How Do You Deal With A Misogynistic Pig?

Imagine that you are a woman. Now picture yourself engaged in a conversation with a man who says things to you like "You ask too many questions.". Someone who speaks over you when you are talking or makes a hand puppetting gesture like a person's mouth opening and closing "yap, yap, yap, yap, yap" in the background, while you are speaking. He does this often. Not because you actually *do* ask too many questions, or speak too much, but because he is the type of person who doesn't respect women, period. What he would prefer, is for you to sit quietly and attentively, eyes sparkling with interest, mouth pert in a quasi-enthusiastic smile, while he tells his stories. At the end, you laugh. On cue. And tell him how funny/smart/right/etc. he is. Now this guy isn't a jerk (all the time). He can actually be quite nice. But underlying that, is a general disrespect and hostility towards women. ...So what's a girl to do?

I want to play well with others...but what does one do, when one is faced with someone who doesn't play well with *you*? How do you handle it?

The men in my life that I am close to, tend to have this amazing quality of just being able to shrug it off and mentally (if not out loud as well) just say "Fuck him. He's being an asshole." -Which is true. He *is* being an asshole. But so what? That still doesn't cover my part of this equation. What do *I* do about it? I want to posses the same type of strong, level-headed comportment that my cousin, Mark does. He's a career military man, a Marine. And I have noticed the way he interacts with people. He is the type of guy who enters a room full of strangers, and will take the time to smile, look each person in the eye, while shaking their hand firmly and making sure to introduce himself politely and make sure that he has their name. He is strong but gentle. And I don't think that someone like the previously mentioned fellow, would ever dare to disrespect him. But maybe I'm wrong? Maybe he would? That part doesn't really matter though. I know that I cannot *make* people be nice to me. But what I really want to master in my life is control over my emotional state, so that when they do act like jerks, *I* am not reduced to tears, or eaten up by it in later hours...always wondering what I could have done differently to make history not happen. To make that interaction more pleasant and respectful for all. I am learning that I have to let that idea go. Into each life a little rain (and the occasional jerk) must fall. The big lesson for me is to learn how to handle *myself* in those situations. And how to feel good about it afterwards.

...So in this situation, I did stand up for myself. I did say "I do not ask too many questions." and I also tried to placate the situation and make nice by laughing it off and making a joke of it. But inside I felt like I had been run over. I can expect this situation to arise again because like I said, this person's problem is that they have a problem with women...and I am a woman. No getting around that sir. So sorry for my genitalia, or lack thereof. I have decided to try and think of good models for the type of strength that I would like to posses. Kind of like "What would Jesus do?" only it's more like..."What would my cousin Mark do?" or "What would Tecumseh do?"...or "What would my Grandma or Grandpa do?" ...and one of the things that I *know* they *wouldn't* do, is take crap from a person like that. I'm not sure how they would stand up against it but I know it would be dealt with and would not be ignored or woven into a part of everyday life, that's for sure.

Act of Valor

I actually saw "Act of Valor" last night with the dudes. (T'was a dude pick) The first 20 minutes were slow and I found myself feeling a bit like I had paid $10 to see a propaganda film that the U.S. government should have been paying *me* to watch. But once the action picked up, I found myself actually liking *parts* of it and thinking more deeply about the roles of our civic leaders and how that interacts with military. One of the things that I really took away was that the Navy Seals portrayed in this film were actually pretty good guys. They did not want to go to war, were not blood thirsty mercenaries, and if left well alone, would have been more than happy to live their lives in peace and service to their country and families. That ultimately, what they really wanted was peace and safety. Now this is either true, or one of the most influential pieces of propaganda that I've ever seen with my own eyes. Either way, it got me thinking about leadership and responsibility. And what occurred to me, was that our politicians weren't as driven as the men and women of our military, to be honest and to shoulder the responsibility (good or bad) for the outcome of their decisions. They actually seem compelled by the political structure of our country and how we integrate media into that mix, to lie and be deceitful about who they really are and what they really think. And when they make a mistake or leave someone waving in the wind all alone, political strategy would dictate that it would be a preferable course of action, to attempt to deflect and distance. To pretend that it was not them, who made the mistake. To find somebody else to blame. I'm sure you can see the problems that arise from this. We are living through them today. We are living in a world that often times seems lacking in humanistic values. Where mistakes are made -and repeated multiple times because no one is willing to take responsibility when things go wrong and say "OK this isn't working, we need to change somethings." Caring about one another, being compassionate, and working together to help create the solutions to our world's problems is everyone's responsibility. It's hard work embracing this type of ideology, but I think it is what will lead us to the collective outcome that we would all want: world peace. Or at least a world with less poopy stuff.

And at the end of the movie last night, I was introduced to a lovely poem by Chief Tecumseh, which I will leave you with to ponder. I love it. ...I may even frame it above my desk to inspire me daily. Here it is:

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.

Trouble no one about their religion;

respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours.

Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life.

Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people.

Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend,

even a stranger, when in a lonely place.

Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living.

If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself.

Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools

and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled

with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep

and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.

Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

~Chief Tecumseh, Shawnee Nation 

Moving In With Men: Gird Your Loins

"You're worried about the silverware?" He blurted it out like an accusation. I was being petty. It's true. I can't deny it. You see, we're in the process of moving in together. And I've never done this -live with a guy before. OK. That's not exactly true. I've "lived with guys" before...as in my roommates. And I never had any problems with that. Probably because Ron, (one of my previous housemates) had come up with the genius idea of having a maid come in every other week and clean the deep stuff. She'd wash the floors, and vacuum the whole house, including our rooms if we left the door open and the floor was clear of stuff. She'd even clean our windows and window sills so they never accumulated that gross schmutz that most people seem to have. And when the house was sparkly and clean, she'd go into the garden and cut some fresh flowers, leaving them in cute little bouquets all over the house...in the bathroom, on the dining room table, in the kitchen, even in my bedroom. I loved it! The main reason that we had a maid though was to avoid arguments. The kind that would arise when one roommate felt that they were doing more of the gross work than the others. I think this was particularly helpful in the bathroom area. With the maid, none of us ever had to scrub the tile, or for that matter...scrub the toilet. This can get particularly gross living with men, as they seem to sometimes *miss* and hit the floor next to the toilet. And my fears of how to *diplomatically* handle these situations sans maid service are starting to come up. I'm afraid of disrupting "The Dude Palace". I've got to get over this.

I honestly like living with guys. Apart from the occasional gross surprise that men seem to bring. Like cutting one on your foot while he sits down on the couch and you *naively* play footsie, teasingly nestling it underneath his oh-so-cute tushie, and then brrrrpppp. Insta-foot-massage of the *unwanted* kind (to which he vehemently denies ever happened.) But my foot knows the truth! And there's also the dude clutter, of video games, and movies, and dirty plates and glasses everywhere, which somehow seems worse than when *I* leave the same things around. Maybe because my stuff is interesting to me and theirs for the most part, is not. I have no interest at present in learning a new coding language or on perusing a Chemistry text book. But I like having these things somewhere in the living room. Just as to where is the question at hand? We've already established that the Cute Boy's family kitchen table will be the one we are using. And I like it. It's cute. It's oak. And it has a lot of good memories associated with it. It's one of the few family pieces of furniture he has actually. I like the idea of sitting down to dinner at it with him and the 'mates, and having house dinners.

You see...what I really want, more than anything, is that feeling of home. But I'd like *this* home to be a further evolution of my past ones. I want this one to be clean and inviting. Comfy and warm. Someplace that people really enjoy being. It's got the potential that's sure. And we'll get there. It's already an awesome house. And they've got most everything that a person could want by way of entertainment. I love being there and evening's spent in the living room are enjoyable. Scott and I take our dogs for walks or over to the nearby park to play fetch. I know I'm going to like being here. It's just lacking a woman's touch. I just get so hung up on the details. It actually IS important to me how my fork feels in my mouth. To the Cute Boy, this predilection that I have with nice silverware is weird. The oddly bent tines of his thin and tinny silverware seems fine to him and every one else in the house (all dudes for the record). But to me, it detracts from the sensuous feeling of pasta and cream sauce gliding over the tongue. I like to *experience* my food. It's like breathing or laughing to me. It's a part of every day life that I relish and enjoy. A while ago, I made a minor investment in what I like to think of as "nice silverware". I was at the downtown Crate and Barrel, near Union Square with a friend of mine and I just decided that if I was going to do it...I better just do it now. I had been eyeing the same set of silverware for oh...the last 7 or 8 years. And it seemed silly to *not* buy it. Every so often I would compare my red plastic picnic ware from Target, to the set I secretly desired, and I'd imagine how much better the food would feel if it was on the sturdy and chic set from CB. For the record, it did feel better. So now, naturally, I want to bring over my set and use it. Which isn't a problem, I'm sure. The problem is me again. I think about the janky bent tines and bent spoon handles they have...or how they will sometimes use butter knives as ad hoc tools to open things with, and I cringe.

Will they do this to my flatware? -Probably.

Won't they see the obvious superiority of these instruments and treat them accordingly? With respect? -Don't set your heart on it.

The silverware is just a small thing. This fear of living with men goes all over the place. And honestly, I need to just get over it. I need to love the things I love and use them, and not worry about weather or not they will break -because they will. Eventually, everything breaks or wears out. Entropic decline is the way of all things. And I've just got to make peace with that fact and get on with the business of living and enjoying. The *people* are what's important...not preventing wear and tear on my things. ...But it would be nice if my forks  could survive this move.

Reframing Depression

Sometimes things happen, that are not connected, but initially it's hard to see that. Well..for me anyways. I'd guess that's true for most people too though.

I came home the other day to find that someone had turned over a stack of plastic storage boxes that I had by my front door. Whoever had done it, had also taken the time to move the small bag of potting soil I had -probably contemplating weather or not it was worth taking. They pushed some vases and tiles that I had soaking to clean in one of the plastic boxes, onto the ground. They also turned over a beautifully aged pot that I had with plants in it. They dumped out the dirt, smothering the plants beneath, and took the planter. They also took a shovel while they were at it.

Coming home to this, was kind of a surprise. It felt like such a violation. I thought to myself "What kind of person does this and thinks it's OK?!? I felt like this person could strike again at any moment. I felt unsafe in my home. So much so, that I hid out at my boyfriends house largely for the next few nights. I didn't want to deal with that feeling. So putting some time and distance between me and the event seemed like a good idea. But after a little while, I felt depression creeping in. How strange? I didn't want to go out. I just wanted to curl up on the couch and cuddle with the Cute Boy and the dogs. But then, I went to see my therapist. And she had some very amusing and useful insights that I thought I'd share with you.

Part of the alarming thing to me was the feeling of depression coming over me. It was something that I had dealt with many years ago, and had believed that I had conquered and vanquished from my life. How wrong I was. It had returned with a vengeance. Mainly by making me feel sleepy and constantly hungry too. Nice combo for the love-handles!

Sabrina noted the way I talked about depression. Like it was mine, a thing that belonged to me. An intrinsic part of my nature. Like because at one point in my life I had ever felt it, and admitted to feeling it, that there was now a *seed* of depression planted within my soul and I was now forever marred by it. I would be forevermore someone who struggled with *depression*. I was one of those *depressed people*. "Sign me up for the meds doc, I've got the blues...forever." She actually laughed a bit about it. We both did. She said, I think it would be more useful to think of it like getting the flu or a cold. I would never say. "Well...I had the flu once when I was a teenager. Ya know...typical teen angst flu. And well. I thought it had gone away, but then...I got the flu again. It came back. But it turns out...I had the flu this whole time. I only *thought it was gone*. But it turns out, I'll have this flu for the rest of my life." So that's how I'm trying to look at it. Right now, I'm feeling a bit of depression. But I'm managing it. And I've got a pretty good plan for overcoming it. Bipedal locomotion will be involved. I plan on walking, biking, and swimming a lot. Also seeing my friends and laughing as much as possible. Getting good food and sleep. And also focusing on 3 things that are going to go well today (in the morning)...and visualizing them going well. And then at the end of the day, 3 things that went well and the reasons why. Even looking at depression this way helps. It feels less invisible. Less a part of me. Less entwined with my nature and spirit. 

Hold My Hand...We'll Get Through This Together.

He told me to hold his hand. "Just hold onto my hand, and relax. Just hold on and breathe and let it pass. This will pass. And you will make it through. Just hold onto my hand." It was the same comforting message that he gave me when I was in the midst of an anxiety attack. When my emotions would well up inside of me and become uncontrollable staccato. Jerky breathing and movements. Unable to get a good gulp of fresh air. I would pinch my eyes shut as tightly as possible and feel his hand in mine and breathe.

It's no wonder that I'm having these feelings so much right now. I am at a precipice in my life. And beyond this point is the unknown of my life. Nothing will ever be the same again. But I'm glad to have someone kind and gentle to remind me that if I just hold on, that this will pass, and I will make it through...and he will hold my hand the whole way. Thank you. I needed that. 

Even Neighborhoods Die and Are Reborn

        The smell of the Mimosa Tree filled the air. On hot dry days walking home, I would come around the last bend, and step onto my block. Even in the dark, I knew this spot. But on hot dry days, this spot was an oasis. The shade from the tree's thick canopy was like a welcoming gesture. As if the tree it's self was saying "Now you get on home little Missy. Your mama will be worryin' about you." Like the tree was greeting me, embracing me with it's cool shade and thick heady scent, and then swiftly sending me on my way home to Victor Drive. I will miss this tree. I will miss walking under it.

Like I miss the little girls who used to live behind my house in the old farmhouse on Elliott which was torn down by the JC to make room for a vacant lot for their building supplies and forklifts. I don't remember those girls names. But I do remember how they would set up a little card table there on the corner, catching the traffic of students coming and going to class. Selling them ice cold glasses of sweet pink lemonade. I will miss those girls, that house, this tree, and this corner. But most of all, I will miss home.

It's time to move on though. The neighborhood's changing. Even if I could stay, I'm not sure I'd want to at this point. Millie's gone and now all that's left across the street is her creepy son who stares at me from behind her lacy old lady curtains. I'm glad he's stopped trying to talk with me.

Hugh next door passed away. And it's hard to get used to these changes. I'm used to seeing him outside, casting his fly fishing lines. Practicing in the street. Or even feeding those damn pigeons! We had so many pigeons in our neighborhood. He lured them in by feeding them. But it made him happy, and that made me happy to see; so in that way, it made this world -and more specifically, my neighborhood a better place to be. He's gone now.

When I look out my back window, across the deck and into the garden, I see the roses that we planted together. But the tall ancient mission olive tree is gone. It's feathery silver branches would dance in the wind and hypnotize me at night. The glow from the moon light suited it. And the big old fig tree, with the canopy as big as any I'd ever seen, was gone too.

The Kawase's on the corner were the last ones to have a cedar shingled roof. We were the 2nd to last. On mornings after a big storm, people wouldn't know weather to return the shingle tiles to them or to us because nobody knew who's roof it had fallen off of. But people cared. They cared enough to at least *try* to return the wayward shingle to it's rightful owner.

I would say Hugh's widow Dora, and her daughter and grandchildren...and the Kawase's on the corner, and the Saneholtz's across the way that bought old Mrs. Rheinie's house are all that's left of this old dying neighborhood. Well...them and me. But I'm leaving soon. And when I go, this neighborhood will die just a little bit more.

It's changing. I'm not sure what it's turning into. But it's not the same place. There's no friendly Irish pub within walking distance, where you can go for Shepard's Pie and a berry Trifle desert. No more ice-cold rootbeer floats from the old A&W or the hot and slimy chili cheese fries that we would munch on. I don't see people as much. There's no more connection between the neighbors. More and more, we're distant, and fundamentally strangers to one another; and that's not the way it used to be. No.

Taking it's place is the ever growing noise. The noise pollution from the freeway that seems to actually grow every year, as more and more people move to this area, or drive instead of walk or ride their bikes. The obnoxious "Beep Beep Beep" of the trucks and forklifts that come into the empty lot behind my house, flashing their orange rotating lights like a cop car's into my bedroom window and waking me up, not with the sounds of nature, not with the mockingbird's song, or even the crow's harsh call, but with the sounds of construction and moving and banging and dropping and of course that beeping that says "Hey...I'm backing this little piece of shit forklift up, I thought you'd want to know that, since it's 5 O'clock in the morning and all..." Yeah. I won't miss that.

I also won't miss the jerk with the convertible BMW roadster who bought his house cheap a couple of years ago, just in time to be here for the end of my mom's life, but not in time enough to really get a feel for who she was, or what kind of people *we* are. We are not bad people. And honestly, our roots here go deep. So it surprised me when this relative newcomer to our neighborhood gave my mom these cold alien looks. Tight jawed. Unfriendly. Unwelcoming. As if to say "You are not wanted here." My mom as sweet as she was, was oblivious to him -and for that, I am grateful. She would always wave and smile at him and greet him like a friend. It perplexed her why he never said anything back. "He must not have heard me." she would say. "Yes, he must not have heard you." I'd repeat, all the while feeling tightness in my chest. This pain, that I couldn't possibly let out. She and I would go for slow shuffling walks around the block. We took our time. She was constantly learning to walk again in those days. So we went, one slow step at a time around our small block. In front of his house, we would make our slow progression, taking 5 or 10 minutes just to go across his tiny front yard. I don't know what he thought of us? It was obvious that my mom wasn't well. And from her crazy unkempt hair, and MY crazy unkempt hair, that we probably didn't see the world in quite the same way that he did. I think he may have even thought we were a slow moving parade of vagrants who wandered out from the homeless shelter around the corner at the Armory. He regarded us like that. But our house was not always the dingy shell that it is today. Years of slaving and struggling and trying desperately to make happy the one true treasure and joy in my life...trying to keep her just a little bit longer...and trying to keep everything going all at the same time was hard. So I stopped watering the flowers in the front yard. I didn't care if my trash can was out on Thursday, even though garbage night came and went on Monday. I was tired, and just trying to hold on. But these people didn't know me. Didn't know my mom. Never saw the house in it's glory years when my grandparents called it home. Never knew what a tight ship they ran. Or how friendly and nice we all are. No. To them, I was the scourge. Something to get rid of. When was I finally going to be gone so someone "nice" could move in? And by nice, they meant really more like them. Someone who would fix the place up and landscape it like it was out of a Sunset magazine. I wanted to. I tried when my mom was alive.

We used to have rows of lavender lining our front walkway. And rosemary planted by the curb. The sweet scent of mockorange greeted you at our front door. I dug out the rosemary and lavender after they had grown dry and straggly from several seasons of fending for themselves. I let the two large pine trees that I planted with my Grandpa be all the landscaping we needed in the front. The pine needles carpeted the ground below, and after the rains, thick rings of mushrooms would poke up from under them. "Fairy rings". -That's what my mom called them. And I think that some part of her, may have actually believed in fairies. May have actually thought of this place, our home, as being a special and sacred place for fairies to come and go. To enter into the world of the everyday. My mother was always a small person. Some friends even called her Vivalina. Like Thumbalina. She even had litte elvish points in her ears. I used to kid her and joke, that I knew the truth about her. But that I would keep her secrets safe and protect the magical entrance to her kingdom.

No...these people didn't know who we were. So when they left a big shopping cart filled with clods of dirt and old sod that they had pulled up from their old landscaping (to be replaced with the beautiful wooden walkway and the wabi-sabi landscape) well...when they left that in front of my house kind of like a passive-aggressive "fuck you" how could I get mad at them? They didn't know who I was. Didn't know that inside of my house was a sick woman, who lay dying, and that when they finally left that cart, she had just died. They didn't know that even though to them getting rid of that heavy shopping cart full of dirt would be just a minor nuisance, to me...it became the chore that never got done because I had better things to do. More important things to do than to deal with their crap, or even attempt to try to talk to them after that. They didn't know. I'm sure they're nice people. Under better circumstances, we might have actually been friendly. Maybe not "friends". ...most of my friends don't do things like that, even to people that they think are assholes who deserve it. Well...I tell you...I won't miss them. Not one bit.

This neighborhood has a life force. And whatever it was from my childhood is dying all around me. And the weeds that are popping up are people like the Sunset garden home two doors down. So it's time to let the wind blow through me, and clear this whole place out. Most of the things that I will miss about this place, are already gone.