What if you had the ability to stop a war? Would you do it?
Monday morning improved when I found a pinch of doughnut while waiting for my son’s school bus. You see, I’ve become fond of the ants who inhabit the cement steps that lead down to the sidewalk. Ever since I enjoyed their successful efforts to claim some shrink-wrapped peanut butter cheese crackers, I’ve paid close attention to them. The bit of doughnut was an obvious gift for the thin line of ants marching back and forth across our top step. My son and I watched as a few bold explorers discovered it and started taking bits away to their underground colony. I’d hoped he could see the doughnut covered in ants, but his bus came before that could happen.
But…
When I looked back at the trail of ants, it had become a pile of ants. Or, more precisely, a single-file line of ants led from the left corner, past the bit of doughnut, and then swelled to an impressive heap at the right corner. Just that quick. No more than a few minutes had passed since we’d come outside. And the heap was truly impressive. It was as long as my size 41 Birkenstock sandal and it ranged in depth from one ant up to at least six ants. And they were all moving.
Ants continued to go back and forth, going around the mess, but some joined in. Others, but not many, stopped to claim some of my glazed manna from heaven. Interestingly, these food gatherers always took their loads to the left corner of the step, not the right. That mound on the right—what were they doing in that mound? Mating? It kind of looked like mating, although they are very small ants and frankly, I couldn’t tell if they were head-to-head, bottom-to-bottom, or head-to-bottom. Adding to my confusion: Most were in pairs, but some were in groups of three. Head-to-bottom-to-head?
Clearly I needed some information. My Google search of “Indiana ant swarm” provided plenty. Did you know that all the ants you see are females? Like honeybees, ladies dominate the hive and do all the work. Males are made when they’re needed. Okay, I guess my ants weren’t having a big love-in. So they must be fighting.
Being self-centered, I worried that I had caused the battle. Maybe the doughnut created a turf war. Yet even now no more than four ants were on it. Were the ants thirsty? It’s been very dry here. Maybe I was seeing a panic caused by their limited resources? I brought out some water and poured a little on the ground, but they didn’t seem interested in the quickly absorbed puddle. No one stopped to drink—not the walkers, not the gatherers, not the fierce lady warriors.
Discouraged, I went inside for a while, thinking maybe even ants have free will and should be allowed to continue doing what they were doing. Who was I to interfere? Circle of life, blah, blah, blah. Surely they were doing something that needed to be done.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I figured I should stop this war if I could, without making anything worse. I went back outside. The conflict was still shoe-sized. Looking closely, I saw ant heads scattered about. Only the victims’ tiny size prevented the scene from being truly gruesome. Apparently these were “fight-to-the-finish-take-no-prisoners” gals. But they were getting tired. I could see pairs and threesomes head-to-head (head-to-head-to-bottom?) not moving. I poked a couple hoping to startle and distract them. Instead they resumed their fighting with fresh energy. I was making it worse!
Now I was a sad god-figure. Here I’d provided them with delicious food and water and still they fought. Why? Didn’t they have work to do? Babies to look after? Queens to service? Tunnels to dig? Food to collect?
Disgusted, I thought of just flooding the step. “If you won’t look after yourselves, I’ll drown the lot of you!” Then the whole story of Noah and God at the end of His rope came to mind and I stopped.
Do you ever realize how much power you have and get scared? That realization can be just as frightening as the one that reminds you how small and helpless you really are. I prefer to avoid both lines of thinking, so these ants were really getting under my skin.
I went back into the house, up to my office, and tried to work. I sent some emails. Folded some laundry. Ate something. Eventually I went back to the steps. How could I avoid it? The doughnut was gone. The heap of ants was gone. A single line of ants was walking back and forth. Except for some tiny abandoned heads, it was a peaceful scene. And today, days after the event, the peace continues. At least out there on the step.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Finding Wabi-sabi in Paradise
Wabi-sabi is the Japanese belief in the beauty of life’s transient nature. It seeks to make us appreciate the imperfection of life. Believers embrace the natural falling apart and decaying that others fight with such extraordinary measures as paint, collagen, steel wool, and replacement. The example that people often use to describe it is a chipped vase that’s more interesting than it was before it was damaged. The picture that comes to mind when I think of the word is the inside of my re-glazed sink that’s again cracked and peeling. My first impulse is to groan and start thinking of either getting a new sink or at least getting the thing re-glazed again. But then my yearning to be “wabisabic” (my word) kicks in and I try to recognize and even appreciate what I’m seeing. I can think about how many people have used it in the more than 80 years it’s been in the bathroom. I try to see beauty in its rusty parts. I even use it to complement what I see in the mirror above it—a face that’s showing its own version of gradual decay. Or maybe I’m using my unenhanced face to feel better about not replacing the sink.
I was thinking a lot about wabi-sabi last Friday when I went to the Paradise Spa in Chicago. Spa, Chicago, you’re probably picturing something swanky on Michigan Avenue. Stop it. Paradise is so much better. I’ve been to high-end spas in other cities and know what to expect—new towels in tasteful colors, elegant masseuses and aestheticians, designer-designed spaces with calming colors and smooth upholstery, soothing music, chilled glasses of water with lemon slices, probably a vessel of pebbles and something that smells like sandalwood. But Paradise eschews all of that nonsense. Its towels are worn out and come in all sorts of colors. The employees wear comfortable clothes. Every surface is chipped. There are lockers and they clang noisily. There are personal care products for you to use, but they’re either Suave or Vaseline Intensive Care.
You go to Paradise to get clean and relax. Men and women have separate facilities because every customer is naked. (At the other kind of spa you might be nude, but at Paradise you’re just plain naked.) After leaving your clothes and inhibitions in your locker, you enter the bathing area and are faced with a variety of options. The centerpiece is an 8-person hot tub, but there’s also a super hot well of water and a super cold version. There are three showers along the wall. Next to them are some faucets with little stools that you can sit and wash at. There you can see old ladies squatting and scrubbing their dentures as well as mothers and daughters washing one another’s backs. There’s a dry sauna and a steam sauna. And in an adjoining room there are lounge chairs and a TV in case you start feeling nappy. You get access to all of that for as long as you want for $20.
But for $100 you can supersize your experience, which is exactly what I did last week.
After lounging in the hot tub for a bit, I got scrubbed. For 30 minutes a middle-aged Korean woman wearing black panties and matching bra (I said they were comfortably dressed) scrubbed the heck out of my hide. For a long time she just used little scrubby pads, but then she added an abrasive product not unlike something I’ve bought from Arbonne in the past. By the end of my session the table I was lying on was covered with dead skin. It brought to mind homework that was so tricky that by the time I finished it, my pink eraser was noticeably smaller and erasure bits covered my desk. Like a troublesome story problem, I’d been erased and erased until I was just right. Frankly, that was worth the $100, but at Paradise the fun keeps coming. It was now time for my “massagie” with Emmy (that’s the only comment I’ll make about how the Koreans speak and I’m only including it because “massagie with Emmy” was such a nice mantra to say to myself as I drove to Chicago).
Emmy is from Bulgaria and in case you’re wondering, she wore normal clothes. Apparently only the scrubbers do the panty-bra thing. She didn’t chitchat. She didn’t ask me anything about myself. She didn’t tell me about her weekend plans. She didn’t make me choose between ambient music or ocean sounds. She just gave me the best massage of my life, even better than Mr. Martin Javinsky’s up in Minneapolis who left me feeling like I’d been in a car accident, but in a good way. I found out later that I could have asked Emmy to walk on my back—-that’s what those bars on the ceiling were for. Isn’t it funny how everything looks sinister when you’re somewhere new?
Back to wabi-sabi. Clearly Paradise is not fancy, what with its chipped paint and faded towels. But what I’ve discovered is that I’m okay with myself there. At the other sort of spa, I’d probably feel like I needed to hold in my stomach. Like maybe I should have cut my toenails and polished them before coming. I sure wouldn’t feel like I could get scrubbed out in the open. And I could appreciate the transient nature of youth and beauty as I looked (briefly) at the women around me who represented every possible age, shape and size. When you’re surrounded by real women who aren’t trying to impress anyone, who just want to slough off their winter flakiness and have a good soak, you realize that in our differences we’re all the same—except I’m a lot smoother than you right now. Going a step further, I guess I hope that the Paradise we’ve been looking forward to ever since we were told about What Comes Next is like the Paradise Spa. I hope it’s a little dingy and the people there are a little dumpy, because I plan to be comfortable for a really long time.
I was thinking a lot about wabi-sabi last Friday when I went to the Paradise Spa in Chicago. Spa, Chicago, you’re probably picturing something swanky on Michigan Avenue. Stop it. Paradise is so much better. I’ve been to high-end spas in other cities and know what to expect—new towels in tasteful colors, elegant masseuses and aestheticians, designer-designed spaces with calming colors and smooth upholstery, soothing music, chilled glasses of water with lemon slices, probably a vessel of pebbles and something that smells like sandalwood. But Paradise eschews all of that nonsense. Its towels are worn out and come in all sorts of colors. The employees wear comfortable clothes. Every surface is chipped. There are lockers and they clang noisily. There are personal care products for you to use, but they’re either Suave or Vaseline Intensive Care.
You go to Paradise to get clean and relax. Men and women have separate facilities because every customer is naked. (At the other kind of spa you might be nude, but at Paradise you’re just plain naked.) After leaving your clothes and inhibitions in your locker, you enter the bathing area and are faced with a variety of options. The centerpiece is an 8-person hot tub, but there’s also a super hot well of water and a super cold version. There are three showers along the wall. Next to them are some faucets with little stools that you can sit and wash at. There you can see old ladies squatting and scrubbing their dentures as well as mothers and daughters washing one another’s backs. There’s a dry sauna and a steam sauna. And in an adjoining room there are lounge chairs and a TV in case you start feeling nappy. You get access to all of that for as long as you want for $20.
But for $100 you can supersize your experience, which is exactly what I did last week.
After lounging in the hot tub for a bit, I got scrubbed. For 30 minutes a middle-aged Korean woman wearing black panties and matching bra (I said they were comfortably dressed) scrubbed the heck out of my hide. For a long time she just used little scrubby pads, but then she added an abrasive product not unlike something I’ve bought from Arbonne in the past. By the end of my session the table I was lying on was covered with dead skin. It brought to mind homework that was so tricky that by the time I finished it, my pink eraser was noticeably smaller and erasure bits covered my desk. Like a troublesome story problem, I’d been erased and erased until I was just right. Frankly, that was worth the $100, but at Paradise the fun keeps coming. It was now time for my “massagie” with Emmy (that’s the only comment I’ll make about how the Koreans speak and I’m only including it because “massagie with Emmy” was such a nice mantra to say to myself as I drove to Chicago).
Emmy is from Bulgaria and in case you’re wondering, she wore normal clothes. Apparently only the scrubbers do the panty-bra thing. She didn’t chitchat. She didn’t ask me anything about myself. She didn’t tell me about her weekend plans. She didn’t make me choose between ambient music or ocean sounds. She just gave me the best massage of my life, even better than Mr. Martin Javinsky’s up in Minneapolis who left me feeling like I’d been in a car accident, but in a good way. I found out later that I could have asked Emmy to walk on my back—-that’s what those bars on the ceiling were for. Isn’t it funny how everything looks sinister when you’re somewhere new?
Back to wabi-sabi. Clearly Paradise is not fancy, what with its chipped paint and faded towels. But what I’ve discovered is that I’m okay with myself there. At the other sort of spa, I’d probably feel like I needed to hold in my stomach. Like maybe I should have cut my toenails and polished them before coming. I sure wouldn’t feel like I could get scrubbed out in the open. And I could appreciate the transient nature of youth and beauty as I looked (briefly) at the women around me who represented every possible age, shape and size. When you’re surrounded by real women who aren’t trying to impress anyone, who just want to slough off their winter flakiness and have a good soak, you realize that in our differences we’re all the same—except I’m a lot smoother than you right now. Going a step further, I guess I hope that the Paradise we’ve been looking forward to ever since we were told about What Comes Next is like the Paradise Spa. I hope it’s a little dingy and the people there are a little dumpy, because I plan to be comfortable for a really long time.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Men Without Pants
Today was a nice day and tomorrow promises to be better. Winter-white people will be pulling on their shorts and I’ll probably have to go up to the attic to look for my cropped pants. I bet I see at least one neighbor mowing shirtless, getting a start on that tan of his. But let’s not waste time thinking about these common exhibitionists. Let’s turn our attention to the slightly more difficult to locate species of clothing-optional man—the pantless man.
For reasons that will become clear in a few minutes, my friend MT and I have talked about men without pants for a long time. I think most people have a story or two about encounters with flashers or exhibitionists. I’d like to know more about them and our relationship with them. Why do they do it? Why is it creepy in person, but funny to talk about later? And why did I used to see them more than I do now? Is it me or is it them?
The Guy at College
I’m going to assume that many young women encounter their first man without pants in college. But I’m also going to assume that most of those men are not wearing parkas. My first man without pants wore a blue parka, brown shoes, and nothing else.
I met him at a dorm party, but I recognized him from our cafeteria. He worked there. He was tall, quiet, and kind of moved like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. He asked me to dance. (Let me just go ahead and admit that I hate to dance. The Seinfeld episodes with Elaine dancing are very funny, but a little too familiar. Everclear punch made these parties bearable for me.) I tried to chat him up, because I’m a strong believer of verbal distraction when I’m dancing. Of course it was too loud to really talk, but we gamely persevered. I finally resorted to hand signals. (God, I hate to dance.) He’d asked me my major and I made a “T” with my hands and mouthed “telecommunications.” He was delighted and answered by making an “A” with his—accounting. Immediately I knew I’d made a critical mistake: By being charmingly unusual, I’d gotten his attention. Now I knew there’d be more dance invitations—argh—and maybe he’d want to go out or study together or walk downtown to donate plasma. In that instant I saw a whole awkward future spread before me. In a panic, I quickly disappeared after the song. But then I had to continue to hide from him, which was a little challenging because I had to eat where he worked. [You can commence your own analysis of my behavior anytime. Or maybe you just realized as I just did that cafeterias are an ongoing source of bad experiences for me.]
Winter came. He started wearing a parka that was just like the ones boys in my middle school had worn. That’s what made me notice it. I hadn’t seen one in years. I’m sure you’ve seen the style. The exterior was a navy blue heavy nylon and the lining was orange. There was a fur-trimmed hood with a buckle on top. I’m sure it was a terrific coat, but because I’d seen so many of them years ago, it seemed like an odd choice for a college student. (I’ve got all sorts of prejudices, including those that involve winter coats.) He also rode a bike to campus, even in slushy weather. One day that winter he was actually hit by a big campus bus as he rode his bike down the long hill that connected our dorm to the main campus. I’m sure he was wearing The Parka. Maybe its puffiness is what saved him from serious injury.
More time passed. Late one Saturday night my roommate and I were recapping our evening with our door open. The Guy walked by and we burst out laughing, not because of him (honest), but I’m sure it seemed like it was all about him. I remember thinking we should say something like, “We’re laughing because of this other thing, not you,” but of course we didn’t. A bit later still we were getting ready for bed and there was a knock at the door. When we opened it, there he was, wearing brown shoes and The Parka with its hood up, cinched tight so his face wasn’t visible. Or was he wearing a ski mask? Regardless, there he was, doing a strange high-knees-turned-out-while-hopping sort of motion. We screamed. We slammed the door. We went to the bathroom in pairs for awhile. And The Guy became my first Man Without Pants.
The Guy in the Park
Long before kids, I had a dog named Midge. Midge and Marj, people sometimes got our names confused: “Is that one Midge or is she Marj?” I took her everywhere. And once I met MT and her dogs, we went even more places. This particular afternoon we were at a nice wooded park along the river, across the street from a very expensive private school. The dogs were running without leashes ahead of and around us and MT and I were deep in conversation, probably talking about work or our husbands. Suddenly we saw him, my second Man Without Pants.
He was way over there, standing off the trail calf-deep in the wildflowers. Maybe he was peeing? But if that were the case, his back would be to us, wouldn’t it? And his pants wouldn’t be all the way off or even around his ankles, right? Nope, he was doing something else. Time got weird then. It seems like we stood there for a little too long, just trying to puzzle out what he might be up to. The dogs were interested, but not too enthusiastic in their greeting. Then we started screaming and running. Both of us were sure he’d do something to the dogs so we were calling them excitedly as we ran. We got to the park entrance and told people about the guy, but no one carried cell phones yet, so we couldn’t call anyone official. I think one man bravely went into the woods to look for him, but we couldn’t give him any sort of useful description, other than the no-pants part. The funny thing is that we sometimes went to a different park, one that was known for randy man behavior, but we never saw anyone sans pants there.
The Guy in the Car
When I worked at a downtown ad agency, I had all sorts of responsibilities, including helping with projects by doing the stuff art directors didn’t have time for. One project required me to find a photograph of the Indianapolis skyline before it had really tall buildings. I called long-time photographers and I spoke with several newspaper staffers. I looked at lots of books at the library. Finally I made my way to the city’s Historical Society. It was a sloppy winter day, but I was still wearing nice shoes at that point in my life. So when I was crossing the street I was paying close attention to where I stepped, but as I walked in front of a parked car I glanced up and saw there was a man watching me. As I passed by the side of his car I glanced at him again (it only seems polite to follow-up one glance with a final glance, right?) and discovered, yes, he had no pants on. Now this one is maybe the most puzzling Man Without Pants sighting because it was cold outside and this man either left home with no pants or he parked and wiggled out of them. And this was not a deserted part of the city. It was at a pretty well-trafficked intersection. And apparently I was the only person who noticed? Do the rest of you not glance into cars when you walk around them? (Maybe I am the odd one here, because earlier this year I kept seeing a particular pickup truck at the grocery store and each time it had a big, furry, fly-laden bison head in the back. No one else seemed to notice it. How could they not? Do you not look into truck beds either? The last time I saw the truck in the parking lot I asked store employees about it because it seemed unlikely that a particular customer and I would consistently shop at the same time. No one knew what I was talking about. Heck, they didn’t even want to come outside and look at it.) I guess three might be the Magic Number for pantless man sightings, because this time I didn’t run or scream. And I never found the photo I was looking for. Apparently no one in Indianapolis thought about taking a skyline shot until after we got some tall buildings.
So those are my three Man Without Pants stories. I was going to write about one particularly unpleasant man at a nursing home I worked at in college, but that would be unfair because he wasn’t choosing to be pantless. It’s pretty funny though—remember, pain plus distance equals comedy. And of course I’ve got sons now, so there are those stories, but again, their innocence prevents the stories from really meeting the Man Without Pants criteria, as defined by me: A Man Without Pants story requires that the man be intentionally pantless in a public place for the purposes of shocking others or pleasing himself. If you’ve got your own story that you’d like to share, reply to this blog entry. I think we’d all like to know where else these guys have been spotted.
For reasons that will become clear in a few minutes, my friend MT and I have talked about men without pants for a long time. I think most people have a story or two about encounters with flashers or exhibitionists. I’d like to know more about them and our relationship with them. Why do they do it? Why is it creepy in person, but funny to talk about later? And why did I used to see them more than I do now? Is it me or is it them?
The Guy at College
I’m going to assume that many young women encounter their first man without pants in college. But I’m also going to assume that most of those men are not wearing parkas. My first man without pants wore a blue parka, brown shoes, and nothing else.
I met him at a dorm party, but I recognized him from our cafeteria. He worked there. He was tall, quiet, and kind of moved like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. He asked me to dance. (Let me just go ahead and admit that I hate to dance. The Seinfeld episodes with Elaine dancing are very funny, but a little too familiar. Everclear punch made these parties bearable for me.) I tried to chat him up, because I’m a strong believer of verbal distraction when I’m dancing. Of course it was too loud to really talk, but we gamely persevered. I finally resorted to hand signals. (God, I hate to dance.) He’d asked me my major and I made a “T” with my hands and mouthed “telecommunications.” He was delighted and answered by making an “A” with his—accounting. Immediately I knew I’d made a critical mistake: By being charmingly unusual, I’d gotten his attention. Now I knew there’d be more dance invitations—argh—and maybe he’d want to go out or study together or walk downtown to donate plasma. In that instant I saw a whole awkward future spread before me. In a panic, I quickly disappeared after the song. But then I had to continue to hide from him, which was a little challenging because I had to eat where he worked. [You can commence your own analysis of my behavior anytime. Or maybe you just realized as I just did that cafeterias are an ongoing source of bad experiences for me.]
Winter came. He started wearing a parka that was just like the ones boys in my middle school had worn. That’s what made me notice it. I hadn’t seen one in years. I’m sure you’ve seen the style. The exterior was a navy blue heavy nylon and the lining was orange. There was a fur-trimmed hood with a buckle on top. I’m sure it was a terrific coat, but because I’d seen so many of them years ago, it seemed like an odd choice for a college student. (I’ve got all sorts of prejudices, including those that involve winter coats.) He also rode a bike to campus, even in slushy weather. One day that winter he was actually hit by a big campus bus as he rode his bike down the long hill that connected our dorm to the main campus. I’m sure he was wearing The Parka. Maybe its puffiness is what saved him from serious injury.
More time passed. Late one Saturday night my roommate and I were recapping our evening with our door open. The Guy walked by and we burst out laughing, not because of him (honest), but I’m sure it seemed like it was all about him. I remember thinking we should say something like, “We’re laughing because of this other thing, not you,” but of course we didn’t. A bit later still we were getting ready for bed and there was a knock at the door. When we opened it, there he was, wearing brown shoes and The Parka with its hood up, cinched tight so his face wasn’t visible. Or was he wearing a ski mask? Regardless, there he was, doing a strange high-knees-turned-out-while-hopping sort of motion. We screamed. We slammed the door. We went to the bathroom in pairs for awhile. And The Guy became my first Man Without Pants.
The Guy in the Park
Long before kids, I had a dog named Midge. Midge and Marj, people sometimes got our names confused: “Is that one Midge or is she Marj?” I took her everywhere. And once I met MT and her dogs, we went even more places. This particular afternoon we were at a nice wooded park along the river, across the street from a very expensive private school. The dogs were running without leashes ahead of and around us and MT and I were deep in conversation, probably talking about work or our husbands. Suddenly we saw him, my second Man Without Pants.
He was way over there, standing off the trail calf-deep in the wildflowers. Maybe he was peeing? But if that were the case, his back would be to us, wouldn’t it? And his pants wouldn’t be all the way off or even around his ankles, right? Nope, he was doing something else. Time got weird then. It seems like we stood there for a little too long, just trying to puzzle out what he might be up to. The dogs were interested, but not too enthusiastic in their greeting. Then we started screaming and running. Both of us were sure he’d do something to the dogs so we were calling them excitedly as we ran. We got to the park entrance and told people about the guy, but no one carried cell phones yet, so we couldn’t call anyone official. I think one man bravely went into the woods to look for him, but we couldn’t give him any sort of useful description, other than the no-pants part. The funny thing is that we sometimes went to a different park, one that was known for randy man behavior, but we never saw anyone sans pants there.
The Guy in the Car
When I worked at a downtown ad agency, I had all sorts of responsibilities, including helping with projects by doing the stuff art directors didn’t have time for. One project required me to find a photograph of the Indianapolis skyline before it had really tall buildings. I called long-time photographers and I spoke with several newspaper staffers. I looked at lots of books at the library. Finally I made my way to the city’s Historical Society. It was a sloppy winter day, but I was still wearing nice shoes at that point in my life. So when I was crossing the street I was paying close attention to where I stepped, but as I walked in front of a parked car I glanced up and saw there was a man watching me. As I passed by the side of his car I glanced at him again (it only seems polite to follow-up one glance with a final glance, right?) and discovered, yes, he had no pants on. Now this one is maybe the most puzzling Man Without Pants sighting because it was cold outside and this man either left home with no pants or he parked and wiggled out of them. And this was not a deserted part of the city. It was at a pretty well-trafficked intersection. And apparently I was the only person who noticed? Do the rest of you not glance into cars when you walk around them? (Maybe I am the odd one here, because earlier this year I kept seeing a particular pickup truck at the grocery store and each time it had a big, furry, fly-laden bison head in the back. No one else seemed to notice it. How could they not? Do you not look into truck beds either? The last time I saw the truck in the parking lot I asked store employees about it because it seemed unlikely that a particular customer and I would consistently shop at the same time. No one knew what I was talking about. Heck, they didn’t even want to come outside and look at it.) I guess three might be the Magic Number for pantless man sightings, because this time I didn’t run or scream. And I never found the photo I was looking for. Apparently no one in Indianapolis thought about taking a skyline shot until after we got some tall buildings.
So those are my three Man Without Pants stories. I was going to write about one particularly unpleasant man at a nursing home I worked at in college, but that would be unfair because he wasn’t choosing to be pantless. It’s pretty funny though—remember, pain plus distance equals comedy. And of course I’ve got sons now, so there are those stories, but again, their innocence prevents the stories from really meeting the Man Without Pants criteria, as defined by me: A Man Without Pants story requires that the man be intentionally pantless in a public place for the purposes of shocking others or pleasing himself. If you’ve got your own story that you’d like to share, reply to this blog entry. I think we’d all like to know where else these guys have been spotted.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
What to Say
Years ago a friend's daughter was diagnosed with autism. Being a poet, my friend wrote this poem and it was published in a local magazine. I dutifully clipped it out because that's what friends do. Years later when my daughter was diagnosed with autism I came across the poem and had a good cry--now I could more fully appreciate what my friend was feeling. Today, more than six years after the autism label was affixed to my child's forehead, I read it again and cried some more. The thing about being the parent of an autistic child is that there are always new ways to be saddened because while you're dealing with your child's issues, you're witnessing daily how their peers are developing and you can't help but envy those kids' parents. I try to remember that typical kids' issues can also be frustrating and that I would probably feel another sort of dismay if I had to deal with them, but some days my situation just seems overwhelming and it's good to have a poem like this one to help me get the crying out of the way.
What to Say
by Elizabeth Burns
so if you want to know
what it is you should say
when someone tells you
"there's something wrong
with my little girl
i thought she was fine but she isn't"
if you want to know what to say
say this:
talk to me
follow me through the snow and talk to me
walk through a mall
next to me
and when i look in a window
talk to me some more
talk to me by the carrots and celery
and talk to me when i put away
the oatmeal
and call me on the phone
when you're awake
and it's three and four and five
in the a.m. and you think
the carpet hurts you
and the words are slogging
in your throat
so muddy you need boots
for a sentence
call me call me
let me know everything
and even call again
and change the story
to the way you thought you heard it
and then the way you really heard it
when they told you
there was something
really wrong
and tell me
how cold it felt
inside your lungs
and how shattered
your hair felt
how your feet
could never get warm
because they were always
standing some place
so cold
waiting for different news
and tell me again
the news you wanted to hear
and how that wasn't it
and swear and hate me
and throw things that seem
precious to me
break my stuff
yell
hang up on me
because I want to hear it
i am as deep as a wordless well
and i am waiting for you
all night under the moon
and you can walk right out to me
and yell or whisper
as long as you want
while the grass gets flat
beneath your angry feet
and the birds get restless
and the trees bend down
to hear you
they want to know, too
they want to reach up for you
and complain
tell me all night long
and into next week
christ into next year
tell me cause
i want to know
Saturday, March 28, 2009
What I've Read This Week
Last Saturday I started reading Peter Singer’s newly published book The Life You Can Save.
Last Sunday the Indianapolis Star had this story on page B1:
If you know anything about The Life You Can Save, you know how the timing of the two writings struck me as perfect. If you aren’t familiar with the book, read on. Peter Singer is the Australian philosopher who wrote Animal Liberation back in 1975. That book was the first to really introduce millions of readers to the idea of speciesism and how an unwillingness to accept that animals feel pain and suffer has lead to factory farms and irresponsible product testing on animals. I think that omnipresent little gnawing sensation in my gut can be attributed to reading Animal Liberation in 1990. So when I heard he had a new book coming out, the gnawing sensation insisted that I get a copy. More guilt? You betcha. Thanks, gnawing sensation!
The book is small, fewer than 200 pages if you skip the acknowledgments and notes. And it’s timely—he’s either a very fast writer or he had time rewrite passages to reflect the economic uncertainty of 2008. Like that of a lot of philosophers, his writing sometimes requires multiple readings. What may seem understandable at first glance gets twisted around and examined from different angles, and if you’re feeling thoughtful or distracted, you just might want to read it again to make sure you’re catching it all. For that reason, I’ve only gotten about a quarter of the way through the book. I may need to revise this entire entry if the book surprises be by heading in a different direction, but for today, let’s assume I’m following and understanding its intended message. Mr. Singer builds this basic argument:
First premise: Suffering and death from lack of food, shelter, and medical care are bad.
Second premise: If it is in your power to prevent something bad from happening, without sacrificing anything nearly as important, it is wrong not to do so.
Third premise: By donating to aid agencies, you can prevent suffering and death from lack of food, shelter, and medical care, without sacrificing anything nearly as important.
Therefore, if you do not donate to aid agencies, you are doing something wrong.
It’s hard to argue against the correctness of this argument. Certainly all of us want to prevent suffering, especially if we can do it without negatively impacting our own well-being. But, how far would you go to prevent suffering? You may already be donating money to charities—good for you. But if you still have money left to spend on non-essentials, like bottled water (Mr. Singer seems to have a special hatred for bottled water), then are you really doing enough? That’s where the basic argument above gets tricky. Singer writes, “When we spend our surplus on concerts or fashionable shoes, on fine dining and good wines, or on holidays in faraway lands, we are doing something wrong.” He suggests, “you must keep cutting back on unnecessary spending, and donating what you save, until you have reduced yourself to the point where if you give any more, you will be sacrificing something nearly as important as a child’s life—like giving so much that you can no longer afford to give your children an adequate education.”
Last Sunday the Indianapolis Star had this story on page B1:
Notre Dame hopeful starts site
The name of 17-year-old Rachel Harris’ Web site says it all. The Muskegon, Mich., high school senior recently launched iwanttogotonotredame.com to help her raise money to attend the South Bend school. The site includes copies of her application form, letters of recommendation and her high school transcript. Harris expects to be accepted—the problem is Notre Dame’s $46,000 annual cost of tuition, fees, room and board. She hopes the site will generate donations but also has applied for at least 10 scholarships. Harris plans to pursue a degree in biomolecular engineering and then attend medical school to become a pediatric endocrinologist. “The only thing that is keeping me from possibly going is the financial aspect to it, especially with these economic times,” she said.
If you know anything about The Life You Can Save, you know how the timing of the two writings struck me as perfect. If you aren’t familiar with the book, read on. Peter Singer is the Australian philosopher who wrote Animal Liberation back in 1975. That book was the first to really introduce millions of readers to the idea of speciesism and how an unwillingness to accept that animals feel pain and suffer has lead to factory farms and irresponsible product testing on animals. I think that omnipresent little gnawing sensation in my gut can be attributed to reading Animal Liberation in 1990. So when I heard he had a new book coming out, the gnawing sensation insisted that I get a copy. More guilt? You betcha. Thanks, gnawing sensation!
The book is small, fewer than 200 pages if you skip the acknowledgments and notes. And it’s timely—he’s either a very fast writer or he had time rewrite passages to reflect the economic uncertainty of 2008. Like that of a lot of philosophers, his writing sometimes requires multiple readings. What may seem understandable at first glance gets twisted around and examined from different angles, and if you’re feeling thoughtful or distracted, you just might want to read it again to make sure you’re catching it all. For that reason, I’ve only gotten about a quarter of the way through the book. I may need to revise this entire entry if the book surprises be by heading in a different direction, but for today, let’s assume I’m following and understanding its intended message. Mr. Singer builds this basic argument:
First premise: Suffering and death from lack of food, shelter, and medical care are bad.
Second premise: If it is in your power to prevent something bad from happening, without sacrificing anything nearly as important, it is wrong not to do so.
Third premise: By donating to aid agencies, you can prevent suffering and death from lack of food, shelter, and medical care, without sacrificing anything nearly as important.
Therefore, if you do not donate to aid agencies, you are doing something wrong.
It’s hard to argue against the correctness of this argument. Certainly all of us want to prevent suffering, especially if we can do it without negatively impacting our own well-being. But, how far would you go to prevent suffering? You may already be donating money to charities—good for you. But if you still have money left to spend on non-essentials, like bottled water (Mr. Singer seems to have a special hatred for bottled water), then are you really doing enough? That’s where the basic argument above gets tricky. Singer writes, “When we spend our surplus on concerts or fashionable shoes, on fine dining and good wines, or on holidays in faraway lands, we are doing something wrong.” He suggests, “you must keep cutting back on unnecessary spending, and donating what you save, until you have reduced yourself to the point where if you give any more, you will be sacrificing something nearly as important as a child’s life—like giving so much that you can no longer afford to give your children an adequate education.”
An adequate education. That brings us back to Miss Harris and her Web site. Mr. Singer certainly values education. He studied at the University of Melbourne and the University of Oxford and these days he’s a professor at Princeton University. I’m sure he’d encourage any student to get the best education they could afford. But $46,000 is a lot of money. Could she earn a comparable degree from a comparable school for less? Turns out she could attend her home state’s University of Michigan, which is ranked as one of the top ten biomedical engineering undergraduate universities, and pay less than half of what she plans to spend to attend Notre Dame. (The U of M Office of Financial Aid estimates that a freshman could expect to spend $22,765 for tuition, room and board, books and supplies, and miscellaneous personal expenses.) So in light of the little bit of The Life You Can Live that I’ve read and thought about, I’m having a hard time accepting that anyone should send anything to Miss Harris’s Web site. Maybe we should just write her and encourage her to read the book and reconsider her options. Maybe she could use her site to educate others about their financial choices and moral obligations.
Now I’m wondering why the newspaper even covered her story and how the reporter came to find out about it. Did this creative forward-looking student send out press releases? Did the editor think this Web site creation idea was a good one and wanted to share it so other needy individuals would be inspired to create their own sites? Did the paper run the story because newspaper readers are typically old and old means cranky and there’s nothing that an old cranky person likes more than a reason to get worked up so they can rant all morning about today’s youth? I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s paper because there just might be a follow-up story.
Now I’m wondering why the newspaper even covered her story and how the reporter came to find out about it. Did this creative forward-looking student send out press releases? Did the editor think this Web site creation idea was a good one and wanted to share it so other needy individuals would be inspired to create their own sites? Did the paper run the story because newspaper readers are typically old and old means cranky and there’s nothing that an old cranky person likes more than a reason to get worked up so they can rant all morning about today’s youth? I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s paper because there just might be a follow-up story.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Ann, God, and a watch that beeps
My sister-in-law has a blog. Here’s a link:
http://annkroeker.wordpress.com/
My confession: I rarely read it. Why? I have no good reason. I’ll weakly claim that I don’t have time to read other people’s blogs, but I know that isn’t the real reason. I suspect that I don’t read it because I don’t want to think I could learn anything from her. The same reason that I don’t take my mom’s advice on clothes or my father-in-law’s advice on cars. I’m reluctant to admit that a family member can actually have useful opinions. There. Confession complete.
But I did recently attend my church’s “Ladies Day of Reflection” and my sister-in-law was one of the speakers. I went to her session and I’m here to tell you, she was terrific. Charming. Well-spoken. I was jealous of her ease, but so happy for her. Another confession: I’m not so good at being genuinely happy for people. But there I was, basking in her success when I found that she was teaching me things. Yep, I opened my mind and some of her knowledge slipped on in. So tonight I’m going to share just one of the items I walked away with. And she’s going to read this and say to herself, “That? I spoke for an hour, I poured out my soul, and that’s what she walked away with?” And I’ll need to assure her that there was a lot more, but this is just what I feel like sharing with you. (Did you roll your eyes at my assumption that she’d read my blog even though I don’t read hers? I’m rolling my own eyes and making a little promise to the blogosphere that I’ll start checking in with her blog.)
The subject of Ann’s talk was advice to women, moms mostly, about how to find time to pursue a closer relationship with God. She wrote an entire book on the subject—The Contemplative Mom: Restoring Rich Relationship with God in the Midst of Motherhood (ISBN: 978-0877881223). It’s out of print now, but you can find copies on Amazon.com.
So here’s the suggestion that got me so excited: Wear a watch that can beep every hour. That way, when you hear the beep, you can be reminded to think about God. I suppose you could also do this with the goal of thinking about anything that’s important to you—your children, your grandma, your lover, yourself—but I’ve been wearing my watch every day since Ann’s talk and I’ve been trying to actually think about God when it beeps. I’m often struck by the juxtaposition of what I’m doing and what I’m hoping to think about. Friday night I was pinching the edge of the pizza crust, trying to make it just right to hold the toppings. Dough and God. Okay, that works. But then on Saturday morning I was scooping the cat litter. Weird, but maybe that’s the point. That even when we’re doing the most humble of things, we can and should be thinking about The Bigger Picture.
And like a cleansing breath, the tiny beep can quickly snap my focus away from what I’ve been stewing about and put it back where I want it. Beep! I’m resettled into a better frame of mind. Maybe I should figure out if my watch could beep every 30 minutes instead of just once an hour.
http://annkroeker.wordpress.com/
My confession: I rarely read it. Why? I have no good reason. I’ll weakly claim that I don’t have time to read other people’s blogs, but I know that isn’t the real reason. I suspect that I don’t read it because I don’t want to think I could learn anything from her. The same reason that I don’t take my mom’s advice on clothes or my father-in-law’s advice on cars. I’m reluctant to admit that a family member can actually have useful opinions. There. Confession complete.
But I did recently attend my church’s “Ladies Day of Reflection” and my sister-in-law was one of the speakers. I went to her session and I’m here to tell you, she was terrific. Charming. Well-spoken. I was jealous of her ease, but so happy for her. Another confession: I’m not so good at being genuinely happy for people. But there I was, basking in her success when I found that she was teaching me things. Yep, I opened my mind and some of her knowledge slipped on in. So tonight I’m going to share just one of the items I walked away with. And she’s going to read this and say to herself, “That? I spoke for an hour, I poured out my soul, and that’s what she walked away with?” And I’ll need to assure her that there was a lot more, but this is just what I feel like sharing with you. (Did you roll your eyes at my assumption that she’d read my blog even though I don’t read hers? I’m rolling my own eyes and making a little promise to the blogosphere that I’ll start checking in with her blog.)
The subject of Ann’s talk was advice to women, moms mostly, about how to find time to pursue a closer relationship with God. She wrote an entire book on the subject—The Contemplative Mom: Restoring Rich Relationship with God in the Midst of Motherhood (ISBN: 978-0877881223). It’s out of print now, but you can find copies on Amazon.com.
So here’s the suggestion that got me so excited: Wear a watch that can beep every hour. That way, when you hear the beep, you can be reminded to think about God. I suppose you could also do this with the goal of thinking about anything that’s important to you—your children, your grandma, your lover, yourself—but I’ve been wearing my watch every day since Ann’s talk and I’ve been trying to actually think about God when it beeps. I’m often struck by the juxtaposition of what I’m doing and what I’m hoping to think about. Friday night I was pinching the edge of the pizza crust, trying to make it just right to hold the toppings. Dough and God. Okay, that works. But then on Saturday morning I was scooping the cat litter. Weird, but maybe that’s the point. That even when we’re doing the most humble of things, we can and should be thinking about The Bigger Picture.
And like a cleansing breath, the tiny beep can quickly snap my focus away from what I’ve been stewing about and put it back where I want it. Beep! I’m resettled into a better frame of mind. Maybe I should figure out if my watch could beep every 30 minutes instead of just once an hour.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Mr. Knight: My Puzzling Life Coach
In a few weeks we can celebrate the 21st birthday of one of Bobby Knight’s more unfortunate comments. During an interview with NBC’s Connie Chung, he said, “I think that if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.” He seemed to immediately recognize his mistake and tried to explain that he wasn’t actually talking about the act of rape: “But what I’m talking about is, something happens to you, so you have to handle it—now.” But it was too late for explanations. His poor word choice took on a life of its own, and caused further damage to his image, and embarrassed his employer, Indiana University.
I remember trying to make the rape comment make sense when he said it. Surely, if raped, my impulse would be to fight back. Wouldn’t it? But what if some rational part of my mind took control of the situation and assured me that there was in fact enjoyment to be had during this attack? Would that be a good thing, a kind of self-preservation defense mechanism? Or would it be detrimental to my survival? Coming from a man who doesn’t seem to know about relaxing and enjoying much at all, this comment and explanation puzzled me.
And continues to puzzle me.
Like all good puzzles, this one has taken up residence in my mind and occasionally my mind will take it down and toy with it for awhile. During a recent drama at work I thought about it quite a bit. I’m not going to thoroughly describe the work drama yet, even though it’s a story that will undoubtedly interest you. For now, you can picture your own unpleasant workplace scenario.
Mine involved a variety of challenging characters and their sometimes disturbing behaviors. Did he just take off his shirt a second time? Why was that child given two slices of bread and some peanut butter for lunch when those adults just helped themselves to complete meals? Did she just growl “titties” in my ear? Is that really an affair or technically just a “special bond”? If someone aggressively breaks the please-be-quiet chimes, can peace truly be achieved? Did that one use the N-word during the inauguration? Am I the only one who cares about this stuff? Bleh.
Many days when I’d be near-tears over something I was seeing, Bobby Knight’s relax-and-enjoy-it comment would come to mind. Clearly, I couldn’t change my co-workers or how they behaved. All I could do was find a way to cope with them. So for months I did that. I’d squash down my concerns and focus on the clock, waiting for the end of my shift. Or I’d distract myself by focusing all my attention on an enjoyable part of my job.
While these tactics worked for the duration of my workday, they didn’t help me away from work. Away from work I had all sorts of things to think about, yet I was fixated on the work drama. Nothing my husband said was as interesting as my co-workers’ misdeeds, so I only wanted to talk about them. For awhile, everyone I spoke to heard snippets of the big story. Like a new crush that dominates all your thoughts, these buffoons dominated mine. And like a bad smell on your hand that you keep sniffing just to confirm that it’s still there and it still stinks, I kept replaying events and conversations in my head even though I knew they’d make me mad.
So, deciding that just maybe Mr. Knight was wrong and that if you’re raped you need to fight back with everything you have, I set about to change the situation. I spoke to my supervisor. Nothing happened. I spoke to her supervisor, nothing happened. I spoke to another supervisor and was assured that everything that needed to be addressed had been addressed, but I couldn’t see that anything had changed. I resigned, but in frustration, I went yet one step higher up the ladder of command. This time I found a sympathetic manager who listened to my whole story. He led me to believe that things would finally change. I felt encouraged. But in the meantime, in my last two weeks at work, things got worse. (Yes, it was possible to make them worse.) I was getting the silent treatment. No one was helping me. It was grim and tense, but I survived.
So, which technique was more effective?
I want to say that addressing the problem was the right thing to do. I saw problems, I reported problems, and now I’m waiting for the system to appropriately deal with the problems. I want to say that having fought back, I am content.
But so far, I still can’t tell that anything’s changed. You see, I wasn’t able to make a clean break. I’ve still got reasons to go back once a week, twice a week, sometimes three times. And every visit makes me sad and angry. It appears my employer has not addressed any of my concerns. My ex-coworkers are still there acting the same. And I’m not working.
I guess I can’t answer the question yet. I hope that the answer eventually will become clear and I’ll be able to put the matter to rest.
I remember trying to make the rape comment make sense when he said it. Surely, if raped, my impulse would be to fight back. Wouldn’t it? But what if some rational part of my mind took control of the situation and assured me that there was in fact enjoyment to be had during this attack? Would that be a good thing, a kind of self-preservation defense mechanism? Or would it be detrimental to my survival? Coming from a man who doesn’t seem to know about relaxing and enjoying much at all, this comment and explanation puzzled me.
And continues to puzzle me.
Like all good puzzles, this one has taken up residence in my mind and occasionally my mind will take it down and toy with it for awhile. During a recent drama at work I thought about it quite a bit. I’m not going to thoroughly describe the work drama yet, even though it’s a story that will undoubtedly interest you. For now, you can picture your own unpleasant workplace scenario.
Mine involved a variety of challenging characters and their sometimes disturbing behaviors. Did he just take off his shirt a second time? Why was that child given two slices of bread and some peanut butter for lunch when those adults just helped themselves to complete meals? Did she just growl “titties” in my ear? Is that really an affair or technically just a “special bond”? If someone aggressively breaks the please-be-quiet chimes, can peace truly be achieved? Did that one use the N-word during the inauguration? Am I the only one who cares about this stuff? Bleh.
Many days when I’d be near-tears over something I was seeing, Bobby Knight’s relax-and-enjoy-it comment would come to mind. Clearly, I couldn’t change my co-workers or how they behaved. All I could do was find a way to cope with them. So for months I did that. I’d squash down my concerns and focus on the clock, waiting for the end of my shift. Or I’d distract myself by focusing all my attention on an enjoyable part of my job.
While these tactics worked for the duration of my workday, they didn’t help me away from work. Away from work I had all sorts of things to think about, yet I was fixated on the work drama. Nothing my husband said was as interesting as my co-workers’ misdeeds, so I only wanted to talk about them. For awhile, everyone I spoke to heard snippets of the big story. Like a new crush that dominates all your thoughts, these buffoons dominated mine. And like a bad smell on your hand that you keep sniffing just to confirm that it’s still there and it still stinks, I kept replaying events and conversations in my head even though I knew they’d make me mad.
So, deciding that just maybe Mr. Knight was wrong and that if you’re raped you need to fight back with everything you have, I set about to change the situation. I spoke to my supervisor. Nothing happened. I spoke to her supervisor, nothing happened. I spoke to another supervisor and was assured that everything that needed to be addressed had been addressed, but I couldn’t see that anything had changed. I resigned, but in frustration, I went yet one step higher up the ladder of command. This time I found a sympathetic manager who listened to my whole story. He led me to believe that things would finally change. I felt encouraged. But in the meantime, in my last two weeks at work, things got worse. (Yes, it was possible to make them worse.) I was getting the silent treatment. No one was helping me. It was grim and tense, but I survived.
So, which technique was more effective?
I want to say that addressing the problem was the right thing to do. I saw problems, I reported problems, and now I’m waiting for the system to appropriately deal with the problems. I want to say that having fought back, I am content.
But so far, I still can’t tell that anything’s changed. You see, I wasn’t able to make a clean break. I’ve still got reasons to go back once a week, twice a week, sometimes three times. And every visit makes me sad and angry. It appears my employer has not addressed any of my concerns. My ex-coworkers are still there acting the same. And I’m not working.
I guess I can’t answer the question yet. I hope that the answer eventually will become clear and I’ll be able to put the matter to rest.
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