Everyone has heard of Michael Richards' (Kramer from Seinfeld) racist rant against two African-American hecklers at a show in Los Angeles last week, and everyone is weighing in with their opinions. I don't have anything new to add; I was as shocked and appalled as anyone in America. Yet, in spite of all the negative rhetoric out there, I saw one tiny ray of hope.
One of the two African-American boys said in an interview that they weren't accustomed to being treated that way; no one had ever called them that particular epithet before.
I don't know where these two boys were from, but I do know they were young - I would say early twenties. All I know is that when I was young, that particular epithet was very common everywhere in America. (There is one elderly gentleman that my husband and I know that still uses it very often. We have both told him before that we don't like it and that he shouldn't speak that way, but he persists, which is why we don't associate with him anymore.)
My conclusion is that we're making progress. It's not perfect, and it never will be (since now most people's criticism is centered on Muslims) but if these two boys had never been subjected to racism before, then we're making progress.
And in my book, that's a good thing.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Annual Widow
Autumn is my favorite time of year; the leaves are falling carpets of molten colors, in shades of gold, ruby red, orange, and rust. The sumac is aflame and the animals are in a frenzy, fattening themselves up for the lean months ahead. The squirrels are scurrying everywhere, type "A" personalities in furry gray coats, hiding nuts by the seeming thousands. There is a subtle tension in the air; I can almost smell it outdoors, a kind of anticipation. The does are preening themselves girlishly, primping for their prom night. The bucks are rubbing their velvet tuxes off on the nearest tree and fighting each other to prove who is more worthy.
In other words, it's hunting season.
My husband hasn't had anyone to go hunting with since we married in 2001. I knew he was a hunter when I met him, because I met him in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where the only big things that happen every year are the hunting season and the Outhouse Races in Trenary in February. (Don't know where Trenary is? If you only knew what you're missing! It's the home of "Trenary Toast".)
In the U.P. of Michigan, everyone - and I do mean everyone - has a hunting camp. Some have been in the family for generations and have had more love and care lavished upon them than on the family homes. I know of one couple, who were good friends of ours, who had both a lovely family home and a 260-acre hunting camp with a five-bedroom, two bath cabin with two fireplaces, a stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and sauna, all of which ran on the massive generator in a shed out back. The wife lives in her lovely home in town; the husband lives at camp. All year.
My husband yearns for a hunting camp of his own, but we live on a fixed income and it just isn't happening, at least until we either win the lottery or one of us goes to work.
The good news for my husband is, after two years of living in this new place where we don't know a soul except for my sister-in-law, someone has invited Jerry to go hunting with him. (He invited him yesterday morning at 10 am, opening day.) I haven't seen my husband move so fast since I married him. Before I knew it he had found everything colored blaze orange in the house (which is quite a trick, since it's all been packed away for two years), grabbed a thermos of coffee and his gun and was out the door. (I've been begging him to find the extra silverware that's packed away somewhere since we're down to two forks - he packed it - but he has no idea where it is, yet he found his blaze orange boxer shorts immediately.)
I'm a hunting widow.
Now, in the U.P. of Michigan, hunting season is just a given. It's going to happen, every year, come rain, shine, or tsunami, however unlikely that may be. The men spend weeks getting ready, laying in the cases of beer, canned goods, pasties (that will take a whole different post), chips, dips, and granola bars - oh, and let's not forget the peppermint schnapps. The women - well now, the women are going to their travel agents, buying their traveler's checks and the suntan lotion.
Because when it's hunting season, the women go south.
Now, technically, I am south. (We moved about five hours south two years ago.) Unfortunately, we don't have the money for me to go anywhere or even to go shopping, which is the other women's alternative during hunting season.
So here I am.
All in all, this is good. I'm good. I've got my diet pop in the refrigerator, my Special K bars in the cupboard, and my shearling slippers on my feet. I've got four brand new books I haven't even cracked the covers of yet. I know exactly where my husband is and when he'll be home (around 6 pm, for supper.) I know this is only going to last for two weeks.
But I've never wished so badly to be back home - home, in the quirky, backwoods, stuffed-full-of-deer-and-Yoopers Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where we know everybody and there's at least sixteen places I can think of to go, where at least one person will know my name and be happy to see me. Back home, even though the new trends don't filter down (or up, geographically) to the Yoopers until a year after they begin in New York or California, at least there's a mall, a huge library, and Lake Superior within twenty minutes' drive (I never grow tired of looking at Lake Superior.)
I guess I could go see my sister-in-law. She's nice and I like her, but sooner or later the conversation is going to come around to the fact that I'm going to go to hell because I'm not a Lutheran, and that will be that.
Oh, well. I guess I'll go get a Butterball for Thanksgiving - I know my husband will be home all day Thursday, at least - and maybe later I'll go online and find some really yummy venison recipes.
But being the hunting widow that I am, I'm resolved to start laying some pennies aside, because some day, if I'm going to be a hunting widow, I'm going to be a Yooper hunting widow again.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody!!
In other words, it's hunting season.
My husband hasn't had anyone to go hunting with since we married in 2001. I knew he was a hunter when I met him, because I met him in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where the only big things that happen every year are the hunting season and the Outhouse Races in Trenary in February. (Don't know where Trenary is? If you only knew what you're missing! It's the home of "Trenary Toast".)
In the U.P. of Michigan, everyone - and I do mean everyone - has a hunting camp. Some have been in the family for generations and have had more love and care lavished upon them than on the family homes. I know of one couple, who were good friends of ours, who had both a lovely family home and a 260-acre hunting camp with a five-bedroom, two bath cabin with two fireplaces, a stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and sauna, all of which ran on the massive generator in a shed out back. The wife lives in her lovely home in town; the husband lives at camp. All year.
My husband yearns for a hunting camp of his own, but we live on a fixed income and it just isn't happening, at least until we either win the lottery or one of us goes to work.
The good news for my husband is, after two years of living in this new place where we don't know a soul except for my sister-in-law, someone has invited Jerry to go hunting with him. (He invited him yesterday morning at 10 am, opening day.) I haven't seen my husband move so fast since I married him. Before I knew it he had found everything colored blaze orange in the house (which is quite a trick, since it's all been packed away for two years), grabbed a thermos of coffee and his gun and was out the door. (I've been begging him to find the extra silverware that's packed away somewhere since we're down to two forks - he packed it - but he has no idea where it is, yet he found his blaze orange boxer shorts immediately.)
I'm a hunting widow.
Now, in the U.P. of Michigan, hunting season is just a given. It's going to happen, every year, come rain, shine, or tsunami, however unlikely that may be. The men spend weeks getting ready, laying in the cases of beer, canned goods, pasties (that will take a whole different post), chips, dips, and granola bars - oh, and let's not forget the peppermint schnapps. The women - well now, the women are going to their travel agents, buying their traveler's checks and the suntan lotion.
Because when it's hunting season, the women go south.
Now, technically, I am south. (We moved about five hours south two years ago.) Unfortunately, we don't have the money for me to go anywhere or even to go shopping, which is the other women's alternative during hunting season.
So here I am.
All in all, this is good. I'm good. I've got my diet pop in the refrigerator, my Special K bars in the cupboard, and my shearling slippers on my feet. I've got four brand new books I haven't even cracked the covers of yet. I know exactly where my husband is and when he'll be home (around 6 pm, for supper.) I know this is only going to last for two weeks.
But I've never wished so badly to be back home - home, in the quirky, backwoods, stuffed-full-of-deer-and-Yoopers Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where we know everybody and there's at least sixteen places I can think of to go, where at least one person will know my name and be happy to see me. Back home, even though the new trends don't filter down (or up, geographically) to the Yoopers until a year after they begin in New York or California, at least there's a mall, a huge library, and Lake Superior within twenty minutes' drive (I never grow tired of looking at Lake Superior.)
I guess I could go see my sister-in-law. She's nice and I like her, but sooner or later the conversation is going to come around to the fact that I'm going to go to hell because I'm not a Lutheran, and that will be that.
Oh, well. I guess I'll go get a Butterball for Thanksgiving - I know my husband will be home all day Thursday, at least - and maybe later I'll go online and find some really yummy venison recipes.
But being the hunting widow that I am, I'm resolved to start laying some pennies aside, because some day, if I'm going to be a hunting widow, I'm going to be a Yooper hunting widow again.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody!!
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Growing Up, and the Status Quo
I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was nine years old and read "Stranger in a Strange Land" by Robert Heinlein. (I was heavily into science fiction back then.) Although I didn't understand a lot of the book - the sex Heinlein seemed so obsessed with was way over my head then - I found some of the other themes it contained very thought-provoking. It became one of the first (of many) books I read over and over. As I write this, I'm thinking I'll reread it again, because I'm sure I'll look at parts of it differently now.
By the time I was in high school I had two teachers who had a profound impact on me: Mrs. Hite, who taught mostly History and English, and Miss Charter, who taught grammar (which I hated) and creative writing (which I loved.) Mrs. Hite told me when I was a sophomore that I should seriously consider becoming a writer when I "grew up".
I ran excitedly all the way home, astonished that someone thought something I had done was worthy of praise. That's not to say I didn't get praise at home; I did, but only about things like whether I had cleaned my room or passed my math test or not. I guess my parents' philosophy was to encourage me in the things I struggled with, knowing that I'd naturally persist in the things I enjoyed.
My mother was not impressed with my plans to become an English major when I went to college.
"What are you going to do with an English degree?" she asked. "Teach?"
I was appalled at the thought of teaching; my idea had been to sit in a cottage with a fire at my feet and a cup of tea at my elbow and write like Austen or Dumas, Dickens or... well, Heinlein. When I told my mother that, however, she was somewhat less than supportive. She asked me what I would do for money while I was writing. How was I going to support myself until my work began to sell? (If it DID sell?)
Perhaps it would be better, she said, if I pursued another career field and wrote in my spare time.
I followed my mother's advice when it came to what I should do when I "grew up"; I attended college to pursue a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. I made it through about a year and a half. I loved Anatomy and Physiology, Intro to Psychology, Chemistry I, and especially Pharmacology; unfortunately, I also had Creative Writing.
When I was in college, I was a lot more interested in extracurricular activities than I was in my studies. I had to work at the science courses - I found them interesting and learned a lot, but was more interested in partying. The Creative Writing was another story.
I attended the first Creative Writing class and learned how the professor was going to run the class and what was expected of the students. When the prof told us that 75 - 80% of our final grade would be the essay exam at the end of the year, that's all I had to hear.
I never went back until the day of the final exam. That's how confident I was.
The final exam was an essay. I don't remember the subject; the professor wrote it on the board right before the exam started and told us to write so many words on that subject.
I got an A in the course, the only A I got that year.
Needless to say, college didn't work out; I wasn't prepared for the commitment it entailed. I liked nursing academically, but I couldn't handle actually working with patients. I knew that death was a big part of that profession intellectually, but I never realized the emotional impact it would have on me until I was working with a patient with Lou Gehrig's disease, and watched him die by infinitesimal degrees over the course of six months. I snapped; I couldn't handle it.
I admitted defeat and returned home at the advanced age of nineteen, convinced I was a failure.
After living at home and working as a waitress for six months, I decided to enter the Navy.
I did what my parents expected of me; I got a job, earned a wage, contributed to society.
The Navy was very easy for me. I loved travelling, loved meeting new people, and liked my job well enough. The problem was, the Navy was too easy. It didn't challenge me, really. All I had to do was follow orders and do my job. I didn't even have to do it particularly well if I didn't want to; it just meant I wouldn't get promoted as quickly. The Navy was pretty much a pushbutton career. Even when doing a semi-lackadaisical job, I went from paygrade E1 to E6 within five years. After that is when my attitude toward the Navy bogged me down. Up until E7, all that was required to be upwardly mobile was to have a good record, and score well enough on the advancement examinations to get promoted. Going up for Chief Petty Officer, though, required that my service record be screened by a selection board in Washington, D.C.
Only the very best, the most committed, the most top-notch, gung-ho sailors made Chief.
The selection board wasn't interested in lackadaisical.
So I did what I did best - I just maintained the status quo. I did my job. I wasn't brilliant or inspired; I just did what I had to do. I would have continued to do just that until my twenty years was up, but at my sixteenth year in I began to have health problems.
That's another story, in another blog.
In 2001 I was finally beginning to feel better after four years of physical hell, and then my mother died. It left me rudderless.
You see, she was the one who had taken care of me through all my medical issues; five surgeries and about 90 days hospitalization in a year. I had gone home when the Navy retired me and was living less than a mile from my mother's house (my dad had died in 1994). I was still so bemused at having survived that my life plan was to keep on keepin' on until it was my turn to care for my mother.
I didn't expect my mother to be diagnosed with leukemia and die ten days later of pneumonia.
My mother died on June 10, 2001. On September 11th, that horrible day when the twin towers fell, I dialed my mother's number to tell her what had happened in New York, and it wasn't until that dispassionate electronic voice told me that number was no longer in service that I remembered she was dead. I loved her very, very much, and still miss her and think of her every single day.
Her death left me determined to DO something with my life, so I moved further north to be closer to the university I had originally attended some 24 years before, and enrolled in fall classes... again. This time I decided I wanted to be a Wildlife Biologist, despite the fact that I couldn't walk more than 200 feet at a time (Wildlife Biologists typically spend days at a time in the field). I went to the first day of classes (it took me 45 minutes to walk from my car to my first class) and was so exhausted I gave up. Again.
I was beginning to see a pattern emerging here. (Duh.)
When I moved north I had joined a local veteran's organization and became very involved with some of their fundraising efforts and community activities. The ladies of the Auxiliary seemed so determined to hook me up with the Post Commander, who was single, that I suppose what eventually happened was inevitable.
I married him.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love my husband very much. He's my best friend. We're together twenty-four hours a day, and although we do get on each other's nerves occasionally, all in all it's a very loving, very committed relationship.
The problem is, I've recently begun to realize that I had ended up doing what I've done my whole life... the status quo. I got married to avoid having to DO anything with my life.
I took a good, long look at my life, at what I've learned and what I've accomplished, and realized that it's more than time I satisfied myself, instead of everyone else. My pension keeps me in food and shelter, so I don't have to work. Now that I'm feeling better, I've become very dissatisfied with getting up in the morning, plopping in a chair with a book or watching TV until after the evening news, then going to bed, only to get up the next morning and do it all over again.
I want more. I need more. I want to write. I think about it constantly.
When I read a book, I'm paying more attention to the author's prose, style and plot construction than I am to the story. When I watch TV I'm constructing sentences in my head.
I'm 47 years old, and I've finally decided what I want to be when I "grow up".
I don't have a destination anymore; now the journey itself is my goal, and I'm going to write about it every step of the way.
By the time I was in high school I had two teachers who had a profound impact on me: Mrs. Hite, who taught mostly History and English, and Miss Charter, who taught grammar (which I hated) and creative writing (which I loved.) Mrs. Hite told me when I was a sophomore that I should seriously consider becoming a writer when I "grew up".
I ran excitedly all the way home, astonished that someone thought something I had done was worthy of praise. That's not to say I didn't get praise at home; I did, but only about things like whether I had cleaned my room or passed my math test or not. I guess my parents' philosophy was to encourage me in the things I struggled with, knowing that I'd naturally persist in the things I enjoyed.
My mother was not impressed with my plans to become an English major when I went to college.
"What are you going to do with an English degree?" she asked. "Teach?"
I was appalled at the thought of teaching; my idea had been to sit in a cottage with a fire at my feet and a cup of tea at my elbow and write like Austen or Dumas, Dickens or... well, Heinlein. When I told my mother that, however, she was somewhat less than supportive. She asked me what I would do for money while I was writing. How was I going to support myself until my work began to sell? (If it DID sell?)
Perhaps it would be better, she said, if I pursued another career field and wrote in my spare time.
I followed my mother's advice when it came to what I should do when I "grew up"; I attended college to pursue a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. I made it through about a year and a half. I loved Anatomy and Physiology, Intro to Psychology, Chemistry I, and especially Pharmacology; unfortunately, I also had Creative Writing.
When I was in college, I was a lot more interested in extracurricular activities than I was in my studies. I had to work at the science courses - I found them interesting and learned a lot, but was more interested in partying. The Creative Writing was another story.
I attended the first Creative Writing class and learned how the professor was going to run the class and what was expected of the students. When the prof told us that 75 - 80% of our final grade would be the essay exam at the end of the year, that's all I had to hear.
I never went back until the day of the final exam. That's how confident I was.
The final exam was an essay. I don't remember the subject; the professor wrote it on the board right before the exam started and told us to write so many words on that subject.
I got an A in the course, the only A I got that year.
Needless to say, college didn't work out; I wasn't prepared for the commitment it entailed. I liked nursing academically, but I couldn't handle actually working with patients. I knew that death was a big part of that profession intellectually, but I never realized the emotional impact it would have on me until I was working with a patient with Lou Gehrig's disease, and watched him die by infinitesimal degrees over the course of six months. I snapped; I couldn't handle it.
I admitted defeat and returned home at the advanced age of nineteen, convinced I was a failure.
After living at home and working as a waitress for six months, I decided to enter the Navy.
I did what my parents expected of me; I got a job, earned a wage, contributed to society.
The Navy was very easy for me. I loved travelling, loved meeting new people, and liked my job well enough. The problem was, the Navy was too easy. It didn't challenge me, really. All I had to do was follow orders and do my job. I didn't even have to do it particularly well if I didn't want to; it just meant I wouldn't get promoted as quickly. The Navy was pretty much a pushbutton career. Even when doing a semi-lackadaisical job, I went from paygrade E1 to E6 within five years. After that is when my attitude toward the Navy bogged me down. Up until E7, all that was required to be upwardly mobile was to have a good record, and score well enough on the advancement examinations to get promoted. Going up for Chief Petty Officer, though, required that my service record be screened by a selection board in Washington, D.C.
Only the very best, the most committed, the most top-notch, gung-ho sailors made Chief.
The selection board wasn't interested in lackadaisical.
So I did what I did best - I just maintained the status quo. I did my job. I wasn't brilliant or inspired; I just did what I had to do. I would have continued to do just that until my twenty years was up, but at my sixteenth year in I began to have health problems.
That's another story, in another blog.
In 2001 I was finally beginning to feel better after four years of physical hell, and then my mother died. It left me rudderless.
You see, she was the one who had taken care of me through all my medical issues; five surgeries and about 90 days hospitalization in a year. I had gone home when the Navy retired me and was living less than a mile from my mother's house (my dad had died in 1994). I was still so bemused at having survived that my life plan was to keep on keepin' on until it was my turn to care for my mother.
I didn't expect my mother to be diagnosed with leukemia and die ten days later of pneumonia.
My mother died on June 10, 2001. On September 11th, that horrible day when the twin towers fell, I dialed my mother's number to tell her what had happened in New York, and it wasn't until that dispassionate electronic voice told me that number was no longer in service that I remembered she was dead. I loved her very, very much, and still miss her and think of her every single day.
Her death left me determined to DO something with my life, so I moved further north to be closer to the university I had originally attended some 24 years before, and enrolled in fall classes... again. This time I decided I wanted to be a Wildlife Biologist, despite the fact that I couldn't walk more than 200 feet at a time (Wildlife Biologists typically spend days at a time in the field). I went to the first day of classes (it took me 45 minutes to walk from my car to my first class) and was so exhausted I gave up. Again.
I was beginning to see a pattern emerging here. (Duh.)
When I moved north I had joined a local veteran's organization and became very involved with some of their fundraising efforts and community activities. The ladies of the Auxiliary seemed so determined to hook me up with the Post Commander, who was single, that I suppose what eventually happened was inevitable.
I married him.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love my husband very much. He's my best friend. We're together twenty-four hours a day, and although we do get on each other's nerves occasionally, all in all it's a very loving, very committed relationship.
The problem is, I've recently begun to realize that I had ended up doing what I've done my whole life... the status quo. I got married to avoid having to DO anything with my life.
I took a good, long look at my life, at what I've learned and what I've accomplished, and realized that it's more than time I satisfied myself, instead of everyone else. My pension keeps me in food and shelter, so I don't have to work. Now that I'm feeling better, I've become very dissatisfied with getting up in the morning, plopping in a chair with a book or watching TV until after the evening news, then going to bed, only to get up the next morning and do it all over again.
I want more. I need more. I want to write. I think about it constantly.
When I read a book, I'm paying more attention to the author's prose, style and plot construction than I am to the story. When I watch TV I'm constructing sentences in my head.
I'm 47 years old, and I've finally decided what I want to be when I "grow up".
I don't have a destination anymore; now the journey itself is my goal, and I'm going to write about it every step of the way.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Welcoming Words - and Borat
Thanks so much for the huge welcome from everyone! I now have lots of new bloggers to call friends and blogs to read. It's a wonderful thing.
To address some of the responses to my blogs so far: I firmly believe that adversity only makes one stronger. I try, every day, to follow my parents' example, and realize that I really don't have it so bad. Some days are harder than others, but on a day like yesterday, when I saw that young man in a wheelchair, looking stunned at where fate had put him, it's easy.
I saw an article in People magazine last week or the week before about a young Marine who had gone to Iraq, performed his first tour of duty, then returned to the States and proposed to his sweetheart, who said yes. Before they could wed, he was shipped back to Iraq again. The second time there, he didn't fare so well. The Humvee he was riding in hit an IED (I'm not sure what that stands for, other than a bomb) and it blew up, severely burning him from the waist up. He lost his nose, his ears, his mouth, one eye, all of his hair, and was left with only two fingers on one hand. When they shipped him back to the States, his fiancee went to see him, and said she was relieved that he still looked the same, except he was black all over. That was before the first surgery, when they had to remove all the burned skin, which pretty much removed his face. That stalwart and loyal young lady married him anyway. She says she doesn't even notice his scars anymore, that his heart is still the same.
No, I'm definitely not going to feel sorry for myself!
Now, enough about me. I've got another question for all the bloggers out there.
What do you all think of this Sacha Baron Cohen guy and his "Borat" alter ego?
Well, since this is my blog, I'm going to be the first to weigh in.
I am a firm believer in freedom of artistic expression. With that said, however, I feel uncomfortable when someone's idea of artistic expression tramples all over someone else's feelings. I know we aren't obliged to tippy-toe around, but I think a little good taste and empathy would go a long way sometimes. I don't think the two college kids who are complaining that the film crew got them drunk and then goaded them into saying things that are less than discreet (not to mention worlds away from PC) really have a leg to stand on - after all, no one poured the booze down their throats. No, my sympathy is for the dirt-poor Romanian town whose occupants were invited to take part in a "documentary", paid a measly $3.30 or so, then asked to take barnyard animals into their homes and allow them to urinate and defecate all over the place to illustrate the hilarity of living in a third-world country. That's just an example of the extent to which this film went to to ridicule people who have little or no choice in the quality of their lives.
Whew! That felt good.
My opinion doesn't matter, though. I want to know what YOU think! Before you begin, let me answer the inevitable question: no, I haven't seen the movie, and I don't intend to. I'll give my twelve bucks or thereabouts to charity, where maybe it will do some good.
Now, let's hear it people! Talk it out!
To address some of the responses to my blogs so far: I firmly believe that adversity only makes one stronger. I try, every day, to follow my parents' example, and realize that I really don't have it so bad. Some days are harder than others, but on a day like yesterday, when I saw that young man in a wheelchair, looking stunned at where fate had put him, it's easy.
I saw an article in People magazine last week or the week before about a young Marine who had gone to Iraq, performed his first tour of duty, then returned to the States and proposed to his sweetheart, who said yes. Before they could wed, he was shipped back to Iraq again. The second time there, he didn't fare so well. The Humvee he was riding in hit an IED (I'm not sure what that stands for, other than a bomb) and it blew up, severely burning him from the waist up. He lost his nose, his ears, his mouth, one eye, all of his hair, and was left with only two fingers on one hand. When they shipped him back to the States, his fiancee went to see him, and said she was relieved that he still looked the same, except he was black all over. That was before the first surgery, when they had to remove all the burned skin, which pretty much removed his face. That stalwart and loyal young lady married him anyway. She says she doesn't even notice his scars anymore, that his heart is still the same.
No, I'm definitely not going to feel sorry for myself!
Now, enough about me. I've got another question for all the bloggers out there.
What do you all think of this Sacha Baron Cohen guy and his "Borat" alter ego?
Well, since this is my blog, I'm going to be the first to weigh in.
I am a firm believer in freedom of artistic expression. With that said, however, I feel uncomfortable when someone's idea of artistic expression tramples all over someone else's feelings. I know we aren't obliged to tippy-toe around, but I think a little good taste and empathy would go a long way sometimes. I don't think the two college kids who are complaining that the film crew got them drunk and then goaded them into saying things that are less than discreet (not to mention worlds away from PC) really have a leg to stand on - after all, no one poured the booze down their throats. No, my sympathy is for the dirt-poor Romanian town whose occupants were invited to take part in a "documentary", paid a measly $3.30 or so, then asked to take barnyard animals into their homes and allow them to urinate and defecate all over the place to illustrate the hilarity of living in a third-world country. That's just an example of the extent to which this film went to to ridicule people who have little or no choice in the quality of their lives.
Whew! That felt good.
My opinion doesn't matter, though. I want to know what YOU think! Before you begin, let me answer the inevitable question: no, I haven't seen the movie, and I don't intend to. I'll give my twelve bucks or thereabouts to charity, where maybe it will do some good.
Now, let's hear it people! Talk it out!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Veterans Administration
A reader (gosh! someone actually READ this! There is an echo after all!) asked me to write a little more about my background. Due warning, Dear Reader - this could backfire on you!
After sixteen very happy years in the Navy, I started having some problems with my health. After a year or so of misdiagnoses (and accusations of malingering, which bothers me to this day) a rheumatologist at Bethesda Naval Hospital told me I had lupus. Needless to say, the Navy booted me out with all due speed. Since lupus is an autoimmune disease in which one's immune system attacks normal tissue in the body, about a year after that one of the valves in my heart failed, with necessitated its replacement.
(My valve is made of titanium and is warranted against failure for 150 years, which makes me wonder if I should leave it to someone in my will.)
A series of other problems with my health, which are far too boring to go into, left me with balance problems, trouble walking any further than 200 feet or so unassisted, and the requirement that I go to the VA every other week or so to have my blood tested for what's called a protime, which is a fancy way of saying how thick or thin my blood is, which is critical, it seems, for the efficient performance of the valve.
In the night silence when I'm drifting away to sleep, I can hear the valve in my heart ticking.
I started going to physical therapy because when walking into a local veterinarian's office this past June, I tripped over a loose carpet and landed with all of my considerable weight on my left knee, which tore the anterior cruciate ligament and ended up hemorrhaging into my leg. (I also have bleeding problems because I take a blood thinner, again to protect the artificial valve.) I'm still having residual problems with that knee buckling when I least expect it, so the therapist is going to try to address my balance issues and strengthen the knee at the same time. I'm hoping that when all is said and done I'll be able to get around without the walker.
Still, all in all, I shouldn't complain. Before the walker, there was the wheelchair... two years of which I'd rather forget.
Despite all this, I'm not doing too bad. So far, the only body parts I've lost were a valve in my heart and one of my eyes (I'm blind in my right eye from a benign tumor that presses on the optic nerve.) In my three months of wartime experience in the Persian Gulf, I didn't get blown up or shot at. Mostly the ship I was on ferried supplies and ammo to the guys on the front lines. My war didn't even last six months; my war was over in a matter of weeks. I never saw any of my friends get wounded or die. I never saw the result of a suicide bomber, other than what I and everyone else in the world saw on TV as a result of 9/11.
I consider myself very lucky indeed.
There - I think that's enough ranting for one day!
After sixteen very happy years in the Navy, I started having some problems with my health. After a year or so of misdiagnoses (and accusations of malingering, which bothers me to this day) a rheumatologist at Bethesda Naval Hospital told me I had lupus. Needless to say, the Navy booted me out with all due speed. Since lupus is an autoimmune disease in which one's immune system attacks normal tissue in the body, about a year after that one of the valves in my heart failed, with necessitated its replacement.
(My valve is made of titanium and is warranted against failure for 150 years, which makes me wonder if I should leave it to someone in my will.)
A series of other problems with my health, which are far too boring to go into, left me with balance problems, trouble walking any further than 200 feet or so unassisted, and the requirement that I go to the VA every other week or so to have my blood tested for what's called a protime, which is a fancy way of saying how thick or thin my blood is, which is critical, it seems, for the efficient performance of the valve.
In the night silence when I'm drifting away to sleep, I can hear the valve in my heart ticking.
I started going to physical therapy because when walking into a local veterinarian's office this past June, I tripped over a loose carpet and landed with all of my considerable weight on my left knee, which tore the anterior cruciate ligament and ended up hemorrhaging into my leg. (I also have bleeding problems because I take a blood thinner, again to protect the artificial valve.) I'm still having residual problems with that knee buckling when I least expect it, so the therapist is going to try to address my balance issues and strengthen the knee at the same time. I'm hoping that when all is said and done I'll be able to get around without the walker.
Still, all in all, I shouldn't complain. Before the walker, there was the wheelchair... two years of which I'd rather forget.
Despite all this, I'm not doing too bad. So far, the only body parts I've lost were a valve in my heart and one of my eyes (I'm blind in my right eye from a benign tumor that presses on the optic nerve.) In my three months of wartime experience in the Persian Gulf, I didn't get blown up or shot at. Mostly the ship I was on ferried supplies and ammo to the guys on the front lines. My war didn't even last six months; my war was over in a matter of weeks. I never saw any of my friends get wounded or die. I never saw the result of a suicide bomber, other than what I and everyone else in the world saw on TV as a result of 9/11.
I consider myself very lucky indeed.
There - I think that's enough ranting for one day!
Getting on the Blogging Bandwagon
I'm having fun playing with this. Never having blogged before, I've been wondering if one has to serve a purpose in blogging. Are blogs required to have one specific subject? Or is it a stream-of-consciousness kind of thing? Is ranting allowed?
Are bloggers people who wish to communicate but don't want to bother with answers? Do bloggers enter chat rooms, for example? Do bloggers AVOID chat rooms?
Isn't blogging somewhat like the voice crying in the wilderness? Shouting in a canyon just to hear the echo?
It makes me wonder if there is conceit in blogging; does everyone think just because they blog, someone has to listen?
What are people's motivations in blogging? Do they do it because they have no one to talk to, or because they think their opinions are valuable, to meet other people, to discuss issues of the day? Are there people whose job it is to blog?
If anyone is reading this who blogs, what is your motivation in blogging?
I began blogging yesterday, and chose a title that I thought described me - "The Didactic Bibliophile". It kind of does describe me - I read a LOT and like learning things - but it also makes me sound pompous as hell. (Is saying "hell" in a blog allowed?) Then I thought about my motivations for blogging: I need an outlet. I need an escape. I need to keep my mind occupied, alive, engaged. So I decided to change the name of my blog. It's still not quite there, but it's closer, and it's not too pompous.
I think.
Are bloggers people who wish to communicate but don't want to bother with answers? Do bloggers enter chat rooms, for example? Do bloggers AVOID chat rooms?
Isn't blogging somewhat like the voice crying in the wilderness? Shouting in a canyon just to hear the echo?
It makes me wonder if there is conceit in blogging; does everyone think just because they blog, someone has to listen?
What are people's motivations in blogging? Do they do it because they have no one to talk to, or because they think their opinions are valuable, to meet other people, to discuss issues of the day? Are there people whose job it is to blog?
If anyone is reading this who blogs, what is your motivation in blogging?
I began blogging yesterday, and chose a title that I thought described me - "The Didactic Bibliophile". It kind of does describe me - I read a LOT and like learning things - but it also makes me sound pompous as hell. (Is saying "hell" in a blog allowed?) Then I thought about my motivations for blogging: I need an outlet. I need an escape. I need to keep my mind occupied, alive, engaged. So I decided to change the name of my blog. It's still not quite there, but it's closer, and it's not too pompous.
I think.
Progress
I had a physical therapy appointment today to evaluate my knee, which has resisted getting better since I fell on it in June. I had had two weeks' worth of physical therapy immediately after the accident, which resolved quite a bit of the pain, but the knee still feels very unstable to me, like it's going to go out on me at any moment. A very nice (and very chirpy - are all physical therapists chirpy?) lady took a look at the leg, asked me a few questions, then gave me two sheets of exercises to do at home, and said she wanted to see me three times a week for the next month. Quite a trick, since I live an hour away from the VA, but doable. Better that than what I've been doing, which is sitting home watching my husband vegetate in front of the TV. He's been complaining bitterly about having to inject insulin for his type II diabetes, which is a very new development - his doctor put him on insulin at his last visit, about two weeks ago. I've been researching diabetic menus on the Internet and preparing low fat, low calorie, no salt, no sugar recipes for him, peeling his oranges, cutting celery and carrots into sticks for him to munch on, making his salads, all while he reclines in glory in his La-Z-Boy. He refuses to exercise. We've been coming to this point since I married him five years ago. Three years ago I told him I'd quit smoking if he started checking his blood sugar twice daily like he's supposed to do; I've been smoke-free for three years, but he didn't start checking his blood sugar until two weeks ago when his doctor put him on insulin. At least he's making an effort to eat healthy meals... as long as I'm fixing them, of course. Today I ate at the VA and didn't get home until late, at which time he announced he was hungry. I told him there were lots of leftovers in the fridge. While I was in the bathroom he fixed himself a big greasy hamburger. I guess my lesson of the day is, he'll only care for his health if I do it for him. I wanted him to come with me today, purely for the exercise - just getting him out of the house involves his moving around more than he's accustomed to doing - but he refused. So there it is.
The VA is a huge complex of 8 buildings, all connected by enclosed walkways. There are numerous signs posted along the walkways referring to a "fitness route". I found out today that one circuit of all the buildings equals almost one mile, which means I've been walking about a quarter mile every time I go there. It seems like an abysmally small amount of walking when I think of it in those terms, but when I'm actually walking it, it seems far longer. Maybe in the next month I could try to go a little further each time.
Today when I was navigating my walker past the smoking room (which abuts from one of the walkways, with self-contained ventilation) I saw a young man in a wheelchair with one leg missing below the knee and the other missing the foot. He sat in his wheelchair smoking and gazing at the dreary gray day outside. I have been in the VA system since I was medically retired from the Navy nine years ago, but I still can't become accustomed to seeing all the younger people that are now flooding the VA. Before this disastrous war began in Iraq, almost all of the patients in the VA were Vietnam or WWII era vets. I try to smile and be welcoming when I see them, but the pain - both physical and emotional - in their faces is all too familiar. My war - the Persian Gulf War - had its share of casualties, but the number was far fewer than in this war. I have always thought of myself as a patriot; my father was a World War II disabled veteran, and he and my mother instilled a deep love of country in me. When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, I was proud to go over there and do my part is restoring their liberty. This war, though, has me baffled. I don't understand why we're there, why so many young people - not to mention Iraqis - are dying. I don't understand why I saw a young man in his twenties in the VA today, missing parts of both lower limbs - and probably missing a significant portion of his patriotism as well. The look on his face will be etched in my memory for a long time.
I won't be going there three times a week forever, but I go there often enough - at least every two weeks, to have blood drawn - that I've begun to consider becoming a volunteer. I see lots of volunteers in the hallways in power chairs or with walkers, so my limited mobility shouldn't be a problem. In my travels today I saw a sign for the Music Therapy clinic. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds intriguing. I'd like to see what they do there. Something tells me there are a lot more sad-faced young men and women lurking in the hidden recesses of the VA.
The VA is a huge complex of 8 buildings, all connected by enclosed walkways. There are numerous signs posted along the walkways referring to a "fitness route". I found out today that one circuit of all the buildings equals almost one mile, which means I've been walking about a quarter mile every time I go there. It seems like an abysmally small amount of walking when I think of it in those terms, but when I'm actually walking it, it seems far longer. Maybe in the next month I could try to go a little further each time.
Today when I was navigating my walker past the smoking room (which abuts from one of the walkways, with self-contained ventilation) I saw a young man in a wheelchair with one leg missing below the knee and the other missing the foot. He sat in his wheelchair smoking and gazing at the dreary gray day outside. I have been in the VA system since I was medically retired from the Navy nine years ago, but I still can't become accustomed to seeing all the younger people that are now flooding the VA. Before this disastrous war began in Iraq, almost all of the patients in the VA were Vietnam or WWII era vets. I try to smile and be welcoming when I see them, but the pain - both physical and emotional - in their faces is all too familiar. My war - the Persian Gulf War - had its share of casualties, but the number was far fewer than in this war. I have always thought of myself as a patriot; my father was a World War II disabled veteran, and he and my mother instilled a deep love of country in me. When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, I was proud to go over there and do my part is restoring their liberty. This war, though, has me baffled. I don't understand why we're there, why so many young people - not to mention Iraqis - are dying. I don't understand why I saw a young man in his twenties in the VA today, missing parts of both lower limbs - and probably missing a significant portion of his patriotism as well. The look on his face will be etched in my memory for a long time.
I won't be going there three times a week forever, but I go there often enough - at least every two weeks, to have blood drawn - that I've begun to consider becoming a volunteer. I see lots of volunteers in the hallways in power chairs or with walkers, so my limited mobility shouldn't be a problem. In my travels today I saw a sign for the Music Therapy clinic. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds intriguing. I'd like to see what they do there. Something tells me there are a lot more sad-faced young men and women lurking in the hidden recesses of the VA.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Another New Word`
I learned another new one: coulrophilia, which involves sexual attraction to clowns. One of my husband's favorite movies, in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way, is "Killer Clowns from Outer Space". He's not even remotely as fascinated with words as I am, so I'm going to run and tell him this, mostly because I live to drive him nuts.
New Words
I learned a new word yesterday: corpuscular. It refers to animals whose activity is heaviest in the twilight hours, as opposed to diurnal or noctural animals. Apparently many organisms one assumes to be noctural are actually corpuscular.
I am definitely a corpuscular organism. I detest the morning and the afternoon isn't much better. I usually feel like the Tin Man until around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, when I suddenly become raring to go and DO something, which drives my husband crazy. He's definitely diurnal; he's up at 7 am, downing the first mugs of his approximately 2 quarts of coffee, and watching "Good Morning America". If I get up at all in the morning, it's at 4 am to let the dogs out, after which I return to bed, where I stay until I'm too achy to lay there anymore. Gravity is a terrible thing sometimes.
I started this blog mostly to motivate myself to write. I've always wanted to be a writer... any kind of writer, really, whether it be a technical writer, a journalist, or a copywriter, but especially a novelist. I read some of the dross that passes for fiction nowadays and think, "I could do a better job than that!" Usually, though, after about the first 50 pages I tend to think what I've written isn't much better than some of the other crap out there, and give up... until the next time inspiration strikes again.
Hence, this blog. I don't know if anyone will read it or not; I'm not counting on it. I think it's more a running commentary to myself than anything else. My favorite thing in the world is to learn something new, something that makes me give myself the proverbial slap across the forehead, the "Aha!" moment - so that's what this blog is about. Mostly.
I am definitely a corpuscular organism. I detest the morning and the afternoon isn't much better. I usually feel like the Tin Man until around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, when I suddenly become raring to go and DO something, which drives my husband crazy. He's definitely diurnal; he's up at 7 am, downing the first mugs of his approximately 2 quarts of coffee, and watching "Good Morning America". If I get up at all in the morning, it's at 4 am to let the dogs out, after which I return to bed, where I stay until I'm too achy to lay there anymore. Gravity is a terrible thing sometimes.
I started this blog mostly to motivate myself to write. I've always wanted to be a writer... any kind of writer, really, whether it be a technical writer, a journalist, or a copywriter, but especially a novelist. I read some of the dross that passes for fiction nowadays and think, "I could do a better job than that!" Usually, though, after about the first 50 pages I tend to think what I've written isn't much better than some of the other crap out there, and give up... until the next time inspiration strikes again.
Hence, this blog. I don't know if anyone will read it or not; I'm not counting on it. I think it's more a running commentary to myself than anything else. My favorite thing in the world is to learn something new, something that makes me give myself the proverbial slap across the forehead, the "Aha!" moment - so that's what this blog is about. Mostly.
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