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fellow passenger
1 August, 2010 in Quotidian, Social Phenomena, Travel | Tags: joy, random, grief | by Elsa | Leave a comment
Almost twenty years ago, I sat in a half-full subway car on the O’Hare line, big sunglasses over my eyes, staring out the window and ruminating on some terrible news. I didn’t even know I was crying until the man sitting across the aisle from me gently, quietly, discreetly said, “I’m worried about you, miss.”
I smiled a little, shook my head, and told him I was fine. He nodded gravely. At my stop, we nodded and smiled again, both a little ruefully.
I wasn’t fine, but he couldn’t help me. No one could help me, because life sometimes brings sorrow and that’s just how it is.
Except that fellow passenger did help, just by reminding me that even strangers sometimes care about each other, and that the sorrow is outweighed by the caring. We are all traveling this road — at different paces and to different destinations, but we’re all on the same road, more or less.
I’ve never forgotten him. Thank you, fellow passenger.
grown-up
16 July, 2010 in Childhood, Quotidian, Social Phenomena | Tags: Childhood, embarrassments, happiness, rant | by Elsa | 1 comment
I recently spent five minutes on the phone pretending to be a proper grown-up. It was exhausting.
I’ve been putting off minor oral surgery for, oh, a couple of years… and the delay in treatment means it’s become a major oral surgery. Yikes. Why did I put it off? Well, it’s a spicy melange of denial, constitutional inertia, poverty, dread of the dental chair (which inevitably sparks my vicious back spasms), and sheer bonechilling dental phobia.
This Mighty Girl post mentioning jaw grafts and cadaver bone didn’t help; the idea is simultaneously fascinating, inspiring (sign your donor cards, folks!), and immediately viscerally horrifying.
So I had to shut up the constant chattering voices in my head that loop around and around your tooth your back your bank account it’s urgent it’s an emergency maybe tomorrow cadaver bone! you have to do this now graft abscess impacted it’s going to hurt you can’t afford it it’s so awful in there OH MY GOD WHAT WILL THEY FIND IN THERE UNDER THE HALF-ROTTED TOOTH and make the necessary arrangements to get it yanked. Well, really what I’ve made are the necessary arrangements to make the arrangements to get it yanked, but anything’s better than nothing and movement is better than inertia.
Just subduing the panicky child inside me long enough to make that preliminary appointment — describing the problem, describing the situation I created all on my own, admitting to my own slack self-care and not getting bogged down in my crippling phobia— brought my heart into my throat and reminded me how often I feel like a child masquerading as an adult.
But then I remember: most people don’t feel like proper adults. (clean all the things?) Most people are making it up as they go along, subduing their fears and laziness and ignorance long enough to make progress, doing the best they can when they can do their best, and muddling along the rest of the time.
Everyone I know is just trying to work it out as best they can. And most of them are doing okay.
Me, too.
Years ago, I was working at friend’s home business during her most hectic season, which happened to coincide with a home repair project that temporarily changed the lay-out… and therefore changed many of her usual processes and procedures. One busy-busy day as we re-arranged the ad-hoc stores of goods while carefully balancing new stock on our hips, she exclaimed in frustration, “This is NOT how the real grown-ups do it!”
And I had a quiet little moment of peace as I realized: of course it is.
Of course the real grown-ups are doing exactly this. They’re frantically trying to balance what they know, what they think they know, what they don’t know — and most frighteningly, what they don’t even know they don’t know — all without dropping the stuff they’re balancing on their hips.
Because we are the real adults. We are the proper grown-ups.
What we do is, by definition, the way real grown-ups do it. We set our own terms.
This idea really resonates for me. In our living room, you’ll find a matted print of the linked xkcd strip. I gave it to The Fella as a Valentine’s gift last year, because it sums up so much of what I think is successful in our marriage: we make our own life up as we go along, we never forget to play, and we believe in our own decisions more than in the conventional constraints of mainstream society.
vagina vagina vagina
18 November, 2009 in Quotidian, Social Phenomena | Tags: conversation, gender, rant | by Elsa | 5 comments
As we stood in the grocery line, I had a sudden thought. “Oh!” I said to my husband, “you take these. I forgot — ” and I was off and running. Okay, off and hobbling; my back is still pretty tender, but there I was, loping my way through the aisles toward the toiletries section…
… through the two shoppers whose carts were stopped, head-to-head and crossways blocking the wide aisle while they caught up on their gossip
… stopping short to avoid the dithering little lady with the overfilled cart, who wavered first one way, then another, grazing me on each side as she adjusted
… slinking through between one fellow who was doing recon on the shortest line, and his companion, who was pushing a full cart (and that was my bad, guys — sorry!)
… and into the Feminine Care aisle, only to discover
… a suited fellow standing there, facing me but blankly staring off into space, his body completely blocking the one shelf to which I needed access.
“Excuse me.”
No response.
Ahem. A little louder. “Excuse me, sir.”
Not a blink.
A-hem. “Sir, I just need to get to that shelf.” Nothing. “I just need to get to the TAMPONS, they’re right behind you.”
It was as if somebody flipped his “on” switch: he started, he glanced at me and then away, he flushed a becoming pink, and he skittered out of the corner where he was standing as if he’d been shocked, averting his eyes from me the entire time, because I had uttered the word tampons. I might as well have hollered VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA.
And next time, I will.
meep
13 November, 2009 in Language, Social Phenomena, Uncategorized | Tags: annoyances, conversation, embarrassments, joy, Language, song | by Elsa | 4 comments
updated to add: Even better than the Ode to Joy clip (at the end of this entry) is Beaker’s Habanera with The Swedish Chef and Animal. Enjoy!
Students at Danvers High School in Massachusetts are forbidden to utter the nonsense word meep.
Uh-huh.
Evidently, the students have appropriated Beaker’s all-purpose word for their own constant use, to the annoyance of the faculty and administrators. The principal’s balanced, sensible response, which was not at all silly, misguided, or destined for spectacular failure: he prohibited students from uttering the sound meep. Well, that oughta do it.
Two aspects of this story puzzle me, to startlingly different degrees.
First, the minor puzzle: since when has “meep” been an expression belonging only to younguns? I’m old enough to have watched the original broadcasts of The Muppet Show, and whenever I’ve had occasion to utter a tiny meep! of dismay or alarm, no one has seemed too terribly perplexed by it.
Second, the major puzzle: has this principal or any member of his administration ever, I dunno, met any high school students? Barring that, have they ever interacted with any group of humans? Have they any basic understanding of human psychology?
A quote from the second link:
“It has nothing to do with the word,” [Danvers H.S. principal Thomas] Murray said. “It has to do with the conduct of the students. We wouldn’t just ban a word just to ban a word.”
No, because banning a word will not work, and in fact will be counter-productive. The administration has now identified the word as a guaranteed provocation and enshrined it in legend.
In solidarity with the Danvers High students and for the sheer delight of it, I offer you: Ode to Joy, performed by Beaker.
tradition
16 October, 2009 in Politics, Social Phenomena | Tags: family, gender, marriage | by Elsa | 2 comments
A note for those reluctant to “redefine traditional marriage” — we do it all the time. Here’s a timeline for some changes to remove civil and personal inequities in the marriage law.
An actual “traditional marriage” would deny legal personhood to the wife, allow spousal rape, and deny the right to interracial marriage, among other tragedies. We as a society saw the injustice in these laws, and changed them accordingly. It’s time to do it again.
A tradition of institutional oppression is nothing to defend.
privilege
23 September, 2009 in An Anthropologist on Venus, Social Phenomena | Tags: gender | by Elsa | 20 comments
It’s a story from a few years back. I’m in the oncology ward visiting my terminally ill father. (Dad didn’t have cancer, or at least cancer isn’t what was killing him; the hospital was full and the vacant bed in oncology was a safe place to stash a frail and immuno-compromised patient.)
I’m walking from the break room to Dad’s private room. More like stumbling, really: it’s been a long haul, and I haven’t slept a full night for some time.
I feel pretty rough, and I look it. Every morning, I apply a touch of make-up, battle paint to get me through the school day. By the time I reach the hospital in the the afternoon, it’s all cried off. The normal dark circles under my eyes now look like bruises. I’m rumpled and slouched. I’m walking a little aimlessly, and I know I have that thousand-yard stare, the empty eyes of the grieving.
I slowly turn a corner — and almost collide with a bustling man in scrubs wheeling a teetering piece of shiny hospital machinery. He starts, then looks up into my eyes. I expect the look that all the nurses and orderlies give us: the silent almost-smile of commiseration, the death smile. It’s a small enough ward that they all seem to know the score.
He doesn’t offer the death smile. He looks me up and down and says, “Oh! How tall are you?”
I blink, and automatically answer. “Uh, five-ten. Or so.” I almost add, “What?” but so many inexplicable things have happened lately that I’m all out of “What?”
He shakes his head lasciviously, casting his gaze up and down me one more time. “Whew! I like that! MMM, tall women!” My jaw drops as he trundles his rig past me.
Because I am a woman, there is literally no time when I am exempt from an unsolicited appraisal of my sexual appeal by (and to) random men. When I, and other women, bridle under this oppressive and constant scrutiny, we are silly, shrill radical feminists who cannot take a compliment. Note that the flip side is rarely argued: that the men who offer these unsolicited and often unwelcome assessments are tone-deaf jackasses, that a sensible person knows that sometimes a person’s physical appearance is utterly irrelevant, and that there’s a difference between a compliment from a friend and a sexual assessment from a stranger.
I hoped to write something more coherent about this phenomenon. I hoped to address it sensibly, to expand on the impossibility of avoiding it — after all, I’m forty, gray-haired, plump, and bookish, hardly the stereotype of the red-hot mama, and I still get wolf-whistles and catcalls. But it’s been happening, after all, for at least twenty-six years: since I was 14. And that’s discounting all the childhood remarks that both adults and children make, the constant monitoring of a girl’s weight and height and hair style and clothing and demeanor and and and.
I’m tired. I’m exhausted.
And so I won’t discuss it sensibly. I’ll just say: I’m exhausted.
a body at rest
12 September, 2009 in Quotidian, Social Phenomena | Tags: Creepy, friend, science | by Elsa | 1 comment
Wanting to be somewhere is not the same as wanting to go there. In matters of social travel, I embody a principle of Newtonian mechanics. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and all that. (Unrelatedly, I’m also wicked entropic: a closed system characterized by disorder and chaos, with an undeniable tendency toward heat death.)
You know what will really improve my social life? Teleportation. Getting there isn’t half the battle; it’s the whole battle.
kid, candy store
26 June, 2009 in Social Phenomena | Tags: candy | by Elsa | 2 comments
Yesterday, I did a long-overdue errand at the candy shop, then walked home, stopping several places along the way in an attempt to catch up with my bridal to-do list. In each shop, the clerks eyeballed my big handled shopping bag, which made a quiet but somehow large clicking sound every time I shifted it.
And in each shop, when the salespeople glanced sideways at my bag, I smiled and asked, “You wanna to see what five pounds of gumballs looks like?”
They all did.
missed manners
20 June, 2009 in Social Phenomena | Tags: wedding | by Elsa | 1 comment
A word of advice to the soi disant etiquette maven: if you’re going to get snotty with the (frankly, pretty freakin’ gracious) bride for the perceived lapses of etiquette inherent in her non-traditional wedding*, acknowledging either the RSVP request or the polite follow-up note might put you on more solid ground.
Might.
*Yes, yes, the groom and bride and their wedding, but predictably the bride is the only one getting blowback on this.
Sugarbaker
27 May, 2009 in Social Phenomena | Tags: rant | by Elsa | Leave a comment
Fashion your own Julia Sugarbaker rant, courtesy of NPR. Before you read the text, make a quick list of:
an appetizer
a famous criminal*
an inexpensive retailer
a small amount of money
a metal
a breakfast cereal
an environmental problem
a popular gadget
a junk food
a reality show
a kind of candy
a sporting event
a historical figure named “John”
a celebrity named “John”
an article of clothing
a home electronics component
a chain restaurant
a city in the southern U.S.
a popular toy
a literary figure
You will insert these, Mad Libs style, into the text of the rant. My rant:
I would rather spend two hours sharing a plate of escargot with Claus von Bülow* than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at Claire’s Boutique for three dollars a satchelful chase twenty-five men with biceps made of zinc and heads packed with Cap’n Crunch.
Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than melted icecaps and millions of non-biodegradable pedicure eggs, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Funyons and MILF Island.
[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]
And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Pixie Stix to the assembled hooligans at a cockfight is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Adams and John Mayer and who is capable of putting on a pair of shoes without scratching his head as if he is connecting an iPod docking station without the instruction manual.
So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the Applebee’s in Valdosta. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural paddleball and dancing on the grave of Henry James, you will ever…recover…your dignity.
*or, in this case, a defendant in a murder trial.

