Author: Momma Hol

Finally past half a century, and only just now starting to make sense of some of this compost called life. I hope to someday be the Great and Powerful Trash Heap . (Do you remember the Fraggles? ) Where all the garbage of life turns to wisdom and knowledge. I'm a New Englander born and bred, but have been all over the world since. I still carry my upbringing with me, but now it is garnished with bits I've picked up here and there on my travels. These are the nicer bits of luggage. The rest of my baggage is indelicate and disagreeable. It comes mostly in the form of MDD. And every day I do my best to slay that dragon and laugh over his retreat. More often than not these days, I succeed. And that, in and of itself, is a reason to smile. I am Ma to three only children (By virtue of being very far apart in age), each of whom is larger than life. I am honored to call them my weedlings. They teach me more than I ever taught them. My life has become an adventure that I never could have anticipated. And for that, I am grateful. I like to make people laugh and smile and ponder. I hope to do it here.

Doo Doo Doo, Da Dah Dah Dah

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It’s a beautiful day! Sunny, breezy, open-the-windows-and-air-out-the-house weather. I am loving it! So is SiriDog. I clip on her leash and off we go into the tame green yonder that is our apartment complex. Lots of other people are walking their dogs, too. This is one of the few truly pet friendly complexes in the area. We have a fenced in dog park, a few wooded areas for exploring, and doggie waste stations scattered around the property. Basically, short of being able to let your dog run loose on your own property, it’s as good as it gets. So it really bothers me when people are irresponsible. Like the lady today.

She has what appears to be some sort of pitty mix. They are walking on the other side of the street from us. Her dog  assumes the log-drop stance and leaves his present. I notice she has no bags, so i yell across, “Do you need a bag? I have plenty.”

“No,” she replies, “I’m fine.” She starts to walk away leaving the dukey behind.

“No,” I tell her, “It’s really NOT fine. We have to pick up our poop.”

“Easy for you to say. You have a small dog!”

“Listen, sweetheart, if you didn’t want to pick up big dumps you shouldn’t have gotten a big dog!” I walk over and give her a bag.

She huffs and puffs, but picks up the poo and tosses it in the waste station.

This isn’t the first time i’ve had this conversation. It happens a lot. People can be very lax on their dogkeeping if they think no one is looking. Which means anyone out walking can end up with dirty shoes if they aren’t looking. And i’ve had it.

Where have all the manners gone? Forget the fact that (regardless of the party) we are about to elect bombastic rhetoric to be our leader. Forget poverty and corporate greed and environmental ruin. Forget homelessness and hunger and riots and war. As Heinlein once wrote, “Bad manners. Lack of consideration for others in minor matters. A loss of politeness, of gentle manners,  is more significant than a riot.” In his view, and mine, a sick culture has riots and war, but a dying culture is identified by an absence of common courtesy. Leaving your dog’s excrement for others to step in definitely falls into that category.

And not for nothing, using the excuse that your dog leaves bigger logs than mine…. Well, as i said, it was your choice to buy a big dog. The fact that you weren’t astute enough to realize that big dogs make big shit is fairly unbelievable. The blame is squarely on you. You were not victimized by a dog shelter. They never promised you a dog that didn’t poop, or a poop scooping fairy that would clean up after the dog for you. You knew. You just don’t care enough about your fellow man to do what’s right.

Now before anyone starts warning me about my blood pressure or saying that it’s just poop… Well, if a person won’t do anything as easy as picking up after their dog, what is the likelihood that they will do the harder things, like reducing their footprint, or promoting peace, or raising responsible children? Pretty close to nil, i’d wager.

So there you have it. Our society and it’s path to destruction, represented iconically by a pile of dog crap in the middle of a manicured lawn.

I do have hope, tho. Not all of us are discourteous. And we raise our children to be responsible. We want to make the world a better place for ourselves, each other, and the future. I see good things every day. Young people holding doors for the elderly; the elderly giving positive attention to the young. People giving food to the homeless; the homeless reaching out to those in even worse circumstances. Boys’ and girls’ groups cleaning up rivers and roadways. Church and social groups doing regular turns at soup kitchens. Whole foods has fruit and healthy snacks at the front of their store for children to take. Heck, my tattoo artists keep extra bottles of water and sodas for the less fortunate who stay nearby. Things like this abound.  Would that they will spread. I pray they will. And overshadow the poop.

Because, lets face it, there will always be dog shit. We just have to pick up as much as we can or we risk us all slipping in it.

Fervid Prayer

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Venus and Bastet.

Eros and Min.

Rati and Cliodhna.

Save me.

Saint Dymphna, hear my prayer.

The single woman’s lament.

No wishing. No filling.

No well at all.

An absent watershed in a state of

Ponds.

Lada, hear my cry.

Wave upon wave hit the breakwater

And recycle themselves like

Fruitcake.

Milady de Winter,

Keep your secret and the fire

Burning within.

Let me grow cold and ash.

Burnt offerings to Catherine the Great.

The indulgence of the other Mary.

I ask of you, Freyja,

Why must i suffer the scourge

When i come by it most honestly?

Weep for me, Turan.

Comfort me, Anahita.

Margaret, Audrey, Desdemona,

Leave me be.

Lilith, have mercy on me,

Your subject.

I beseech

And pound upon my chest.

Mea culpa.

Mea culpa.

Mea indigus cupidus culpa.

 

The Cutting Edge of Fashion

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I should probably be writing about Valentine’s Day (Or as i like to call it, “Single Awareness Day”), but screw it. I want to talk about clothes.

Last night, while snuggling under the covers with my ersatz valentine, my SiriDog, i was reading the latest edition of InStyle. And no, i don’t read it for the articles. I like to keep up on the latest fashion, both the couture art and the stuff that people can actually wear. I won’t spend $2K on a dress, but i will use the latest trends to alter something i found at the thrift store. It also is a good way to gauge if i’ll be able to find t-shirts in the colors i like (For those of you unfamiliar, the fashion illluminati gather at the beginning of every season and determine which colors are “in”, and woe to the shopper who wants something in a color that isn’t on that list!) Plus, let’s face it, the couture stuff is sometimes a great source of chuckles. Also to note,  i have a bit more of an interest this year, as i actually can wear clothes to work now.

So anyway, perused the whole thing yesterday. Then checked the websites.  It’s colder than Delores Umbridge’s heart outside, but in the fashion world, it’s springtime. And apparently, this year, that means the seventies are back with a vengeance.

Normally, in any given season, i can depend on my favorite designers to put out, if not something i actually covet, at least clothes that are pleasing. Then, to top off, there are usually a few other labels that hit a mark with me. Shoes, well, i’m picky, so there will be fewer. And maybe one bag strikes my eye.

I in no way imply that i am a fashion icon. Tho my personality is the lovechild of Mae West and Cher, my wardrobe godmothers are Fran Lebowitz and the lesbian poets of the mid 20th century. I like jeans with blazers, tailored slacks, tank dresses in the summer, and tuxes without shirts underneath (Scandalous!). I will never be on the cover of Vogue, even if i looked like Charlize. But i’m ok with that. My style works for me. I’m comfortable in it. It makes me feel pretty and strong and sexy and badass. Isn’t that what clothes are for?  But even tho my style isn’t as common as some, i can still appreciate fashion that i wouldn’t wear, but would look beautiful on the right person. A gingham bikini on a girly-girl with a sweet face is the sexiest thing in the world, even if that girl isn’t me. I can dig it. Aesthetically, it pleases. But i saw very little like that between the pages last night.

Lots of architectural and sculptured creations. Squared collars. Straight lines. Ruffles you could spread pâté with. As a museum piece, quite striking. As clothing, not so much. Who wants to wear a dress that will cut your arse when you sit in it? This isn’t the Victorian era – There is no need for women to suffer for appearances.  Not that i think Valentino should be invoking comfort law and dressing everyone in mu-mus and pajama pants. Structure is nice. Steel beams in my blouse are not.

Another big trend seems to be the reemergence of the 1975 palette. Burnt orange, avocado green, harvest gold, samsonite blue. It’s as if the discovery of skin tone never happened.  Seriously, do you know anyone who looks good in pepto pink?

Jumpsuits. Really? Only for people who never go to the bathroom.

Shoes and bags? Sharp edged, impractical, and not foot or wallet friendly.

Pompoms. On everything. I’m sorry, but i am not an Airstream.

On a positive note, i do like the return of the airy poet’s caftan. More than one designer had them updated in shorter lengths with beautiful watercolor painted fronts. A perfect thing to pack for the beach-side bar and grill or the first pool party of the season. I may even take a bash at making and painting one myself.

Another bright side, the makeup this season is very light and pretty. Hair, other than the couture shows, very wearable. And the coolest part, a lot of the older houses who have been quiet for a while are putting out some great collections. Brooks Brothers is gorgeous this season (Ok, yes, this is the one case where my fashion sense actually matches a fashion house.) Ralph Lauren has some great fresh takes on Americana. Versace has some amazing choices for the bold and unafraid. On the retail end, White House Black Market, Talbots, and H&M are all showing smart, flattering, wearable clothes. So in spite of my discontent with the majority, there is still a lot to choose from.

Granted, in the magazines and on the web, all these clothes are shown on stick figures. Sexless baby dolls pulled to six feet tall a la Stretch Armstrong. Olive Oyl with expensive makeup. Women of modeling perfection. I wish a magazine would take some of the season’s offerings and put them on real women. Show us how those knife-sharp pleats look on a pizza-fed ass. Most women my age can afford an occasional fashion splurge of some sort, so why not help us find one? That Versace tux with the bandeau top that i am salivating over… Let’s see what it looks like on a woman who weighs more than a prize Thanksgiving turkey. The buttery soft WHBM blazer, would it clear the hips? You can’t tell from the ad because the model is too small to have any. There are more full-figured women, and women of that certain age, on the red carpet than ever before, so we can see what those offerings look like on curvy and gravity-tamed bodies. Yes, real women are sometimes rail thin. Yes, real women are sometimes 20 years old. But not most of us. There is a veritable buffet of body types out there. Can we see your couture creations on them?

Hey, there’s a thought! Let’s take one ubiquitous outfit of the season and put that same outfit on a bunch of women: Thin, thick, boyish, curvy, young, old…. Different sizes and colors… And see how it translates. That would be cool! Sociologically interesting and consumer useful. That Battenburg lace Malandrino sheath dress… What does it look like on a woman like me? Or you? Or my Aunt Julie? Or the woman next door? Because none of us looks like Gigi Hadid. Hell, our names weren’t even mentioned in the socialite pages, never mind nominated for model of the year. But we like pretty dresses, too.

Even those of us who wear tuxes.

Disco Inferno

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Oh, the sting and burn of a sarcastic observation! I don’t care much for the ones that leave scorch marks; but the ones that sizzle like a Texas barbecue sauce are another matter entirely. Gotta love those. And while it’s fun to watch someone poke a political bear, or William Shatner, sometimes we have to suck it up and take the roasting ourselves.

I love making people laugh. It makes me feel good. And then, there are those times where it’s someone else’s quip that gets the laugh. Very often at my expense. It used to mortify me. Now it makes me laugh as much as everyone else. A good zinger is a good zinger. I admire anyone who can pull it off. But i  really admire someone who can pull it off while being nervous and scared in the middle of a medical procedure. That takes a real gift. Or comedic intervention. Channeling the comedians of times past. But you’d be surprised how often it happens.

In the middle of a case, an invasive procedure, we are getting to the “easy” part. The patient has been silent for a while now and appears to have fallen asleep. A favorite song comes on the radio. I start to sing along. From under the sterile drape comes a deadpan and drugged voice, “You’re ruining it!” Commence full-on belly laughter. From then on, whenever any of us in the lab start to sing along with the radio – usually me – someone shouts out, “You’re ruining it!”

As we are preparing a patient for a procedure, he says, “Oh, and if my eyes start to water, i’m not crying. I’m….. I have allergies.” I respond with a sly grin, “Oh, i thought you were going to say that i was so beautiful it brings tears to your eyes.” He turns to me with a leprechaun smile and says, “You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?” One coworker covers her mouth. The other says, “Ouch!” and laughs.  I responded at that moment with a snarly face and a laugh. But “You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?” is becoming a standard response to any statement that remotely resembles fishing for a compliment. 

A non-English speaking Latino patient is coming out of anesthesia and begins to thrash. Worried that he will cause himself to fall off the procedure table, the nurse anesthetist calmly reminds him in Spanish that he is still in surgery and needs to not move, which does absolutely nothing. Knowing that when we are sedated, sometimes it takes a momma voice to bring us to our senses, but having to rely on languages i speak, i stick my head under the sterile drape and yell, “Basta!!!” The physician, who is Latino himself, calmly says, “Holly, that’s Italian.” I peek my head out from under, “It isn’t the same in Spanish?”  “I have no idea what you are trying to say, so i’d say no.”  Everyone cracks up. Now, whenever any of us is being impish or silly, another will yell, “Basta!!”

Most of the time, i don’t mind looking silly. Life itself can be pretty silly. So if i slip on a banana peel and slide into a pile of honey and chicken feathers, i’m going to laugh. Ok, that’s never going to happen. But if i am dancing around the office and a loud toot escapes during a Grand Jeté, i will laugh. Yes, that has happened. And it was funny. Or rather, it was funnier than it was embarrassing. Everyone laughed. Including me. I couldn’t help myself. Besides, as someone once told me, “You had better learn to laugh at yourself, because everyone else has already learned how to laugh at you!”

So go ahead. Take your best shot. Zing me. Parody me. Bring it. Tease me. Mock me. Make me laugh. Heckle me. Roast me. Do it. I can feel the sting of humor already. “Burn, baby, burn!”

Yeah, i know. I’m ruining it.

 

 

Giving Chickin’

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Sometimes our workdays run very late. Lately, more than sometimes. But every now and again, during those late cases, we get to see something that makes the whole day worth it.

A couple weeks ago, a coworker and i went to pick up a patient for a procedure. It was way after hours, and the poor woman was just so relieved to finally be getting it over with. As we are unhooking her from all her bells and whistles, she tells us that she can’t wait to get back. She hasn’t eaten in two days, and a friend brought her some chicken from her favorite place so that she could have something really yummy after her procedure. Then she looks around. There are a few of her kids in there. Well, i call them kids, but they were all adults. And she begins to panic.

“Don’t you go eatin’ my chickin’! That’s MY chickin’! I haven’t eaten in two days, and i really want that chickin’ bad! Please don’t mess with it!” Her kids all agree that they won’t touch it. She doesn’t seem convinced and has me bring her the box so she can count out the pieces. “I got three pieces of chickin’ in here. Three. I counted. (She shows me.) See? I have proof. Now that chickin’ better be here when i get back! Don’t you go eatin’ my chickin’!”

“Yes, Momma, ” they respond while rolling their eyes.

We wheel her away, her supper reboxed and placed on the counter for her return. Thru the hallway, she continues to go on about her chickin’. She can’t wait. She’s been so hungry. And that’s her favorite chickin’. We get her into the procedure suite, get to working, and she is still talking. She is gonna have some chickin’! This whole wait to get this pacemaker thing is worth it because, as a prize, she gets her chickin’ after! She LOVES that chickin’! It’s her favorite! And it smelled so good when her friend brought it! Oh, there ain’t nothin’ better than some good fried chickin’ when you really hungry!

I am not exaggerating. This woman was truly in rapture about this chicken.

After, when we are wheeling her back to her room, she is getting really excited. Like, six-year-old-on-her-birthday excited. She can almost taste that chickin’! Mmmmm, all the greasy-crunchy skin! It’s gonna taste so good after being starved for two days! I can’t wait to get my hands on that chickin’! I’ve been lookin’ forward to this so much! MMmmmm mmmmm! It’s gonna taste so good!

You see what is coming, don’t you?

We barely get her hooked back up to the tentacles of her room before she asks if she can have her chicken. She knows she can’t have it quite yet, but she just wants to smell it. Her mouth is watering. I am smiling as i go to grab her pot of extra-crispy gold… But all i find is an empty box in the trash and her children are gone. At first, she thought we were kidding, but when the truth set in, the look on her face… Well… I don’t think there is a word for it. Some combination of anger, shock, disgust, sadness – all wrapped up in that iron-weight foil that only real disappointment can bring. I want to cry at first, but then anger builds. What kind of kids are these? What kind of people are these? The anger starts burning. By the time i am at the nurses’ station giving report, i am royally pissed. I want to find those kids and kick their selfish little asses.

While i am infused with venom, my coworker is infused with Spirit. As he passes me talking to the nurse, he gives me the sign that he’ll be back in a couple minutes. While i rail on about the actions of those rotten P.O.S.s who should know better than to do that to their momma, my coworker is downstairs in the hospital food court buying her some more chicken. Without pomp. Without circumstance. Without flash or banner. He just goes and does it. And he brings joy and healing to that woman that no pacemaker, and certainly none of my burning fury, could ever bring. He just brings it to her and leaves.

Later that night, and many times since, i have dove into the ocean of what it meant.

I often get angry with the injustice, speaking my mind to friends and readers about how the world is going to hell, without even the benefit of a handbasket. The times when i let my anger pass thru, tho, and allowed a spirit of Love and Humanity take over my action are less common. Honestly, it didn’t occur to me to just go buy the woman some chicken. A simple act of kindness. Of Love. Of Humanity. The thought never crossed my mind. But it should have.

I can be the street preacher, waving my fist and gathering winds of discontent. Or i can be vessel thru which a spirit of love and generosity flows. I want to be less of the former and more of the latter. And the example i saw that night proves it. My coworker is a regular Joe. Just like myself. Just like most of us. Not a wealthy benefactor. Not a martyr. Not a saint. Just a guy who allowed his soul to be a conduit between all that is good and all that is not. My instinct was to get angry. His instinct was to bring Love. In the form of chicken.

Angels in Joes’ clothing. That’s what they are. These people who have already found it. Who put it to use. Many spout the words of their faith. The rules. The expectations. But it is these angels who have the bigger impact. Because their actions transcend any specific religion. They represent the tenets of Humanity and Love.

I am not a church goer. But i am a person of daily prayer and meditation. To God/Goddess/Universe. To the spirit of all things good and loving. To the one Saint Francis beseeches in his quest to become a better person. Perhaps it’s time i revisited that prayer. It is the sentiment of that prayer that i am lacking. Needing. Wanting. No, i’m not a totally selfish woman. I do good for other people. But not enough. So many are suffering. And while it’s true that i can’t singlehandedly bring about world peace or end world hunger or vanquish evil; i can keep my eyes open for opportunities to be that conduit. I can spend less time preaching and more time doing. I can make a difference. I can buy some chickin’.

3

 

 

Jug Band

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I started just now to type, “I have a confession to make…” And then i realized that it isn’t really a confession. It isn’t a sin that i have committed. It isn’t even an accidental mistake. It’s not a bad thing. Well, not usually. Nor is it something i should have to apologize for. It shouldn’t be an issue. But it often is.

I have big boobs.

There. I said it. In all it’s embarrassing glory.

So, as i see it, there are two parts to this, and neither should be an issue in today’s society. Unfortunately, people still have a problem with both parts.

First, the “big” part. I was not given a choice as to the size of my ducks any more than i was given a choice in my height. I am generally a small woman. But i have twice as many chins as i need, and at least twice as much breast. And tho teenage boys may think that sounds like a gold mine, a large set comes with its own problems.

For one thing, it’s hard to find clothes that fit. If i want a button-up shirt, i either have to buy one that is big and flow-y, or i have to buy it in the men’s department. Those pretty blouses the other girls wear strain perilously at the chest buttons. And because bras made in the bigger cup sizes rarely come in the lovely lacy array that the “normal” ones do, it’s not like that gap gives anyone something pretty to look at. And if you give in and unbutton it a bit, you’re a skanky slitch whose momma didn’t teach her to keep ’em covered. So knits it is, and even then, finding one that fits the tits without swimming around the middle (Or worse, fitting at the middle and pulled tight over the top)…. Well, i wish there were a patron saint to invoke while shopping for that!

Oh – exercise clothes? Sports bras? RacerBack tanks? Even YMCA appropriate swimsuits? Fuggeddaboudit. Ain’t gonna happen. No such luck. Not unless you have a fortune to pay some online kevlar broker.

People make assumptions about women with big boobs. That we are daft or “easy”. And because it is hard to hide them, people assume that we are showing them off because we’re proud of them, like they are some crowning achievement akin to moderating Middle Eastern peace talks. News flash to the media: Just like the old adage about men with large shoes, the size of a woman’s chest has no direct OR inverse relationship with the size of her brain. Headline to the rest of the world: Most of us base our fashion choices on what doesn’t make us look dumpy (The scourge of every large-breasted woman), not on the measurement of our cleavage. So please, cut us some slack. And we will try to remember to cut you some on those skin-tight jeggings over your ample bottom.

Issue number two: The “boob” part. When i had my first child, terrifyingly close to three decades ago, for health and financial reasons, i chose to breastfeed. I was lucky enough at that time to be a student at a large university with a student population from all over the world. I learned from some women of other cultures about the miracle of the baby sling. I have no idea if breastfeeding in public was actually illegal at that time, but i knew without a doubt that doing it in the open would get me a lot of unwanted attention. The sling was my answer. I bought one and then fashioned a couple others. I invested in nursing tops. I learned how to nurse in public without showing any of my pink parts to undesiring strangers. It was a pain in the ass, but i felt like it was showing respect. The only time i made  a spectacle of it was during a “nurse in” in protest of the Nestle formula-in-Africa scandals, and i admit, i felt awkward doing it.

Nearly 10 years later, when i had my second child, i was living in Central America. And that was where i learned that vilification of public breastfeeding was largely a U.S. issue. Panamanians felt ALL women should breastfeed, and to that end, encouraged it and held it as part of regular life. Tho i still used a sling, i no longer worried if an errant pink part got flashed. The locals never cared. To the contrary, they delighted that she fed so well! I could sit with a group of women, feed my beautiful child, and never fear scorn or disgust. It was wonderful. It helped me realize that it is social indoctrination that makes public boobage wrong. Ok, maybe intent as well, if you’re out flashing your ladies for scandal or advertisement. But as far as breastfeeding goes, it’s the way we were socialized that makes us uncomfortable with it.

By my third child, while i did not flaunt it while i was nursing, i didn’t run for the closet every time either. I tried to keep politely covered, but i never hid. And yes, i got some dirty looks. Surprisingly, mostly from other women. For some, sister solidarity doesn’t cover boobs. Not to be coarse, but i doubt unmated goats look at nursing goats and think “I wish she’d put her teats away or take it to the stall.” Yes, they are animals, but breastfeeding is mammalian thing. It’s how God/Goddess/Universe intended for us to feed our young. So why should we treat it as a private or criminal act. Believe it or not, there is still one state where it is patently illegal to breastfeed in public. (If a woman breastfeeds in public, and no one complains, is it still illegal???) Other states have statutes that exempt it from indecency laws, but a lot of the general public still cries havoc and lets slip the dogs of war over the ill assumption that breastfeeding is somehow porn. Any woman who has breastfed will tell you, it gives you a whole new appreciation for your boobs, and it has nothing to do with porn.

Boobs are mini (Or, for some of us, not so mini) food factories. They are able to make exactly what our babies need. Even in developing countries where food is limited, breasts will take nutrients out of mom to put in the milk for baby. Amazing! Miraculous! And while those perky supermodel tits in the Victoria Secret catalog might corner the market on sexy one night, and may get lots of stares and judging off the runway the next, don’t you dare judge me on mine. I won’t go around baring them to the general masses, but i won’t hide them either. They are part of who i am. I managed to feed three weedlings with these puppies, and that’s no small feat. So, you may think them too big. You may think them too floppy. You may think them unseemly…

But eff you.

My boobs are awesome.

Old Dog, New Trick

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So, six months shy of my 50th birthday, i will embark on a totally new path that has me both excited and terrified.

Every career i have ever had has been one of interpersonal service. Face to face interaction with people who need my help. “Professions”, yes, but with that line-walking professionalism that one can only have when usual social barriers have been broken from the onset. You know, like nakedness and blood. And the people i have worked with share a kind of camaraderie that is only present when there are matters of utmost importance, like human lives, on the line. The uniforms i wear, not sharp and tailored, but chintzy and laundered in chemicals that are made to kill everything but the fabric. Terribly exciting, but also terribly taxing. Irregular hours and daily surprises. But i’m about to become a regular Joe. And i am scared.

Working in a hospital, especially in an area that performs invasive procedures, is rewarding. People come to you in pain, frightened, and sometimes one step shy from death. You get to comfort them. To fix them. To bring them back from death’s edge. It’s a powerful feeling in a multitude of ways. There is a physical power in knowing you have the ability to help save a human body.  There is an emotional power on the occasions where someone is literally brought back to life. There is a spiritual power in knowing you are an important tool for God/Goddess/Universe. But that power comes at a cost.

For every case that doesn’t go as planned. For every patient who gets the bad news that they are too much for us and require major surgery. For every person who we feel we have fixed, only to be proved wrong by GGU the very next day. For each one that we lose the race against the clock. For each time we know in our heart of hearts that the patient isn’t as invested in their health as we are, that they won’t make any changes in their lifestyle, and we know we will be seeing them again and again until there is no more to be done. These things take their toll. I work in invasive cardiology, but i promise you, these same things are true for my brothers and sisters in the emergency room, the operating room, the intensive care units, the paramedic force, and still others. Take a poll. The percentage of us with stress-induced disorders, hypertension, auto-immune issues… I promise you, it’s higher than national average.

But on the bright side, what it takes to do this, day in and day out, is a strength that also exceeds the average. Mentally strong, we have the ability to put our own issues aside when the shit hits the fan. Tho from the entire spectrum of faiths, we are spiritually strong individuals who know that GGU holds the winning cards. Emotionally strong, we can keep on working even when we know we have probably lost. And physically strong – Have you ever seen a size 6 woman do truly effective CPR on a man three times her size? THAT is strength!

All this, i leave behind. And, oh, how i will miss it!

But i am running out of reserve to pay the toll. My health, my life, is starting to wear thin in spots. Perhaps it is because, as i get older, i shed more and more tears as a woman, as a mother, as a human; and these, compounded with the tears that come from my work, are more tears than i have reservoir to produce.  Perhaps it is because each person only has a finite amount of strength, and mine is less than a lifetime’s worth at this pace. Or perhaps it is GGU telling me that it is time i helped humanity in another way.

One of the things that this new work endeavor will give me is the ability to see healthcare from a wider perspective. It will also give me an opportunity to use that insight in areas outside my work and maybe get involved in the issues that i have watched plague our hospitals over the years. I’m not Einstein, but i’ve got a good brain, excellent communication skills, and the anger and determination that is the hallmark of a peri-menopausal woman in the 21st century. I could be a force to be reckoned with, even without my terribly-unflattering scrubs!

But first i must adapt to desk life. To computer life. To Joe life. Hell, it’s been forever since i had a job where i could wear clothes! No more bodies. No more blood. No more fluids and drugs and devices. Just me and a screen and a bunch of tasks to sort. Well, that is, once i learn the language of medical life outside the lab. (Figuratively, i have 4 months to learn Klingon.) Eventually, i will have a baby composed of menus that i can be proud of. And with that baby comes a less zapped me to be momma to my actual babies (Who are no longer babies, but still…) It also comes with a future of unlimited opportunity. A chance to spend my Silver Years (You know, the last couple decades before my Golden Years) continuing to learn and grow and expand my passions in ways i never imagined. A chance to give a different part of myself. And a chance to refill my reservoir.

But this life is something i’ve never had before. I’ve never been a regular Joe. I’ve never been a regular anything. And this is what scares me. Moving my gypsy soul out of a caravan and into a building. Turning the stray cat into a house pet. Editing the R-rated movie for network television. I can’t help but wonder if i am able, you know? Can i do it? My weedlings think i can. My (awesome) coworkers think i can. My friends and family think i can. Obviously GGU thinks i can. I guess that means i should quit my whining and get on with it! Wish me luck! Not yap wa’ Hol !*

 

*(Klingon for “One language is not enough”)

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

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I just took one of those what-the-hell-i’m-bored quizzes on Facebook. This one was supposed to tell me my top 9 qualities and 3 flaws. According to this quiz (Which technically wasn’t, since i didn’t actually answer any questions. It just “analyzed” my profile), i have the following good qualities:  Brave, spontaneous, cool, attractive, optimistic, affectionate, confident, charismatic and humorous. My flaws, as it were, are: Clumsy, impulsive and perfectionist. How the hell it came to these conclusions is beyond me, tho i wouldn’t argue that a lot of them are true. I admit, i took this one three times and it came up with the same answer each time. I wonder what the program is that it uses. Or maybe it just generates a random list. Curious. It was a good time waster. Too bad they can’t make them less wasting and answer things that we REALLY want to know. Like…

Which jeans will make me look like i have a killer butt?

Why, even when i use her recipe exactly, do my baked beans not taste like my Aunt Alice’s?

Why does my dog insist on pooping beside the puppy pad?

How do i avoid weirdos while dating?

It’s not that the current whereabouts of the guy who starred in H.R. Pufnstuf isn’t interesting. It’s not that knowing which Disney princess i am doesn’t make me wonder who earns their living coming up with these things. It’s just that there are things that seem equally pointless upon first glance that might actually do me good.

10 ways to cover up the fact you don’t remember someone’s name.

10 bean-based meals that don’t taste like poverty.

10 apps that will keep you from overspending at Target.

10 things to do with the shower gel you bought before you realized it smelled like your Great Aunt Tessie.

Wouldn’t any of those be great not-as-wasted time wasters? I mean, it’s benign to take a quiz that tells me which cartoon villain i resemble. But wouldn’t it be more beneficial to come up with a  quiz that tells me what wine goes with that particular day’s meal and level of desperation?  Instead of a “Where are they now?” article about the cast of  Benson, how about a “Where are they now?” article about people i am trying to avoid, so i can avoid them better? I mean, there must be a way. It’s no secret that we have no secrets these days. Just saying, if i’m going to be enticed to divert my attention for a few minutes, at least make it worth my while.

In any case, the time i spent on the character analysis is time i cannot get back. Any more than you can get back the time you spent reading this. But i hope i made you laugh. If i did, then the time wasn’t a total waste, was it?

We Pass

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Maybe all of life is

A Rorschach test.

Each event left

To the interpretation of its viewer.

Each meeting’s minutes

Inscribed differently to each participant.

The dimensions of life,

Either feast or famine,

Bane or blessing,

Ink blot or art,

To whoever’s eyes are are watching.

And so it is with humanity.

I am a human ink blot.

So are you.

And any of us can look at the other and see a totally different picture based on our past,

Our present,

Our own insecurities.

I see you

As a beautiful paisley,

Swirling into a complex and

Colorful universe.

Patterns repeating

And not.

Art from chaos.

You see you as an ink blot.

And tho i know we are both right,

I am righter.

In this,

I am righter.

I promise,

I am righter.

 

NO MORE

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Warning: Violent and honest content about a current news story is discussed herein.

 

Last week, a local high school basketball team was in a vacation destination close to here for a holiday tournament. From the various news stories i have read, this is what we know: At the time of the incident, the kids were unsupervised. They were in the basement of a vacation cabin where the younger players were begin “hazed”. Comments were made to the younger students that it was part of being on a team, and that they would get to do it to freshman players when they were upperclassmen. The younger students were beaten by the upperclassmen  with pool cues. Two of the younger students suffered minor injuries. A third collapsed the next day and was found to have a punctured colon and bladder where he had been sexually violated with a pool cue by three of his teammates. He spent eight days in the hospital being physically repaired. The team continued to play on. When they returned from the tournament, the offending three (As if the rest of the team beating freshmen with cues isn’t offensive enough), were expelled from the team and suspended from school by the county school board. Many members of the school board are infuriated that the team didn’t come home immediately following the incident, that the team wasn’t better supervised, and that the school board hasn’t been give a complete account of everything that went on (At least not as of yesterday, and this happened between Dec 21st and 23rd.) Two of the accused three are being held in jail on aggravated rape and aggravated sexual assault charges. The third was released on bond. The victim is at home, trying to recover from his physical injuries. The emotional injuries will be much harder to heal.

There are far too many vile issues to deal with in this story.

The culture we have in this country seems to perpetuate this archaic and violent idea of manhood: One where sexual violence is accepted as if it were a dog lifting his leg on the sofa to mark his territory. I heard someone say about the incident that she didn’t understand how the kids would think it was “normal hazing”.  I can. Just watch the news. Listen to the things your kids talk about. Listen to what WE talk about. We make excuses for everything leading up to this. “Boys will be boys.”  There are still ignorant people making statements to justify rape based on the victims clothing/demeanor/inebriation status. And then when it keeps escalating until something like this… Well, we really have no right to be surprised. We tell kids not to bully, but the masculine culture is still that juvenile machismo bullshit that has been around since the beginning of time. We tell kids to not buy into it, but just like everyone at that age, they want to be accepted, so they take it. And by virtue of constant exposure, they become it. Or the opposite, we tell them to avoid violence and just walk away. Ignore it and the bullies will give up. And they get their asses kicked (or violated) as a result. How about we just find a way to stop the cycle? How about we fix the problem?

I admit, it would have been unfair to the rest of the team to cut the tournament short and leave when the violence came to light. But certainly no more unfair than to the player who had to have surgery as a result. It seems highly doubtful that the rest of the team had no idea what was going on. I am stunned that the coach didn’t see a need to report the incident and head back immediately. Yet another example to the kids that “It isn’t really that big a deal. The ‘fun’ just got a bit out of hand.” What the hell, coach?!?!?!  You KNOW you are the main example of what it means to “be a man” to a lot of these kids, and THAT is the message you give? You need to be relieved from your position for that alone, never mind for being totally unaware of what your team was doing in that cabin. Never mind that you closed your eyes and ears while it was being planned. Never mind that you have socialized a team to believe that violent hazing is acceptable practice.

The school board: There have been a few comments by the superintendent that sound suspiciously like he just wants it to go away, tho he hasn’t said anything that could be considered condoning it. He has taken a stance to investigate and punish accordingly. One female member of the school board, tho, has been very vocal about her outrage. To quote Rhonda Thurman, “I wasn’t elected to guard the cat litter box, to cover up crap, that is not why I’m here.”  Amen, Rhonda! I don’t think it’s coincidence that the most outrage is coming from a female. We know what it’s like to be a victim of such violence. We know what it’s like to have it passed off and our perpetrators be made out to be victims as much as we were. We know what it’s like to have everyone act like it isn’t a big deal. If it didn’t happen to us personally, we have someone very close to whom it has.

Men have less experience in the publicity of sexual violence. Men aren’t generally allowed to acknowledge when they have been victimized in this way. The public has a much more visceral and disbelieving reaction to their plight. After all, males aren’t weak, so why didn’t they just fight back? Just like lesbian culture vs. gay male culture, the public has a much harder time accepting men being anything but Ward Cleaver or George Clooney. They can’t stomach the thought of anything else. I never have understood why that is. Granted, i grew up in a house full of women where effort was made to accept us all as we were, so i am lacking in a lot of the typical American socialization. But the fact of the matter is, in any major city here in the U.S., you will see billboards, PSAs, and pamphlets making the public aware of rape crisis centers and counseling available… And you can bet the bank, the picture accompanying it is of a female. It’s as if male rape doesn’t exist.  We need to face the fact that being raped is not dependent on the victim’s sex. Nor is it about sex. As much as we hate to think about it, we are a violent people. This situation is the result. And we have no solution available for it because we don’t talk about it.

So this poor 14 year old kid, who is at home trying to walk again after the surgery to repair his destroyed guts, has very few places to turn to get help healing the emotional scars that accompany his physical ones. And any woman will tell you that the emotional scars are far deeper and worse than the physical ones. There might be a  therapy group in this city for sexually abused males, but i’ve never heard of one, and i make it a point to be aware of the mental health services available here. He isn’t the only young man who has been raped in this city, but you’d never know it if you were looking for support services. That is a shame and totally unacceptable.

You can say that rape is rape, and gender doesn’t matter, but i don’t believe you. We’ve spent the last 40 or 50 years working hard to strengthen our women in this country. Teaching us how to be strong in ourselves. What we deserve and what we don’t. What we are to blame for and what we are not. To blaze our own trail. And to turn to our sisters for help when we need it. However, in this same amount of time, we have done very little to change the way our men think. There aren’t many groups out there to teach young men what a man really is. (Shout out to my coworkers and friends and their ilk who work, mostly,  thru their churches with these young men.  I salute you making the effort, and i promise you, you are making a difference!)  There aren’t advertisements for places to turn when a man is violated. Or when he sees a violent trait within himself. And far too many of our typical socialization groups, like team sports, still perpetuate the caveman as the model for masculinity. No wonder so many young men are so screwed up.

I am not, in any way, saying that rape of men is worse than women. Only that there is far less available to help a man heal from rape. Because we don’t talk about it. We don’t want to think about it. We can’t imagine it. And we don’t know how to reconcile “man” as “victim”.

In a small step towards supporting our young men, more and more adult men are starting to speak out on surviving rape. Manly men, by American standards, who no one could think of as weak. Ice-T, for example… When his badass self appears in a PSA against rape, it makes a small nick in the rock of machismo.

icet_nomore_psa_printad_9_17_13

Enough of these nicks, and maybe we can chip away at the rock that is the distorted view of men in this country. A nick for every school assembly on violence that includes where boys can go for help if they are victim or horrified perpetrator. A nick for every man who speaks out against ignorant comments made by a peer. A nick for every billboard for rape crisis centers that shows a male as well as a female. Pretty soon, a small movement will take hold and we can make bigger nicks.  A nick for every coach who talks to his team about the issue of hazing, and personally confronts violent players. A nick for every student who stands up and says, “Not on my team!” A nick for every woman who stops talking like rape is only a woman’s issue and remembers that it is a HUMAN issue and not about sex at all. And a nick for every generation to come that tolerates the bullshit less and less.

I have a 13 year old son. I have never spoken with him about sexual violence, except to note, when it appears in the news, that it is vile and unacceptable. And i have no excuse. I know the devastation it can cause. I have lived with it. And, i know others, both men and women, who have been violated and suffered lifelong for it. And still i haven’t mentioned it. But you can bet your life on the fact that i will be having that discussion now.

The first step in becoming part of the solution is realizing that you are part of the problem.

I won’t be part of the problem anymore.

 

For more information on help available for ALL victims of sexual assault, this is a great website with a lot of links available to other sites and services as well:    http://nomore.org/about/  You can also check with any local outpatient mental health facility or your local hospital to find qualified help.