could:
- Try to keep her in the situation she's in and see what happens. That approach isn't working too well.
- Keep the character, but put her completely elsewhere. I don't know where else she belongs, though, other than blue-collar Philadelphia circa 1986.
- Start all over. New character, new setting, a completely new idea altogether.
I think that I'll try 2 first. If it doesn't work, and it won't, then onto Plan B, which in this case is Plan 3. Tonight, though, I think I'll just go to sleep. I'm too tired to write.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
You can't make some people happy
Those people being me, of course. Just two days ago, I felt overwhelmed with work, not sure how I'd fit everything I needed to do this week into this actual week. Just like that, though, some incoming work was delayed, and now I'm at a loss.
I learn something new every day, and one of the things that I'm just now learning about working from home as a contractor is to always have a back-up plan. Not necessarily a back-up plan for making more money (although that, possibly, would not be a bad idea) but a plan for how to spend time set aside for work when the work fails to materialize.
A long to-do list, no matter how overwhelming, is pretty easy for me to manage. Unscheduled blocks of time, however, are another matter altogether. In The Screwtape Letters, Screwtape explains to Wormwood that his job as a demon is to take a person's soul and to give as little as possible in return. The demon's goal is to make the victim realize, far too late, that he wasted his life doing neither what he should have been doing nor what he wanted to do. This is what I'm afraid of, every time I have unscheduled, un-spoken-for time.
This too shall pass, and probably much faster than I want it to. Meanwhile, I have more work coming in tomorrow, but I think that I need two lists: What to Do if the Work Comes in on Schedule and What to Do if it Doesn't. Foiled again,Wormwood. Foiled again.
I learn something new every day, and one of the things that I'm just now learning about working from home as a contractor is to always have a back-up plan. Not necessarily a back-up plan for making more money (although that, possibly, would not be a bad idea) but a plan for how to spend time set aside for work when the work fails to materialize.
A long to-do list, no matter how overwhelming, is pretty easy for me to manage. Unscheduled blocks of time, however, are another matter altogether. In The Screwtape Letters, Screwtape explains to Wormwood that his job as a demon is to take a person's soul and to give as little as possible in return. The demon's goal is to make the victim realize, far too late, that he wasted his life doing neither what he should have been doing nor what he wanted to do. This is what I'm afraid of, every time I have unscheduled, un-spoken-for time.
This too shall pass, and probably much faster than I want it to. Meanwhile, I have more work coming in tomorrow, but I think that I need two lists: What to Do if the Work Comes in on Schedule and What to Do if it Doesn't. Foiled again,Wormwood. Foiled again.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Mise en scene
Among the occupational fantasies that I occasionally have (A teacher! I should be a teacher! No, I should have been an actress, but it's too late now. Maybe an accountant! I'm OK at math, and I'm very detail-oriented, but I do bounce checks...), jobs involving food almost never appear. I don't really mind cooking that much, but I do hate to plan menus. I think that I lack food imagination, and this is why it's always so hard for me to figure out what to make for dinner for today or for the week.
My husband came shopping with me one day last week. This is rare. I was happy to have help carrying the bags, but even happier to have help with dinner ideas. "What do you want me to make for dinner tonight?" I asked as we walked through the store.
"Oh, whatever you want is fine," he said.
"Wrong answer," I said. "I need specific ideas."
"I don't know. Whatever you make is good. I'm sure you'll think of something."
"Nope," I said. "Try again. Remember: SPECIFIC."
He sighed. "OK, how about tacos? And that shrimp thing you make sometimes. Can you make that this week?"
The tacos and shrimp dish idea gave me an idea for a third dinner menu, and I left the store with the very satisfying knowledge that I had dinner menus planned and supplied for the next three days.
The next morning, planning for how to manage work, volunteer work, and kids' activities, while still getting halfway decent meals on the table, I thought of doing several days' worth of prep work all at once. Having cleaned out the refrigerator during the previous week, I had a beautiful cabinet full of clean and well-organized containers with matching lids. 45 minutes later, I had a beautiful refrigerator shelf stacked with containers filled with chopped red and green pepper, diced onion, chunks of cantaloupe and watermelon, sliced tomatoes and avocados, and neat little fluffy broccoli heads. So pretty, in fact, that I hated the thought of having to use any of it, because it was so nice to open my refrigerator and see something that I could proudly show to any visiting nutritionists or diet experts. That happens all the time.
"Prep cook," I thought! "The perfect job! Just me in the kitchen with my exemplary hand-washing habits and my outstanding knife skills!"
Two days later, I had more onions to chop. This time, I couldn't summon the project-related energy and excitement. I was no longer an expert prep cook, presiding over a perfect mise en place. I was another sucker stuck in the kitchen, wiping away onion tears. So much for occupational fantasies. I'll stick with what I know, and what I know is that I am very good at cleaning the house. I could probably turn that into a business.
My husband came shopping with me one day last week. This is rare. I was happy to have help carrying the bags, but even happier to have help with dinner ideas. "What do you want me to make for dinner tonight?" I asked as we walked through the store.
"Oh, whatever you want is fine," he said.
"Wrong answer," I said. "I need specific ideas."
"I don't know. Whatever you make is good. I'm sure you'll think of something."
"Nope," I said. "Try again. Remember: SPECIFIC."
He sighed. "OK, how about tacos? And that shrimp thing you make sometimes. Can you make that this week?"
The tacos and shrimp dish idea gave me an idea for a third dinner menu, and I left the store with the very satisfying knowledge that I had dinner menus planned and supplied for the next three days.
The next morning, planning for how to manage work, volunteer work, and kids' activities, while still getting halfway decent meals on the table, I thought of doing several days' worth of prep work all at once. Having cleaned out the refrigerator during the previous week, I had a beautiful cabinet full of clean and well-organized containers with matching lids. 45 minutes later, I had a beautiful refrigerator shelf stacked with containers filled with chopped red and green pepper, diced onion, chunks of cantaloupe and watermelon, sliced tomatoes and avocados, and neat little fluffy broccoli heads. So pretty, in fact, that I hated the thought of having to use any of it, because it was so nice to open my refrigerator and see something that I could proudly show to any visiting nutritionists or diet experts. That happens all the time.
"Prep cook," I thought! "The perfect job! Just me in the kitchen with my exemplary hand-washing habits and my outstanding knife skills!"
Two days later, I had more onions to chop. This time, I couldn't summon the project-related energy and excitement. I was no longer an expert prep cook, presiding over a perfect mise en place. I was another sucker stuck in the kitchen, wiping away onion tears. So much for occupational fantasies. I'll stick with what I know, and what I know is that I am very good at cleaning the house. I could probably turn that into a business.
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