Why Can't We Be Friends?

A girl I know told this story the other day:

There was a guy who had been following me around for days. I tried to gently let him know that I was not interested in him, but he didn't seem to get the message. (NOTE: How often has this happened to you? I never know whether to admire the guy for his persistence or curse him for his density.) Finally, I got tired of trying to avoid him, so I told him, "Look, I can't go out with you. I'm a hermaphrodite." I thought for sure that would solve the problem, either because he'd be so disgusted by this (false) piece of information, or because he would realize that I was inventing something as a brush-off. But instead, he came right back with, "So? I'm a Catholic. What's religion got to do with it?"

While I laugh at this story, I have to agree with his question: What's religion got to do with it? Why do people have to argue so much about something that, when you get right down to it, is just a personal choice? You might as well wage war over whether someone wears skinny jeans or wears their hair long. There is no way to know, definitively, whether one religion is "right" or not, and when you think about it, most of the world's major religions have more commonalities than differences.

I realize that some people think they're doing a service by wanting to see a friend or loved one after death, or cleansing the world of "unbelievers," but really, is that your business? I don't know anyone who is so together that they have room to be fixing other people's lives (and if you do, don't tell me. It will only depress me). So how about this? Let's find some common ground with people - sit down over a cup of coffee, an ice cream cone, a chess game, an excellent haiku, a beautiful sunset...whatever. And agree to disagree on the rest. I'm not really interested in some "Resistance is futile" Borgian world where everyone thinks exactly alike, and I'd appreciate it if people could stop attacking (physically, verbally, etc.) those who don't believe exactly the same thing they do. So go forth, and love. Or at least don't hate.

Never Forget

I remember driving to work that Tuesday morning. I was running late, and when I was about a mile from the office I heard the announcement on the radio that a plane had crashed into the WTC. My first thought was that it was some sort of fluke, like when that private plane hit the Empire State building. As I was walking in the door, the second tower was hit. No one was at the front desk, no one was in their office. Every employee was gathered around the television in the kitchen, watching in disbelief.

I remember calling my mom and telling her she needed to turn the TV on. She had just gotten out of the shower and hadn't heard anything yet. I couldn't even tell her what was happening - there were no words. I just said "Turn it on" and hung up.

I remember the rumors, and the awful waiting of the next hour or two: reports that the White House had been hit, reports that there was a car bomb at the Pentagon. Reports that there could be as many as ten, twenty more planes in the sky that would be used as weapons. Advice that people avoid gathering in large groups, and that we all collect emergency rations "just in case." A rumor that one of the planes had taken off from Dallas. My daddy was working at the airport at that time, and was also Air Force reserve, so I called him to see if he had any information and to make sure everything was alright out there.


I remember wondering what sort of horrible people could have planned this. I knew Osama bin Laden had done a lot of bad things, but this...this was beyond evil. I was so angry to know that somewhere in the world there were people who were happy, celebrating this horrific event. I knew it would change our world, but I had no idea how much would change, and how every one of us would feel a little less safe, and think of some people just a little differently - as either heroes or monsters - after this day.

I remember the announcement that every single plane in the air was being order to land immediately, wherever they were, and that any plane that didn't risked being shot down. This sent a lot of people to the phones to check on relatives that were traveling or friends in the airline industry. That's one of my most vivid memories of that day - people constantly on the phone, reaching out to friends and family to try to make some collective sense out of the senseless.

I remember that about the time the first tower collapsed, people started leaving to pick up their kids from school. The news alternated between footage of NY, Washington, and local (we didn't find out about the fourth plane for awhile, as I remember it), and the local news was saying that schools would release any kids whose parents came for them. I can't imagine being a kid, or a teacher, on that day. School is all about routine and normalcy, and September 11,2001 was the most non-normal day I have ever lived through.

I remember that not long after the second tower collapsed, a couple came in to the office to choose some tile, and were irritated that there was no one to help them. Our receptionist asked them "Haven't you seen the news? Planes hit the World Trade Center and they have fallen, killing thousands of people." And the wife said "That? That happened hours ago! People need to get over it. We have a life, you know!" I just thought how sad and disgusting that reaction was, and how people like that were what made other countries hate Americans.

I remember seeing Ashleigh Banfield, a local reporter who had made it to one of the national news stations, huddled in a stairwell only a block or two from Ground Zero (as they were already calling it), and she was absolutely covered in ash - even her eyelashes were coated. Everything was grey, and she was coughing to the point that she could barely speak. It looked like she was reporting from a war zone. I guess in a way, she was.

I remember going to the doctor that afternoon, where the TV was on, and how when I got home all we did for hours was sit and watch looped footage and listen to talking heads who had no more idea what was happening than we did. I think at that point, we were still hoping and expecting that they would find at least some survivors in the rubble of the collapsed buildings. I had never been to New York, never seen the size of those buildings, and didn't think about the effects of burning jet fuel coupled with the hundreds of tons of concrete. I think it was days before I gave up hope that they would pull any more bodies, living or dead, from that pile.


I remember wondering what I would have done, if I'd worked in one of the towers and survived the first strike. Would I have been brave enough to help rescue coworkers? Would I have bolted for the stairs, or tried to stay behind to find out what was happening, or gather my things? Would I have tried to make it down alive, or had that horrible realization that I was trapped, and gone out the window, as some did?

I remember what a long time it was before I could see a plane flying over downtown, or a college campus or a sports stadium, and not feeling a twinge of worry.

And one of the things I remember most was the way people changed. For weeks, people were kinder and gentler to neighbors, friends and strangers. They spoke more softly. They thought of others. They made donations and attended memorials and bought red-white-and-blue everything. I wonder where that spirit went? Have people forgotten? Is it unimportant now that the economy is bad and the weather is unpredictable and the biggest legacy of 9/11 is the security line at the airport? How many people agree with my sister, who told me the other day "I wish we could skip Sept. 11. I just don't feel like rehashing the whole thing."

9/11 changed me. I have a more global view of US policies. I am both more and less tolerant of differences now; more-so because I realize that extremists (of any kind) do not define a nation or a religion, but less because I feel that you don't have to believe the same way I do, but that does not give you the right to kill me or attack my country because of that disagreement. Some days I am less than proud to be an American, but I still cry at the national anthem. And I still think that September 11 is an important day. We NEED to "rehash the whole thing." Because we should Never Forget.

If you have time, please leave your 9/11 memories in the comments section. I have a scrapbook that I put together ten years ago, and I would like to update it with stories from other people in other places.

Super Zeroes

We went to see Captain America last night (it was really good, BTW). We haven't seen any of the super hero movies lately because they all look the same, based on the previews, but CA was fresh and interesting. Good performances without the big names. Anyway, I was surprised to see a preview for ANOTHER Spiderman movie. New guy, new girl, but basically the same story.

Is there nothing new under the sun? Can Hollywood not take a character and tell a new story about them, or better yet, come up with a new character? Some of my favorite comic-style movies are ones that are based on obscure stories (like Scott Pilgrim or The Watchmen) or else sort of spoof these other comic movies that take themselves so seriously (yeah, Batman, I'm looking at YOU). So in the spirit of Handi-Man, Kickass and Mystery Men, I offer up some alternative characters for Hollywood's consideration:

Weight Watcher's Woman - This average-sized heroine will serve a dual purpose. On the one hand, she will fight the Temptation, the evil allure of chocolate, ice cream, and fried foods. She will burn Calories, cut Fat, and eliminate Carbs. She will also provide a positive role model for the size 12s, 14s and 16s everywhere, showing that a little stick-sized 0 would be blown away by these hard-to-vanquish villains.

Next is Family Man. He has six hands because he has so much to do. One might hold a hammer, another a diaper bag, a third has the remote. What else could he have? Briefcase, checkbook, frying pan, baseball, kids' drawing, car keys, book, weed eater? Family Man fights a hydra sort of villain that's made up of his job, the economy, bills, home and car repairs, past mistakes, future worries, and a toddler.

And finally, Fashionista (I think we need more female superheroes). She will be a parody of herself, bringing down her nemeses by clocking them with her Jimmy Choos, braining them with her magic Kate spade, or blinding them with Bling. She can do all of this without breaking a nail or getting a hair out of place (due to Super Product).

There. You're welcome, Hollywood. Go write me some new stories.

Roughing it

I grew up camping, and I enjoy it. I have no problem cooking over a fire or camp stove, sleeping on the ground, or peeing in the woods. I have carried a pack roughly a third my own weight, I've gone for a few days with no access to running water (and then showered at a truck stop. No regrets.), and I have gotten so nasty-sweaty-muddy that the Deep Woods OFF! was a joke; no self-respecting bug would have come near me.

In spite of all that, as I get older, I find that camping is losing some of its appeal. Some of that is because there aren't many places you can camp where you aren't surrounded by asshats who don't seem to understand the difference between a National Park and their neighborhood bar. Seriously, one time these guys kept their car engine running for EIGHT HOURS because they had a full-sized computer plugged into the cigarette lighter so they could play video games (obviously this was awhile ago). My point is, while we don't rule out backpacking for a few days, and we incorporate a tent into our road trips, we lean towards creature comforts when we can.

Take this trip, for example. We just got back from New Mexico (cool weather. rain. bliss.). David wanted to take the dogs, so camping was a possibility until they closed the national forest due to fire danger. Hotels traditionally frown on shrieking puppies and shedding pitbulls, so we opted for a cabin. We'd had a good experience with the cabins at Buffalo River last Thanksgiving, so we figured we'd give it a shot. And for what we payed, I was impressed - full kitchen, spotlessly clean, ample room and quiet. The bathroom was tiny; but it had a shower, toilet and sink, so what more do you need, right? The whole atmosphere was relaxing, and just what we needed.

But here's the thing: within fifteen minutes of getting home, I was in the shower. My OWN shower, where I didn't elbow the wall while lathering my hair. Where I could use four kinds of soap and a back brush. Where the water pressure was constant. It's not that the cabin lacked any amenities we needed; it's just that, I guess, there's no place like home. And more than anything else about camping or traveling, I love feeling squeaky clean and sweet smelling. So although we weren't in a four-star hotel on this trip, the roughest thing that came out of it are my heels, from wearing sandals. I'm going soft, caring about rough spots.

Baby, you're a firework

Most of the firework stands around here were shut down this year, because of the fire danger. And when I say "around here," I mean the ones that are 20-30 minutes away, in the rural counties, since in the city fireworks are technically illegal (for more "technically illegal" fireworks fun, go here). We usually go to the one by the farm and get about $20 worth, set off a few, and save the rest for "later." Except later only comes around once every few years, so we pretty much just have a big stash that sits in my closet. Occasionally we’ll get bored and decide to shoot a few off. Of course, we have the old favorites like roman candles and fountains and spinners and whatever, but every once in awhile we try something new.

You know how firework stands always have those specials - buy 10, get 10 free, or buy 2 boxes of these cool things and get 2 boxes of things we can’t get rid of? So one year I did that, and I ended up with 2 boxes of...some kind of missile. I say 2 boxes, but they were really just 2 individual fireworks. I mean, you couldn’t just pull one out and light it, you had to light the box, and there were like 16 or 20 missile-looking things in there. It didn’t really say what they did, and we figured it was just a bunch of loud poppers, like lighting a bunch of M80s. (I know, the "missile" shape really should have tipped us off, but it didn’t. Shut up.) Loud popping is sort of boring unless you’re trying to scare someone, so these sat in the bag for a few years before we were bored enough to try them.

My husband and I each took a box out front, and figured we’d light them in the middle of the street, which was pretty deserted in terms of traffic, in case there were any sparks that might land on a roof or yard. I had grabbed the aim-n-flame on the way out, so he told me to go ahead & light mine first. It was a short fuse, maybe an inch and a half or so, so I lit it and backed up pretty quickly. When it got to the box, there was a loud POP, pretty much like we’d thought, but then something launched way up in the air with the loudest WHHEEEEE you ever heard. Then another pop, whistle, then another.

Shit.

I turned around to ask my husband what I should do (like there’s much I COULD do at that point), and he’s not there. In fact, he has taken his box of missiles and headed back to the house, where he’s hovering just at the door, in case anyone starts coming out looking like they’re going to call the cops. I don’t feel like I can just leave, with this thing sending up anti-aircraft from the middle of the street where anyone could run over it, so I have to stand there, while all 20 of those things, one after another, launch with a bang and a whistle. Meanwhile, SOMEONE is up on the porch practically peeing his pants with laughter at the fact that I’m about to set someone’s roof on fire or get arrested.

As soon as it was over, I grabbed the box and hustled inside. No one ever said anything, but I think we threw the other one away. I’m sticking to sparklers from now on. Oh, wait - I have a story about them too.

Get thee behind me, salsa

I have a theory: The United States would not have a problem with obesity if it weren't for all the Mexicans* bringing their damn delicious food here for all of us to love and crave. That's the real problem with immigration - not whether it's legal or illegal, but whether it is bringing healthy, low fat food like broccoli and lettuce, not mouth-watering calorie festivals like rice and guacamole. And sauces. And corn-based everything. And CHEESE; dear God, the cheese. Queso enchiladas. Chips and queso. Tortilla soup topped with queso. Queso chile rellenos. Queso on tacos, fajitas, burritos, salads... DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?!

I think it's a plot. Get the country addicted to your fabulous fatty food, and then reclaim Texas and California. I'm on to you, Mexico! Killing us with kindness, giving us exactly what we want with your tamales and sopapillas. It's like the War on Drugs, except much more subtle. It's the War on Dinner. And come to think of it, it's not just Mexico. I'm not forgetting you Italy, with your pizza and pasta and gelato. Germany, you need to answer for your weinerschnitzel and potato pancakes. China, stop sending fried rice and egg rolls to tempt us at every turn. And England! What about that...um, OK, well there's....HA! Scones. Those are like stale muffins, right? So they're probably bad for you. And Cadbury! They're English - chocolate all the way. So, yeah. No more War on Terror - from now on, it's a war on taquitos! It must be against the Geneva Convention to give someone something they have no defense against. And I'm totally lodging a complaint with the UN. Right after I finish this chimichanga.

*In case you are completely unfamiliar with humor/sarcasm/satire, no immigrants were harmed in the making of this blog post. Nor do I have anything against Mexicans, Italians, Germans, Chinese, English, or any other nationality, race, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation or identity. My grandparents were immigrants, and I have immense respect for people who are willing to give up life as they've known it to start over in a new place, whether they are moving to or from America. It's a JOKE. Because it's easier to blame other people for my weakness than voluntarily eat broccoli and lettuce. Don't judge me.

Don't do crack

Recently our bus service has decided that drivers can refuse to allow people on the bus if they’re sagging. It’s interesting the mixed reaction they got for this policy. Some people think it’s a good thing, because they are tired of seeing people’s underwear (or worse). Others (mostly the saggers) think it’s a big deal about nothing. Recently, a pro athlete in our area even got into trouble with the police because he was sagging to the point that his crack was showing at an upscale mall.

I don’t really like sagging; I think it looks silly for a lot of reasons. Like:

The people that go around holding their crotch to keep their pants on. Sorry, but you look like a three year old who needs to make wee-wee.

The guys waddling down the street with the crotch of their pants at the knees. If they needed to get somewhere in a hurry, they’d have a problem. On the other hand, they could win a Darwin Award if they get caught in a burning building dressed like that.

What’s the point of layering three different bottoms (boxers/underwear, basketball shorts, then pants)? You’re so bottom heavy you look like it’s time for a changing.

There are fat guys out there that need those pants. STOP BUYING THEIR CLOTHES. It forces them into smaller, less appropriate options.

On the other hand, if they’re going to pick on the guys for showing crack/underwear, they need to give equal time to these little hoochies that have their thong sticking out over their low-rise jeans or their butt cheeks hanging out of their (size 16) Daisy Dukes. No one wants to see that trash!

And finally, what’s up with waitstaff suddenly sticking the check folder into the back of their pants? If it was tucked into their back pocket or held on by their apron string, I wouldn’t have such a problem, but it’s actually IN their pants. Which means there is a good chance that when they pull it out, it has their butt sweat on it. That’s just unsanitary. This is why I’m addicted to anti-bac (and restaurants that have pockets in the aprons of their wait staff).

The Write Stuff

We don't have TV. Let's just get that out there, because people are always asking "Have you seen this commercial? Do you watch this show?" No. And no. We watch a few shows online - The Big Bang Theory, The Walking Dead - and have seen a few series on DVDs we got at the library, and that's it. And because no one's ever satisfied with leaving it there, here's why we don't have TV:

We used to watch TV all the time. We'd just sit in front of it, and watch whatever was on, whether we were particularly interested or not. We ate in front of the TV, we did laundry in front of the TV, we worked in front of the TV. And we always bitched, because even with satellite, there was rarely anything good on. Channels repeated the same 20-year-old-movies four times a day, every day for weeks. There may be different episodes of a show on, but really, how many hours of SNL or CSI can you watch before it all runs together? So one day, over three years ago, I canceled the dish. I used the money to join the YMCA, which I'm not as faithful to as I was the TV, but at least I'm getting up and doing something. When we stay in hotels, we still watch a lot of TV, whatever's on. But it makes me grateful that those times are the exception and no longer the rule.

All of this is a long way of saying that because we don't have TV, we get all our news from the paper, magazines, or online sources. And we are constantly noticing a disturbing trend: there are very few writers left out there, at least in terms of the ones who work for news agencies. From the AP to the local entertainment weekly, there are way too many stories that are poorly researched, poorly written, or "just don't make no sense." I don't know if it's a problem with journalism schools nowadays (I know, I hate that word too, but it fits), or the fact that the internet makes it easier to write something without actually doing legwork, or the fact that editors apparently don't edit, but the quality of writing in the majority of stories is piss-poor.

So I have a theory: at some point (please, God), people will start demanding actual writing again. I'm talking about correctly spelled and punctuated stories that tell the facts, are easy to follow, and are worth reading. And when the people speak, and newspapers are scrambling to find Writers, they're not going to look at journalism schools. They're not going to look at AP stringers, or food critics-cum-editorial blowhards. Instead, they are going to turn to bloggers. Most writers talk about discipline, and the need to write every day, regardless of the publishability of what they write. It's the whole practice-makes-perfect thing. Bloggers write often, for a wide audience, and many of them tell stories that make me laugh, cry, throw things, or write my Congressperson. I almost never get that from the news, unless I am laughing at their ignorance, crying over the misspellings, throwing things at the monitor, or writing my Congressperson to tell them not to bail out papers that can't hire someone who knows the difference between "there" and "their."

This is not to toot my own horn. I don't expect to be tapped on that great day. But I DO look forward to seeing great people who are true wordsmiths get ahold of a story - any story - and make it worth reading.

These are a few of my favorite things

I'm not that big a fan of raindrops on roses, because I prefer a warm, sunny day (or else snow). And I'm not a cat person, so whiskers on kittens...eh. But there are other things I like.

Puppy breath: One of my all-time favorite things. I've done a little research, and come to the conclusion that it's something inherent in puppies that causes this, and it goes away at about three months. It doesn't seem to matter what they eat, or what kind of puppy they are. There is nothing sweeter than that softer-than-a pre-pubescent-boy's-pit-hair fur, and that warm round tummy, all wriggling to give you sweet-scented kisses any time you're remotely close.

Writing: Not just getting thoughts down on paper , but watching the way letters form across the page. I like using different colored ink or different types of pen to suit the occasion. I think it's amazing that with only twenty six letters, we can leave a record of every thought, every emotion, every event that has occurred in the last few thousand years. And I love that different cultures have such different ways of writing. I remember in elementary school, learning how to make my letters and then later learning to write "cursive." I practiced so hard on that lined paper, trying to make all my letters the same size. One year for Christmas I got a calligraphy set. I think I wore out the pens. I was never very good, but I had fun trying.

Reading: There are three things I could do almost exclusively for my entire life, and reading is one of them. The great thing about reading is that it lets you have a conversation with people you'll never meet. Even when I was little, I'd go for the fattest books I could find so that they'd last longer, and I have been known to ration books I've been looking forward to, so they would last longer. Most of the people I'd invite to that "Who would you have to dinner" question are authors. I wonder if I've ever read a book that I didn't learn something from? Hmmm; I'll have to think about that.

Nature: I'm pretty sure in a former life I was one of those nature-worshiping people like a Druid or Native American. Getting outside, away from people and time, renews me and relaxes me in a way nothing else does. If I can't totally disconnect, even a walk around the neighborhood or reading on the front porch helps. I like natural materials for my house too - stone and wood make it feel like home.

Cream cheese: In icing, on hot dogs, on sandwiches, in dips, in dessert, with chicken or corn or crackers and jam...You can add it to virtually anything and that thing will be better. Even the low fat version isn't bad! To paraphrase Ben Franklin, cream cheese is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

No hippie chick

My friends accuse me of being a hippie, and sometimes I wish I was. Lately, it seems like I have gotten even more “hippy dippy.” I would love to live off the grid, refuse to pay taxes to The Man, and just be generally more independent. There’s a community not too far from me that sort of lives that way – they raise livestock for their own meat and dairy, have kitchen gardens and orchards, grind their grain at their gristmill, make their own furniture. They have a blacksmith shop, a weaving shop, and a pottery shop. If the zombie-pocalypse happens tomorrow, these people are SET.

They have classes in pretty much everything they do, so that other people can also learn to be self-sufficient. My dream is to someday take the three day Homesteading class, but meanwhile, I started small. Last Saturday, I took a class in soft cheese making. I have to say, it was amazing.

First, we ate all day long. Everything we made, we sampled. The ladies that did the class had it down to a science, and it was like being on a food show. Some of the cheeses had to sit or marinate or drain for hours, so they already had the next stage done – we started it, then we got to see how it turned out. I’m a huge fan of fresh produce, but I never thought of how that philosophy would taste when applied to fresh dairy. Even buttermilk (nasty when store-bought) wasn’t too bad.

While we’re on the subject of buttermilk, I had a light bulb moment when we made that that made me feel really stupid. We started off with three gallons of fresh milk that had been allowed to separate. Then we skimmed the cream and made butter. The leftover liquid after the better had set? Buttermilk. Duh.

We made cream cheese, cottage cheese, feta cheese, cheese logs (I feel like Bubba)…all kinds of things. I am totally doing some of that for Christmas gifts! My biggest problem now is that some of the recipes really need raw milk, which is hard to find if you don’t own something that can be milked (like a cat. Or Robert DeNiro). There was a guy in the class that works at a dairy, so I might be able to work something out with him, but he lives about forty five minutes away, so that’s not practical for spur-of-the-moment cheesemaking (am I being really optimistic to think there might be some of that?).

Anyway, I’m really excited about having learned a new skill. And I’m even more excited that the skill that’s new to me is an old one. My husband’s grandmother (we called her Honey) took Home Ec in high school, and they learned how to butcher animals as part of the class. Really – cows, hogs, chicken, goats…they considered that a necessary skill for students. It’s amazing how self-sufficient people were back then. I think that’s why they survived the Depression so well. The next project I’m considering taking on is a canning class. I’ll use Honey’s pressure cooker, and there are probably some empty jars out in her garage. I’m hoping some of her skill rubs off on me.