Random Stream of Consciousness

Hold onto your hats, kittens; the gupster has another complaint to air. And this one is so deceptively simple that I have somehow managed to miss it. It wasn’t until I read this week’s headlines covering some VERY unrelated issues that I noticed the common thread - too many Americans are pre-occupied with what OTHER people are doing, rather than putting their energies into their own lives and own homes. Seriously!

Take Biden and Obama’s statements about gay marriage and the recent (fuktard!) passage of Amendment One in North Carolina. The papers, talk shows, and evening news have been all abuzz about same-gender marriage – to the point where I’m getting sick of it. Obviously, some people are strongly for it, while others strongly oppose it. Yet, the whole issue annoys the crap out of me – and it goes back to my earlier premise. My marriage is just that – MINE. It is about me and Paul. It is not about our neighbors. It is not about a testament of specific religious doctrine. It is not about anything or anybody but us. Why can’t people just learn to mind their own business? My marriage doesn’t impact my neighbor’s marriage any more than theirs affects mine. People, get OVER it!

Now, switching gears entirely, let’s look at the Time Magazine cover of the woman breast-feeding her four year old. This has generated quite a bit of controversy. On the one-hand, you have people finding it “offensive” or “inappropriate”. Swinging in the other direction, you have feminists and women’s rights activists who scream that this is what breasts are for, and that the mother pictured is exercising her parental right. I have to admit, when I saw the picture and noted the approximate age of the child, it made me feel a bit uncomfortable. That in and of itself bothers me, simply because I didn’t understand WHY it made me feel uncomfortable. Is there a logical reason that it should bother me? This is a mother who is performing a natural function with her own child. Am I a parent to the child? No. Do I believe the child is in harm’s way? No. Do I believe that breasts are “dirty” or that the human body is some horrible sinful thing that should be covered? No.

So what’s the problem?

I concluded that the reason that I felt uncomfortable is that I was taught by American society to believe that it is wrong. Why? Well… um… uh… well… cuz. And let me assert this loud and clear so that there is never a question: “Cuz…” is just not an acceptable answer. As a responsible adult, it is my responsibility – my RESPONSIBILITY – to ask myself these questions and reach my own conclusion based upon logic and rational questions – not just upon years and years of being told what to think. I support that mom’s right to breast-feed her older child. I see no reason to conclude in any way that the child is in any danger or peril. And frankly, it is none of my business.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but at this phase of my life, I’m just tired. I’m tired of extremist Americans trying to impose their views or mannerisms or standards of behavior upon their neighbors. To be perfectly honest, puritanical zealots are in my eyes every bit as much of a threat as the Taliban. They are both extremists. They both condemn people who don’t act, believe, and do as they do. They both go through tremendous efforts to suppress anyone who does not act, believe, and do as they do. They both will not rest until they have eradicated anyone who does not act, believe, and do as they do. And I for one am just fed up with it.

America – this is supposed to be the land of the free and the home of the brave. How much freedom is there if one’s right to marry the one that he loves depends upon which state he lives in? How much freedom is there if a woman’s right to breastfeed depends on which restaurant she is in, or which crowd of people, or which church, or which state?

I love this country, and I am proud to be an American. But I also think it is time for the USA to take a big ol’ dose of MYOB.

 

Last week, my husbear and I went to see a local production of the play Spring Awakening. The musical is set in late 19^th century Germany, and it tells the story of several of the adolescents in the town who are coming into their own sexual maturity without the education or information needed to understand their own instincts, feelings, desires and needs. Based upon a play written in Germany in 1892, the story could very well be about kids in a 2012 classroom. Regardless of time or place, some things are universal. Puberty happens. Adults feel squirmy and awkward talking to kids about it. Then when you add in an overly-conservative or oppressive set of holier-than-thou morals into the situation, what you have is a ripe breeding ground for ignorance, judgment, and intolerance. The play brought to the forefront issues that we just don’t like to talk about – teen pregnancy, rape, incest, abortion, suicide, and homophobia.

We don’t want to think about these things.

We don’t want to cast a spotlight on these things.

We want to pretend these things don’t exist.

But they do. They did then, and they do now.

What I find so very ironic is that the play brought to light the fact that these issues existed and needed to be acknowledged. And because of this, the play was banned for being too controversial. From there, it could have easily disappeared into history. Fortunately, it resurfaced, and was turned into a Tony Award winning musical in 2006. Yesterday’s controversy becomes today’s song-n-dance number.

I think about one scene in particular where one of the leading characters turns to another to tell him about a classmate who has been suffering beatings. The male lead at first cannot believe such a claim because that sort of a thing just “doesn’t happen. Not anymore.” I have to laugh. How many times over how many centuries have we smugly asserted our own superiority compared to those of the past? I have no doubt there must be people who have sat in that audience thinking exactly the same thing – as if in the year 2012 we have gotten past things like that. Yahhhhh… right! Have you read the paper today? Do you know about the passage of Amendment One in North Carolina which bans same-gender marriage and refuses to recognize any form of relationship other than the legal marriage of a man and a woman? As one proponent of the Amendment stated on the news yesterday, he supported it because he didn’t want to see today’s “morality redefined as being yesterday’s immorality.” Or, to put it more succinctly, people like me are a horrible, immoral abomination unworthy of the same rights and protections of the law as heterosexuals.

Spring Awakening was written in 1892. For the math-impaired, that is 120 years ago. Tell me, what have we learned since then?

As many of you know, I work for the government in health care.  Since I work in the government complex, it is not at all unusual to see some unfortunate people around our buildings.  Many are homeless.  Many suffer some sort of mental illness and/or suffer from substance abuse.  I feel terrible for these people, and often wonder what led to this current condition.  Yet, I have to also keep things in perspective.  For me, I choose to work in programs designed to help people like this.  So why are they out there?  Well, some are there because they keep falling into unfortunate circumstances.  Others keep ending up there because they refuse to comply with the rules.  For instance, some of the homeless shelters out there have basic rules - there are specific times to check in and out, and participants must refrain from substance abuse.  Some people just simply refuse to do that.  OK, the choice is theirs.  But where do they wind up?  Back on the streets.

Le Sigh.

So today I was leaving for lunch.  I knew that I would need to use my credit card, as the only thing in my wallet right now are moths.  As I strolled out of the building, I saw a woman approach me.  She had a dirty and withered looking face, and was dressed in tattered and worn clothes.  "Excuse me, sir.  Do you have some change or a dollar you can spare?"  At times, I have been charitable.  At times, I have not.  I consider charity to be a very personal thing, and do not judge or condemn people's choices when it comes to charity.  But in this particular case, I answered her truthfully.  "No, I'm sorry.  I don't."  That is when things took a turn.

"Well, can ya LOOK?!!!!" she said to me furiously.  "How much EFFORT does it take to pull out your damned wallet, and LOOK?!!!!!" she screamed.  "WOOOWWW!" I said to her with eyes wide-open in surprise.  And with that, I simply turned my back on her and walked on as she screamed profanities at me.

Ahhhh.... the living color that is downtown living.

I'm going to try my best not to let this unfortunate episode influence my views on charity and helping to make things better.  But I think it is safe to say that I didn't exactly feel inspired to help that woman.

The other day, I was chatting with a very dear friend who was venting to me about some minor bumps in his relationship. In a very general sense, the subject of the vent was one of the most age-old topics ever – poor communication.

Communication is, by far, one of the most critical aspects of any relationship. And because each and every person communicates differently, it is often one of the most challenging. While I am no linguistic scholar, I can’t help but believe that communication is complicated even further in this country by the distinct lack of precision that is the English language. By the very nature that is the American culture, we often become creative with words and expressions. Somehow, “Bad” became good. “Cool” can be a temperature or a statement of popularity. And “Bear” is either a mammal of the genus Ursidae, or a masculine gay man.

Is it a wonder how people don’t become confused? Then we have hidden meanings behind various expressions. “How nice” on the surface seems to be a very pleasant expression, until you realize that when said by a proper southern lady through slightly gritted teeth, it really means something that would be bleeped on television. Picture a happy teenage girl skipping down the stairs excited that her date will soon arrive to whisk her away to a movie. Daddy looks up from his newspaper to see what she is wearing. “Well, that’s a nice dress” he utters. What does that really mean? On the surface, it sounds like a compliment. But depending upon the dynamic, it could very well really convey the unspoken order, “You turn right back around, young lady, and put something on that looks more respectable!”

When you really think about it, the English language is incredibly subjective, dependent upon context, situation, culture, etc. Even with things that seem very specific, there can be multiple answers, all of which are technically correct but not necessarily providing the information sought by the person who asked.

“When’s your birthday?” somebody asks you. And answers can range across a creative spectrum. “In January”, or “on the 18^th”. “Later on this year,” or “next Tuesday”. So what happens when the person who asked the question does not hear an acceptable answer? Maybe he will rephrase the question. Maybe he will indicate the disconnect and help you to zero in on a specific. Or maybe he will communicate frustration because he believes you to be communicating poorly.

Heck, consider one of the simplest questions in the world. “What?” Picture this. You walk into a room to find your significant other or a friend or associate, and you make a statement or offer an observation. The other person asks, “What?” What does “What” really mean?

If he didn’t hear everything you said, “What?” could in fact be trying to communicate, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear part of what you said. Can you please say it again?”

Or…

He heard what you said, and is excited by the news. In this case “What?” really meant “Say WHAAAAA, girlfriend?!”

Or…

He is upset because based upon what you just said, he learned that his team lost. “What?” really meant “Awwwwwwww MAN! WTF?! That sucks!”

Or…

You just confessed to breaking his great-grandmother’s china and gluing it back together. “What?” really meant “WTF did you just say, you clumsy, boorish imbecile?!!!!!!!!!!!!”

For any phrase that is spoken – for any one phrase - there are actually three key components: What was meant to be conveyed; the message received; and what was actually stated. In an ideal and perfect world, all three will be the same. But how many times does that actually happen? Probably nowhere near as many times as you would think.

So who is a fault? Well, most of the time that’s a difficult thing to determine. But I would offer you this – blame and finding fault is nowhere near as important as identifying the disconnects and smoothing out the process. After all, communication is truly the basis of any good relationship, right? As confusing and potentially frustrating as it can be to traverse the paths of communication, the journey is nothing short of amazing.

So today I read an article about a man who was “wrongly outed”. Rich Dewberry took his phone in to be repaired at a Best Buy, and had neglected to log out of his Facebook account. Not long after that, a new status message appeared on his wall reading, “I am gay, I’m coming out.”

Twisted sense of humor that I have, I laughed. Heck, I have a buddy who is probably the straightest guy on the planet who had the same sort of a thing happen to him one time when he left his Facebook open in front of his pals at work. Like a good sport, my buddy took it in stride. Heck, he was silly enough to leave his Facebook account open, he fully admitted.

What bothered me about this particular story, though, was Mr. Dewberry’s reaction. “I feel I have been humiliated”, Mr. Dewberry said. “My reputation has been tarnished.” And now he is seeking legal options with his attorney.

Um… what? Excuse me?! WHAT did you just say?!!!!

Hang on there for a second, Mr. Dewberry. Tarnished? TARNISHED?!!!! This is no longer funny. Being referred to as gay has “Tarnished” your reputation? Is there something WRONG with being gay, Mr. Dewberry? What if, instead of gay, it had been “Jewish” or “blue eyed” or “Polish”? Mr. Dewberry, based on your photo published in the article, you yourself appear to be African-American. You should KNOW better than to make a disparaging comment against an entire class of people! With all due respect to your “tarnished” sensibilities, Mr. Dewberry, I just have one thing to say:

F#$* YOU, YA WHINY, HOMOPHOBIC ASSHAT!!!!! I have no sympathy for you – especially when you make a comment like that!

Now mind you, I am NOT defending the unprofessional action of the Best Buy employee (or employees) who decided to let mischief run amuck. No question – it was unprofessional behavior, and deserves some sort of discipline. But when it comes to the concept of “legal options”, it doesn’t take a rocket-scientist to see where this is going. Attorney friends of mine have educated me that for a court to even consider a lawsuit, there must be a claim of some sort of damage. What damage could this jerk-face possibly claim? Oh, but of course, the generic catch-all of “mental damages”. Oh, the angst! Oh, the upset! Being referred to as gay has tarnished his reputation. Oh, boo, hoo, hoo!

To sum it up, Mr. Dewberry, your actions demonstrate that to you it is perfectly fine to offer a public backhanded slap to the entire gay community if that’s what it takes for you to successfully carve out a chunk of corporate profit for your own greedy back-pocket. There is only one way in which this dumb prank actually hurt you, asshat. It led to you publicly exposing yourself as a bigot. I have about as much sympathy for you as I have for Rick Santorum after Dan Savage redefined his name. If either Best Buy or the courts gave in to this frivolous bull$hit, we all lose. It would be nothing less than a kick in the Dewberries for civil progress.

I realized something the other day. I still have a tendency to want to be a “Fixer”.

Think back to when you were a kid. In response to the age-old question, “What do you want to do when you grow up?” you probably formulated different answers depending on what phase of maturity you happened to be in at the time. For me, I dreamed about being an archeologist who might someday discover some cool ancient civilization that nobody had ever discovered. Then I narrowed it down a bit to an Egyptologist so that I could discover ancient Egyptian things that nobody had ever discovered. A little later down the line, I changed to “Marine Biologist”, so that I could potentially get paid to do regular things while also having the potential of discovering things that nobody had ever discovered. However, my first serious vision of what I wanted to be when I grew up was a psychologist.

Why a psychologist? Well, for a couple of reasons. For one, human behavior really fascinates me. Even though I’m not particularly comfortable about being in the middle of a cluster of people, I am fascinated by what makes people tick. I love observing behavior and figuring out what drives people to act or do as they do. For another, it is a socially-redeeming profession. It is, at the core, an occupation aimed at helping people who need help. If you can help keep that alcohol from picking up another drink, or that addict from shooting up, or that depressive person from “just ending it all”, you are doing something good, right?

Yet… I didn’t pursue that goal. Why? Because I let self-doubt stop me. Back when I seriously wanted to pursue this goal, I remember my parents talking me out of it. “It is so depressing!” my mom would say. “You’d have to put up with ‘the ‘tards’” my dad would say. I really don’t blame them. They were both just trying to advise and look out for my best interests. The problem is (or was) that I was so riddled with self-doubt that even the slightest hint or suggestion would make me question my choices, decisions, or conclusions. This was nobody’s fault but my own, and a mental-handicap that I needed to learn to overcome. But I digress…

Obviously, I never ended up becoming a psychologist. Yet, there is still something at my core that wants to help fix people. It really isn’t a conscious thing. It is just… there. I have this romantic image that a friend-in-need will show up at my doorstep facing what seems like an insurmountable crisis. At just the right moment, I will tell this friend a tale or an analogy and the light bulb will go on. “Oh, thank you Joe! You have given me the perfect solution… you’re my hero!” And as I hand my friend a tissue, I smile and say “you’re welcome” while beaming on the inside with all the pride of a person who just fixed the unfixable. (Yes, I realize how hokey and dorky that sounds. But hey, it is what it is.)

Unfortunately, I had to learn a very important lesson through the school of hard knocks. There are people out there who are more than willing to take advantage of helpers – not because they actually want to make progress or move past their crises, but because the constant attention feeds their unhealthy leach-like needs, leaving me drained and exhausted and them still hungry for more. For some people, drama is just their drug-of-choice. It doesn’t matter what the drama, as long as there is some drama to be had.

I had to go through some very painful lessons to learn that some people out there are just users, and regardless of how much I wanted to help fix them, it was not within my power – nor my responsibility – to do that. Yet, at the core, I still want to. I want to be the hero. I want to be the rescuer. I want to be the guy who has the wisdom to see something that nobody else could see. I don’t want applause. I don’t want universal recognition. I just want to know that I made the difference in that one person’s life at just the right time.

There is very little I will not do for a friend-in-need, which is why I am particularly susceptible to falling prey to a user. I’ve gotten pretty good at throwing a rope to a person who is sinking in quicksand. And when all is said and done, we hug and go our separate ways. But every now and then, I run into an individual who seems very sweet and very nice who keeps wandering over into the quicksand. So out comes the rope. And then the next day, it happens again, and again, and again. I have had to learn to be more guarded, and to recognize the difference between a friend-in-need and a leach. In short, I have had to put away the rescue rope and tell the person effectively that I am not going to pull them out of the quicksand yet again. For the most part, I stick to my guns. Yet, I cannot help but get that sinking feeling in my stomach when I see that person’s name pop up on my cellphone or in my in-box. Why? Because no matter what my head tells me and what logic tells me, my stupid heart keeps getting involved. At my core, I still want to help. I want to be the hero. I want to fix.

Life lessons aren’t easy. They are important… but not always easy. Siiiiigh.

It seems to have taken me a while – much longer than I would have liked – but I think I’m somewhat back into my groove. Slowly but surely, I have whittled away at my to-do list, and have things back under control.

I’m not quite sure what happened, but I hit a stumbling block a couple of months ago where my to-do list was winning compared to my energy-level and drive. I had a couple of projects that I had been excited to do and had volunteered to do and had determined to do. I got about half way through both and just… hit a wall. I know that this may not sound all that unusual to many people. But for me, it’s a big deal. Why? Well… because I just don’t take on a task unless I finish it.

Slowly but surely, I am coming to accept what I find to be a new chapter in my life. It is that horrible reality-check called, “Middle Aged”. (GASP!) All joking aside, I have always prided myself in my ability to juggle and manage my time. Call it my competition with humanity, but I have taken a hubristic amount of pride in the fact that I can not only bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, but also cure the bacon… and do the gardening… and do home projects… and domestics… and artsy stuff… and yoga…, and, and. While other people have complained about an energy loss or the inability to do more than one thing at a time, I have arrogantly thought to myself, “good thing that ain’t me. Onwards with crossing off things on the list!” But then… it happened. No, my routine has not come crashing to a halt. And fortunately, I have not just had to suddenly stop like many of my acquaintances. But, I have had to reach a balance. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, my body seems to just go, “Hang on there, bucko! Rest up… NOW!” And if I don’t comply, I suffer consequences. So at this phase, I just have to accept that in my own head, I am no longer going to be an “A” student. Most days are now “B+”. Some days are “B”. And others are… well… I’d rather not think about it.

I guess all things considered, I’m still doin’ pretty good, right? I guess I just need more time to mull this over. Oh well… I guess that is something I can do while I am in body-imposed-time-out on the couch. Maybe I should add said contemplation to my “to do” list.

If I’m gonna do it anyway, I may as well allow myself the joy of being able to cross it off.

I’m sad. While going through the paper today, I read that Greg Ham, the flautist and saxophonist for Men at Work, was found dead at 58. You all remember Men at Work, right?

“Who can it BEEEEEEEEE now?! Wah-wah-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH-wah-wah.”

I remember all too well. In an age where boom-boxes were beginning to become the rage, I had been saving my nickels and dimes to get my own Sony Walkman – the latest in technology. You could easily listen to a cassette tape of your choice and actually have it with you in a small device and listen to it with headphones! OOOOOOOOOOH!!!!!!!!!! Such advancement!

Not long after I decided to buy into the must-have-technology of any teenager in the 80’s, the radio began to play the kookie and silly song, “Down Under”. I hads to have it! I just hads to! So now armed with a knock-off version of a Sony Walkman, I took the plunge. I would buy my very first cassette tape. And that purchase? “Business as Usual” by Men at Work. I don’t know – there was just something about it. It was different. It was strange. It was kookie. It was silly. It was just fun and not all that horribly serious. And for an overly-serious, overly-neurotic and angsty brand-new-teenager like myself in 1981, it was just perfect. And not long after purchasing it and listening to it a kabillion times, I found myself asking that strangely common question asked by many teenagers in the 80’s. “What exactly IS a vegemite sandwich, anyway?”

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Part of my teenagedom just died. RIP Greg Ham. I’m sad.

 

Click…. Click, click, Click.

“What the hell is that noise?” I asked myself this morning.

One of the simple facts of living in an old house is that it often has a personality of its own. Old boards creak. Stairs loudly announce the pitter-patter of everything from people to cats. Mundane maneuvering upstairs can sound like the invasion of a herd of water buffalo to a downstairs audience. And the winds often catch the rafters, causing further creaks and groans from our 109 year old painted lady. So I wasn’t particularly surprised this morning when I heard unusual noises coming from the other room.

But then, it happened again. Click…. Click, click, Click. Seriously, what the hell?!!!!! So bleary-eyed and still not quite fully awake, I closed down my laptop from my morning perusal of email, rose from my comfy chair, and wandered into the kitchen.

Click…. Click, click, Click.

No kitties. No signs of distress. Nothing out of the ordinary. Did I imagine it? What the heck? Everything looks pretty much…

“AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!” I shrieked (in a particularly masculine and manly sort of way).

There, sticking its head out from underneath the back control-panel of the oven, a opossum was busily lapping up bacon grease from a frying pan.

“PPPPPPPPPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAULLLLL!!!!!!!” I screamed (again, in a very butch and manly kind of way).

Quickly, and loudly, I heard my hubby race down the stairs hearing my (obviously very commanding and domineering) demand for his presence.

“What is it? What’s wrong?!!” he asked, finding me silent, but simply pointing at the stove while dancing (again, in an extremely tough and gruff way) the ew-ew-ew dance.

“Opossum!” I said. “Stove…. Bacon grease…. EWWWW!” It wasn’t that I was freaked out. I was simply communicating the key points that needed to be communicated.

“Um…” Paul began with the look of dazed confusion, surprise, and a little bit of amusement. “I’m really not trained in how to deal with Opossum. Should we turn on the oven?”

“NO!!!” I asserted. Heck, I may have been raised in the south. Sure I keep bacon grease handy. But I am just NOT southern enough to have baked opossum!

Since neither of us are exactly opposumologists, it took a while of putting our collective heads together to figure out a strategy. Obviously, the critter got in on its own. It is safe to assume it can get out on its own. So to prevent further wandering, we closed the doors to the utility room and dining room, opened up the windows, and offered it encouragement to leave on its own, all while resonating the lyrics of “Born Free” in our heads.

Ah… the fun of living in the Claycomb. Well… at least I didn’t embarrass myself by acting like a little gurl!

So the other day, on a whim, I started looking at some of the geneology information that 2 of 5 sent me a few years back. Raw and rather tricky to go through, I started to put it together and did my best to figure out who was related to whom in what way and where. As the generations spanned from 2 families to 4 to 8 to 16, it became needless to say, complicated. But eventually, I started to focus just on the direct lineage (child to parent to grandparent, etc.), combing back. 1900’s… 1800’s… 1700’s…

In the long run, the earliest record we had was from the late 1600’s. So on a whim I looked up one of the more complicated name-combinations on the net. BINGO! Thanks to the work of a set of distant relatives, the de Cordovas, I found not just reference to that particular relative and his wife, but information about his ancestry back to the late 1500’s… in Constantinople!

Seriously… WTF?! CONSTANTINOPLE???! That was something I didn’t expect.

That particular branch of the family were Jews. Not just Jews, but specifically the family of a Rabbi. Given that the name itself refers to an area in Spain, it isn’t too far-fetched to assume that the de Cordovas left Spain a generation or more before arriving in Constantinople, probably because of that whole Ferdinand and Isabela thang known as the Inquisition. While I am of course familiar with the history from books, knowing that it impacted my own direct lineage somehow brings it to life in a very chilling manner. Timing wise, it would have been my great (to the power of 12 or 13) Grandfather who would have had to flee from Spain, making the arduous trip to Constantinople, or face death. Had he not made that desperate trip – had he not survived that desperate trip – I wouldn’t be here today.

Even though I’m already a major history geek, it is one thing to read words on a page and imagine them happening to other people. But when it becomes personal, such as learning about one’s own family, it becomes so much more real. To me, the Inquisition was an interesting chapter in history (and a really silly musical number by Mel Brooks). I didn’t realize it had a direct impact upon me and how I came to be.

Wow. Just… wow.

Seriously, Constantinople?!!!! Wow.