Protecting Ourselves From Creeps

I think the majority of men are decent people; no need to school me on that. There are plenty of good men who are friends, lovers, and family members. However, there are also predators out there who consider women fair game. I am not talking about rape; that is a whole different ball of wax. I'm talking about casual sexual harassment. You know, like when you encounter a creep who makes you want to leave a party early...not with him, with a bodyguard and a container of Purell.

Trump's vulgar and offensive treatment of women reminds me how ill-equipped some of us are to handle unexpected, unwanted advances. All too often it catches us off guard when we encounter a creep. We do not expect it and we just want to pretend it isn't happening. We might be afraid or really, really embarrassed. We may not fully understand why we freeze up. We just want to get away without getting manhandled or hurt. For whatever reason, we often let such "bad manners" pass. Then we go on with our lives, a bit diminished, dehumanized, and worse for wear. 

When I was a young woman, in the late 1960's and early 1970's, there was a burgeoning feminist movement. We attended assertiveness training events to learn how to speak our minds. In my early days as an office worker at Cornell University, there were actually assertiveness training workshops offered to women at work! I learned so much from attending those workshops. This may sound odd to younger women.

You have to understand how it was in the bad old days. Girls were raised to be nice, kind, and obedient. We were taught good girls put the needs of others before their own (even though that put us at risk of being abused or taken advantage of). Furthermore, a lady was always polite and did not yell or call attention to herself. I think you can understand how desperately we needed remedial training to learn how to protect ourselves from creeps!

Like so many other women, I never wanted to be aggressive. Let's face it, aggression IS creepy. Although feminism made me want to be strong, resourceful, credible and respected, I absolutely did not want to become like the creeps. I'm still down with that! (I always hoped feminism would influence men to become more like women.) That is why "assertiveness" was such a welcome concept to many of us. Becoming assertive allowed us to be strong without subscribing to a primitive definition of strength we did not admire.

When I became a manager I received additional training to help thwart sexual harassment in the workplace. A key dynamic is that a woman needs to be crystal damn clear she is not interested. Any meekness, hedging or hawing, or embarrassment will NOT be interpreted as a well mannered rejection by a creep. It will be interpreted as consent or (believe it or not) interest. Apparently creeps think differently than the rest of us.

The next time I see my granddaughter I am going to tell her the most important word in the English language is NO. She needs to get comfortable saying it, along with other things like "Please stop, this is making me uncomfortable," or "I'm not interested," or eventually "Seriously, do I have to call the police?"

I will also tell her not to pay attention to any of the unkind things a creep might yell at her as she walks away. He's a creep, remember? He will not mean it personally, because he won't even think of her as a person. That is why she will be walking away.

WHAT did he just say?

Down the Chute

In 1949, my parents moved into a house in Northern Indiana with my two older sisters. Mom and Dad were raised during the Great Depression, but reached adulthood during World War II. They grew up hard and they grew up fast. That pretty much explains THEIR generation!

Our house was a teeny, one story, two bedroom, house. A breezeway connected the house to a one car garage. I was born in 1951. When my brother Freddy came along in 1955 the breezeway was converted to a third bedroom for the three girls. There was no dining room, all action took place in the kitchen. The living room was not sacrosanct, the house being too small for a show room. Showy front rooms were for rich people who somehow managed to produce well-mannered children! How did they do that, by the way? We lived loud and large in our living room, with the large wooden TV cabinet serving as focal point. 

Our street was located in a newly constructed housing development filled with identical “starter” homes. Scads of similar neighborhoods were quickly built after WWII to accommodate returning veterans and their families. Everyone on the block was like us; traditional families headed by hard drinking, blue-collar workingmen with religious homemaker wives and lots of sugar charged children, all approximately the same ages. 

The 1950's were a great time to be a child. Since houses were too small for adventure, our mothers made us play outside. A lot. We ran hog wild when we were home from school. No one worried about pedophiles or creepy predators. Our mothers did not shuttle us to extracurricular activities, our "schedules" were wide open. We came and went as we pleased, and the world was our playground.

I am not one of those people who thinks "the old ways" are a superior child raising strategy to today's helicopter parenting, it was just historically different. Benign neglect in our formative years may explain my generation's subsequent hijinks. Our war traumatized parents were so busy drinking, smoking, and trying to approximate normal that they hardly noticed us baby boomers were sentient beings. Little did they know we were plotting to take over the world.

I cannot remember any of the families on the block having more than one car. If the mother needed the car she drove the father back and forth to work, otherwise she stayed home. Protestant kids walked to the nearest school. The Catholic kids took a city bus back and forth en masse. I remember it cost a dime each way.

Our house was heated by a large coal burning furnace located in the basement. It was a big, potbellied, fire-breathing monstrosity. I was convinced it was the Devil. Once a year the coal man would come to the house and drop enough coal down the “chute” into the basement coal bin to get us through the winter. Now THAT was a lively racket! It was exciting for us children when the coal man came. The whole process was loud, dirty, and disruptive of normal routine - all excellent things to a child.

Families did not need a second car because industry came to us. We had an egg man who brought us eggs, a milk man who left dairy products outside the front door, and a bread delivery man. The Fuller Brush man supplied us with interesting things like carbolic salve, my mother’s go-to healing potion. The insurance man came to the house to update policies, and the Avon Lady was often calling with her cute little lipstick samples. I REALLY wanted those but Mom wouldn't share. Once a year a traveling photographer arrived to take family photos in our house. 

We had a mailman and a paperboy. Except for the Avon Lady, all these salespeople were men. The mailman walked from porch to porch carrying a big brown satchel filled with mail. He usually had the same route for years, so families knew their mailman by name. In those days before credit cards, the paperboy stopped by his customer's houses weekly to collect cash payments. It always embarrassed me to answer the knock and find the paper boy staring at me from the other side of the door. Aack, a young boy at the door wanting money! I wouldn’t speak to him and he certainly didn't speak to me. I would yell “Ma, the paper boy is here!” and then leave him standing outside while I made a quick getaway. 

Kid World was a separate society. Adults were weird, except for grandparents who took us to the Dairy Queen for a phosphate or a Dilly Bar. Grandparents were okay. They knew we were sentient and they thought we were cute. 

This house still exists, though quite a bit worse for wear. I often wonder if there is any trace to be found of the original occupants?

What was the first house you can remember living in?

My first home, circa 1958

Being Home

We have been living in this house for a little over two years, and in Central Florida for 2 1/2. I love being close enough to my daughter and her family to babysit and go to school functions for the grandchildren. I like living someplace where it never snows and palm trees grow. I am also fascinated by alligators. My life is full to bursting and I am happy with this big change. 

However, I won't lie. In the past 3 years I retired, gave up my work persona, moved from the liberal north to the conservative south, and left our old home with acreage, dark forests, and beloved perennial gardens. In Florida we became strangers in a strange land. We adjusted to a different climate, learned about different flora and fauna, and started living in a freakin' neighborhood in a subdivision, dontcha know! 

Happy or not, I had a hard time adjusting to all these changes. Change can be traumatic. T and I had too many big life changes in a relatively short amount of time. He can roll with the punches, but it takes me a while to recover AND I want to hit back. It was probably not the best way to manage the first months of retirement. Still, it has been worth the struggle.

I expected it to be hard. I have been through big changes before. The knowledge of what to expect helped me prepare for and cope with this move. From experience I knew the unfamiliar would eventually become familiar if I just waited long enough. I did. It has. 

Like almost everyone else in the U.S.A., I descend from pioneers and immigrants. I recently read that trauma has a generational impact on families. The desire to move far away and start over is probably encoded in my DNA. I crave change even as I fear it. I have moved (or changed jobs) many times, always excited and happy to be starting over. This, in spite of the fact that I always know it won't be easy and will probably push me over the edge.

I grew up in Northern Indiana. My family moved to the Pacific Northwest when I was in middle school, and then we moved back to Northern Indiana three years later. I took off for San Francisco at 18, when that was the thing to do. With a few notable stops and starts in between, T and I, with toddler M in tow, eventually ended up in The Finger Lakes Region of New York State. We settled in, building an adult life and raising our daughter. I am not sure how well we managed the adult thing, but we did manage to raise our daughter. Then we retired and like all good New Yorkers we moved to Florida. I am not convinced this is our last move together.

I just tried to count up all the homes I have lived in during my life. I am only referring to the places I actually moved all my belongings into. I came up with 26. I might try writing about some of these homes. It would be fun, with plenty of social and cultural history.

This is a big country, and the last thing you would call it is homogeneous. It is a country of diverse regionalism. I find regionalism interesting, even though it is complex, often unwelcoming, and sometimes dangerous. I like to imagine having had the experience of living from sea to shining sea gives me an edge of sorts. I want to explore that edge without falling off the end of the world.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone

I recently read a review for The Lightning Tree, a book by Emily Woof. The last sentence of the review said "...she succeeds in conveying the 'infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime."

Well, THAT scared the ever lovin' crap outta of me! I know it was meant to do otherwise. I realize the reviewer was reaching towards his/her best truth. In fact, it was a good sentence. However, I wonder if the concept of "a lifetime" is flexible, depending on your age?

I am going to tell you my theory on all this and (be forewarned) I will generalize like crazy. None of it will be new or insightful. Like on Battlestar Galactica, this has all happened before and it will happen again. Here goes.

When you are young a lifetime seems mostly ahead of you. The idea of building a life is formidable, but also exciting. I like to think time is meant to be filled with joy and wonder. The young still seem to know that. Youth is about hope, anticipation, and energy. You learn about yourself and so much more. If the young tend to romanticize the future, it is their right. Youth is a dangerous, wonderful, adventurous stage.

Middle age is when you might consider your accomplishments and bask in your strength, or vice versa. You've probably had your ass kicked a time or two. In middle age people are a bit more savvy. A lifetime is no longer an idea, it has become a concrete reality. Middle age is when you finally figure out the mechanics, the process of living a life. At this point a person is usually sustained by responsibilities, duties, and love. Middle aged people are busy, busy, busy. It can be a stable, fulfilling time in a life. 

Older people know they are living on borrowed time. They realize there is an end to all this. If you are lucky enough to retire you eventually find yourself freed from routine distractions. Old age can be messy, fraught with physical limitations, health issues, money worries, and unresolved fears. Oh yeah, and sometimes you leak. However, your time is your own.

I am not really "old" yet, but I am no longer middle aged by any stretch of the imagination. As I age, I begin to think old age has more in common with youth than with middle age because time has that lovely transcendent quality I was too busy to notice in middle age. Now I have time, once again, to experience the moment with eyes wide open. Old age is a glorious and terrifying time of life. It depends on the person to balance that conflict. It is a struggle, I'll tell you that.

So when I read a sentence like "...she succeeds in conveying 'the infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime" I am not thinking, "Oh isn't that a beautiful thought?" Nor am I thinking "Hmmm, I'll have to remember that one when I have a few moments to reflect."  I am thinking "Holy Shit! A lifetime has a lot of moments to live through, but they are definitely not infinite."  

Yep, winter is coming.

Like a Hurricane

I slept through Hurricane Hermine last night. I guess it has been downgraded to a tropical storm now, but it is still a monster storm front on the move. Orange County was never in danger of a direct hit, like up in the Panhandle. I keep checking the blogs of some folks who live up there to see what they have to say, but no updates yet. I imagine they lost power. I sure hope power outages are the least they have to deal with this morning.

Although it was listed as one of the 51 counties on emergency alert, we were at the extreme lower edge of Hermine's path. The worst we had to fear were tag along tornadoes, high winds, and rain.  Growing up in Indiana, I am used to tornado warnings; however, I knew what to do up North. I am not sure what one can do to protect themselves down here where people do not have basements. Any helpful comments would be appreciated for future reference. 

We did get 4 1/4 inches of rain in our pool over night. The pool water is now a sickly green and Cuban tree frogs are croaking outside the screened in area, determined to find a way in so they can inhabit this new, pond-like pool. There is still more rain to come throughout the day. T will wait until it is all over before shocking the pool back into submission.

Speaking of Cuban tree frogs, they are the absolute worst. One made its way into the attic last night. As we were going to bed it fell from the ceiling vent at T's feet. They are so creepy. T went to get something to deal with it, but when he got back he couldn't find it anywhere. It is still in this house somewhere. We have covered the drains, etc. You REALLY do not want those suckers (literally and figuratively) to get into your plumbing. They can do real damage. 

Ick. I HATE knowing that it is inside my house right now. 

A Cuban Tree Frog
Don't let the surreal cuteness fool you, these are vile creatures,
an invasive species that will damage your plumbing AND they
are killing off all the nice, polite native frogs. 

Counting Calories: 7 weeks

I have been counting calories for 7 weeks and I have lost 10 pounds.  As I heard once in a Weight Watchers meeting, if you hold up two 5 pound bags of potatoes you get an idea of how much 10 pounds weigh. If only the weight I lost equaled the mass of those bags of potatoes. Then I could be done with this counting calories thing. 

10 down and only 35 more to go...  Aaack.  Considering how averse I am to actually dieting and how much I LOVE food (and, okay, wine), I figure it might take me a whole year to lose 20 more pounds. That means it may take me up to two years to reach my final goal weight. I am actually good with that scenario. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Of course, the longer I do this the better chance I have of making healthier eating habits become permanent. 

Don't worry! I am not trying to be thin. I never have been thin, and at 65 thinness is not something I aspire to. That ship has sailed! I am 5'2" and if I reach my goal weight I will be at the absolute tippy top of the healthy BMI for my height. Tippy top is good enough for me. I want to be strong, healthy, and energetic so I can keep up with my grandchildren.

I want to be able to jump up and down and act a fool when our granddaughter grows up and wins an academy award. That's a long term goal.

The little guy, N, expects grandma and grandpa to play tag with him for crying out loud. And he runs like the wind. My immediate goal is to be able to catch that little stinker. I want to win the game.

Still, if losing weight starts to make my neck look any worse then all bets are off.

See what I mean?  Like the wind

Schmaltz

My last post (The Time) may have been the stupidest thing I ever wrote.  I actually woke up in the middle of the night filled with anxiety about it. I had to get up and add an addendum, hoping against hope that I hadn't already insulted or offended all my readers with my inane ramblings. 

There are days when a woman takes herself a little too seriously. And when I say "a woman" I am using the term in the Game of Thrones drop-dead-gorgeous-assassin sense to mean me, me, and only me.

I usually write a post and then I let it simmer for at least 24 hours. The hope is that I will eventually get it right BEFORE pushing that unforgiving "publish" button. The other day I was just so full of myself that I thought it was good on the first go-around and let 'er fly. Note to self, do not assume you know what you are talking about until you have struggled with the notion for way longer than you want.  

A couple of months ago I shared a rather sentimental music video on Facebook. A dear friend from my wicked youth wrote a comment teasing me about sharing it. She accused me of being schmaltzy. Ha! I had to laugh because she totally nailed me. If I turn my back or relax for one minute the schmaltz enters my body and takes over my mind. It is a constant struggle for control.

From my online dictionary:

schmaltz |SHmälts, SHmôlts| (also schmalz)
noun informal
excessive sentimentality, esp. in music or movies.
ORIGIN 1930s: from Yiddish shmaltz, from German Schmalz ‘drippings, lard.’ (melted chicken fat).

It is such a great word, schmaltz. Perhaps next time we can discuss the word schmutz.  

Jaqen H'ghar - not the least bit schmaltzy

The Time

Oh gee, where DOES the time go? And where does it come FROM, for that matter? These are the thoughts I have in retirement.

It is a helluva thing, Time. Closing in on 65, I figure I've had a lot of it. I hope to have more, of course. However, if something happened to end my time I would go out knowing that I have had a long and eventful life. I would have very few regrets.

But would I change anything? Would I go back, knowing what I know now and do things differently to avoid pain or hardship? Sure.

Then I wonder if I would have had as many adventures, victories, or just plain "Yes!" moments to remember. Who would I be if I had been able to avoid pain or struggle? Just how does this work, living a life?  

Afterthought/added after original post:  
And what of disease, trauma, and violence? These do no one any good.  I would change those things if I could.  

My footprint in the sand at St. Augustine Beach, August 2016.

Keeping House

I am not the best housekeeper in the world. I got the slob gene from my mother, although I am not really in the same league as her. She was an heroically bad housekeeper, especially as she got older. Sagas were sung! My siblings and I (and older nieces and nephews) tell stories about her house and we all laugh with great fondness and then shake our heads sadly. She just didn't care.

I was a little embarrassed by the clutter in her house, but I also got a kick out of her. She never took on that 1950's wifey clean-demon persona.  She was a complicated woman. Geez, I miss her!

Still, I keep a cleaner, neater house than she did.  She was a bit of a pack rat. The clutter in her house was over the top. I don't want my grandchildren telling stories about how messy my house was in 40 years. So I make the effort, the great sacrifice of time; however, I don't enjoy it and I don't go the extra mile. So there! I am a "perfunctory" house cleaner. I do a good enough, basic job. I like to imagine we pass as normal most days. I hope I'm not kidding myself.

You would think in retirement, one could at least keep up with these things. I try, but I have so little interest. I envy people who read Martha Stewart magazine and try to make everything beautiful. I admire those who have a day of the week for specific household tasks, who are organized and "keep up." I get it.  I appreciate it.  I just don't have it in me. Oh well.

A corner of my quilt/computer room right this very minute! Aaaack! I need to file.

A Case of You

My husband, T, and I have a lot in common. We are from similar working class socioeconomic backgrounds. We grew up in the same hometown in Northern Indiana and had many of the same friends as teenagers. We are both 3rd children. We share the same politics and have similar senses of humor. Neither of us are particularly romantic. 

Beyond that, there are differences. He was raised a casual Protestant, I was raised a devout Catholic. He likes mustard and I like ketchup. He likes IPA beer. If I must drink beer, I prefer German Hefeweizen, but I have a wheat allergy of sorts and if I eat or drink too many things made with wheat I will break out with eczema on my fingers and around my eyes. If I then stop eating wheat for a while the rash goes away. Very strange. I love wheat (think bagels) and so I periodically play with fire by eating it. I can't help myself. If T had a wheat allergy I am pretty darn sure he would never eat it again.

One of the biggest differences is the way we view the world.  He makes assumptions. I don't trust the world enough to assume anything. In our day-to-day life he rolls with the punches, I am consumed by blocking every move. He trusts everything will be okay. I anticipate every potential problem and try to find ways to avoid trouble before it starts. He is laid back. I am a nervous *&^%! wreck. He thinks I worry needlessly and I think he doesn't worry enough. 

And so it goes, and so it has gone for a long, long time. This year we are celebrating 45 years together. We were both wild and crazy kids when we married at 19. Nobody thought it would last. 

Relationships are difficult. It is hard to reconcile the fundamental differences between two cohabiting people for an extended length of time.  Obviously it takes compromise and mutual respect. Love is a given. Trust is important. You have to accept your partner for who they are, not for who you want them to be. But I think if there is a secret to a long and happy marriage it is "liking" your partner as much as you love him/her. 

You can love someone and still not like him or her very much. It happens. Love is personal and deep. Human beings are complicated. As the song goes, sometimes "love hurts." "Like" is conditional on compatibility and joy. I love that man like nobody's business, but we are not two hearts that beat as one. We have two separate hearts that beat for each other. And I really like him a lot.




I think she should have stayed with him...

I will have sporadic access to the internet this week, but will respond to comments as soon as I am able.  Cheers.