Impressions

A potential employer has called me in for an interview. I really want this job. What will I wear? I have a business suit for this purpose, and worn with an understated top, modest jewelry and matching accessories, it is the appropriate uniform for the occasion. I will appear to be a responsible, sober, capable person who takes this job seriously. This is not the time to express my preference for a roomy sleep shirt and bare feet. I know how to make a good impression.

Tattooed guy on the A-train. © JustHavingFun

How we are exposed to things creates impressions. The frequency, the popularity, the acceptability seem to grow proportionately. I remember a time when a boy with an earring was a rarity, a rebellious type to be avoided. Now? I’ve seen guys with dangly earrings as well as holes as big as quarters in their lobes. And tattoos? I’d heard stories growing up about crusty, tattooed sailors. It wasn’t considered to be suitable for nice folks. Now they’re all the rage.

First impressions count—it’s not just a worn adage. The subtlety of impressions cannot be emphasized enough. They get worn into our brains, drip by drip, until an impression is formed. Like water on a rock, with time enough, a path can be carved. The Grand Canyon proves this theory.

Impressions are also formed by the media. What we consume as humor and entertainment become realities. Like mouthy, bratty, know-it-all kids. Remember the fantasy of Mayberry on The Andy Griffith Show? I can’t imagine Opie being mouthy without consequences. Or Richie on The Dick Van Dyke Show. Nowadays children on sitcoms mouth off and are bratty, and that is considered normal. Not in my house, honey. If my kids had been as fresh as those on TV, they’d have had what to be upset about.

Screenshot. © NBC

What happens when the media steps past a societal boundary, more than just a breach of good taste? Saturday Night Live last week ran a skit that I thought pushed the boundary too hard. Here’s what I sent to NBC as a comment on the show:

DESPICABLE. That’s the “World’s Most Evil Invention” skit from 5/20/17. Child molestation must NEVER be exploited for humor, never mind ironic use. Yes, the behavior is really, really evil, but it’s no laughing matter. When SNL uses child abuse for humorous purposes, it diminishes the horror of the act, the level of sickness it embodies. Child sexual abuse should be verboten, like rape, making fun of handicapped people, or even saying the “N-word.” Push the envelope, but use restraint.

There are certain things we should not joke about or hint at in humorous settings. I draw the line at child sexual abuse. I shudder to think that this evil act can be made as acceptable as tattoos. I don’t think I’m over-reacting. The more people are exposed to things, the more “normal” they seem and the less sensitive they become to those topics. I like to think that we are a society that wants to be good and do right. In order to do that, we need to make the right impression on ourselves. Think about that. How do we do that?

The media have a lot of power. As I’ve said before, whether you love him or revile him, Donald Trump is the President of the United States. Most of the photos I’ve seen of the President show a snarling, warped visage. The camera seems always trained on him mid-grimace. Perhaps if the media were to show him smiling, some of the rancor would diminish.

Likewise, if the media were to treat actions like rape, sexual abuse, sexual trafficking, child molestation, death by gunshot, and other acts of horror seriously and not gloss over them, perhaps there would be more attention paid to the plight of the victims.

Just saying. I’m really worked up about this topic and there is no room for humor about it. There are some things that cannot become commonplace or humorous.

Invitation

The boys hopped off their bicycles at the corner. Propped on kickstands, the bikes stood like trusty steeds by the watering trough awaiting their riders. One boy fastened his helmet to the handlebars while the other wore his. They strode to the door and entered the Starbucks store. I squinted at the activity from a nearby table on the patio.

Despite it being December, I sat outside the café in shirtsleeves, enjoying the sun shining into my eyes. I tried to write but pages of my notebook flapped like crows in the escalating wind.  I watched the bicycles and traffic and passersby with an increasing sense of urgency: Where are the boys? When are they coming out? The bicycle rims glowed and taunted me.

Bicycle friends, unchained and free. © JustHavingFun

I grew up in cities—not particularly dangerous ones—places where you had to be on the lookout because bad things could happen. Even from an early age I knew if I left my bicycle unattended it might not be there later. I had a chain. I had a lock. I had a quick-release hub for the front wheel. One simply did not leave the bike unattended. To do that would be an invitation for a thief to steal my most prized possession! Why didn’t the boys chain their bikes?

The wind whipped my pages faster and blew over one of the bicycles. Another patio-sitter jumped up and righted it. I cranked my head toward the store. Where were the boys? A nod to the rescuer and I returned to my pages.

I’m a mother. My mothering powers expand and include all within my gaze… and beyond. My mom-sense hackles were bristling. Another gust toppled the same bicycle. The rescuer rose again, righted it, and I gave her a wan smile. Since I couldn’t write, I capped my pen and went inside.

“The wind knocked over your bicycle,” I informed two boys about 13-years old. One wore a helmet and the other was finishing a latte. The boys thanked me, and one went to peek outside. When he returned I turned my mom-powers on him. “Let me ask you a question. I write a blog and I’m curious: how come you didn’t padlock your bikes?”

Their innocence made me smile. “This place is so safe,” the blond one said. “You don’t have to worry about theft.” True, we were in a modern shopping village development, but I wouldn’t believe it. “I live down there,” the helmeted one nodded toward the gated community a quarter mile down the road. “Nobody ever bothers our stuff.” I nodded and listened without judgment. They felt unassailable. They excitedly told me about a Ravens football player they saw while biking to the coffee shop. All was normal in their world.

So precious. So fresh.

We were not so far from the dangerous, crime-ravaged city but we could have been in a different country. Less than 5 miles away houses sit abandoned and the poor abound. Storefronts hide behind barred windows and people meander on mean streets.  Here however, a boy drank coffee in the afternoon with his friend while their bicycles waited on the sidewalk. This verdant, safe suburb we sat in nestles behind an invisible, invincible curtain. These youths were wrapped in a butterscotch coating of safety and security.

You never know who you’ll encounter in a coffee shop. We chatted a bit, the mom-powered lady and the youths too candid to catch the irony of the situation. I bade them goodbye and pondered upon an upbringing so charming and charmed near Charm City. Though I ventured into the suburbs I couldn’t leave the city in me behind.

Cling

Link to the daily prompt

Cling peaches

“Canned Fruit” by Rennett Stowe, used under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Don’t cry little fleshlings as you are destined for greatness:
No longer to cleave to that hard, unmoving pit inside your sunny heart.
Slide around my bowl, float in the spoon, and submit to my teeth

Cling wrap

“Saran Wrap, 1961” by Allen, used under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Who would have known you’d stay faithful
when others failed their trials? When the task became urgent
you succeeded in keeping together the good
and excluding the bad. Alas you are expendable and flimsy,
your success being your downfall.

Cling on (sorry!)

furrowed brow and coarse glances
alien guttural growls of a foreign race
an enemy turned ally, warriors
united against a common enemy

“Funny Pictures Cat Has Static Cling” by Kevin Jarrett, used under CC BY 2.0

Static cling

A spark, a shock, a cat winding around my calves, you
Plaster skirts to hose in an unflattering way. Dry air? Feet dragged across nylon
Rugs? I beg you reveal your origin. Clothes dryer inheritance? Evidence:
Socks hide in sleeves and wrinkles create hills and valleys
Like landscape artifacts as seen from space across my contorted torso.

Now picture this…

Joe Klingon walks across the room and flicks a metal switch. Zap! Static electricity shocks him! His dessert, a small packet jacketed in cling wrap — held against his uniform blouse (which was oddly bunched up from static cling) — jumps from his hand and flies across the room spreading the sunny yellow cling peaches to the carpet. He ironically roared, “Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam!”⁽¹⁾

“Klingons” by Michael Buonaccorsi, used under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

*************
^{1. Translation: “Today is a good day to die.” See: http://www.babylon-software.com/definition/Heghlu’meH_QaQ_jajvam/English. (Retrieved 12 January 2017.) ↩}

No Second Thoughts

This is how I feel. “Towel Dry” by Christina Welsh, used under CC BY-ND 2.0

How would I describe this presidential election season?

I choose from a whole slew of adjectives at hand to choose from—endless, tiring, shameful, contentious, disgusting, embarrassing, slimy, frightful, and jading to name a few—but irritating fits the bill as well as any. It’s bland enough to go about with your daily business but strong enough to worry at like a hangnail. For in the end, I am convinced that there is not much I can do to avoid the choice between awful and terrible.

I feel twitchy, restless, and apprehensive. Really irritated. So much so that this morning, Election Day, I dare not turn on the radio. I don’t want to hear the pundits. This has been going on too long. The process is broken. The trial balloons started rising in 2014, fer gosh sakes. That’s two years ago! I wish they had popped and never left the ground. I cast them in lead and drown their first-born. I salt their earth and inveigh the wrath of the Heaven against the universe that spawned them.

Figuratively, that is.

“Second Thoughts” by Laura Billings, used under CC BY-NC 2.0

Meditation may help soothe me. I will gaze outside my windows, admire the gaily colored leaves adorning the trees, and breathe in (noting the position of my shoulders and rib cage), then breathe out (modulating the velocity of my breath). I will remember my Lamaze training—which I usually conjure during dental work—and go somewhere far away, a pleasant place, where calm and tranquility reign, and the only thing to mar the surface of the lake is the occasional ripple from a gentle breeze. I will cast my mind to far above the clouds, to the Moon perhaps, where eons make a difference, and a footstep on its surface will be evident for centuries to come. Breathe in, blow out, huff puff blow—this baby better be worth it!

I will vote today. My vote won’t count as I’m not in a “swing state” but indeed, I will vote; we’re choosing a mayor here, did you hear? No? Me neither. I listen to public radio and talk shows but there’s not much political news about anyone except the top guy and gal. How do I make an informed decision then?

I hope I won’t have second thoughts about my choices in the election booth years down the road. I hope my country will survive this battle, growing closer together rather than stockpiling worse epithets and stronger artillery for the next bout in 2020 [for which the blasted trial balloons will start to rise even earlier, I suspect].

The future as I see it, stormy weather ahead. © Batya7, Just Having Fun

I’m planning to avoid the news until tomorrow morning. I will wake up like any other day, switch on  my computer and walk away to prepare a cup of coffee. After taking my vitamins, I will return to my desk with a cup of hot solace and breathe in the aroma. Breathe in, hold it, then gently let it out.

Hanging On

Last Summer’s Bee Hanging On One of the Last Blossoms

The mood of the day is neutral. A gray sky presses on my brow and the mist of rain glimmers my cheeks. In the garden, sharply contrasting with the home’s red brick facade, brightly hued flowers sway with the weight of accrued raindrops.

All summer long fat bees swarmed and danced around this patch of flowers.They filled the air above the walkway, a slalom to negotiate, their important assignment a mission to avoid disturbing. Yet I found the combination pleasing; the contrast of the pleasant porch, the garden, the suburban lawn around it, and the sunny flowers greeting me pressed my happy button. It spoke to me of an illusory freedom, youthful celebration, and the desire to stretch my limbs in exuberant ways that would (sadly) leave me sore the next morning.  

Last summer’s bee clung motionless, a mere shell trapped on the blossom. I could examine it fearlessly because it was defenseless, unable to hurt me with its sting. I didn’t delay its mission, nor did I block its path. Its only purpose was that of an item I could photograph.

Many of us wear facades to show to the public: a smile when feeling gloomy; a chipper attitude; cosmetics to brighten the lips or conceal blemishes; uniforms and masks. Sometimes they are proper, as one should never take out bad feelings on others. We enjoy “good customer service” voices. We are schooled when young to “be nice.” But sometimes, like when the facade comes out and we are trying to bond with our friends and fellow travellers, the false fronts we construct and gay, amusing stories we repeat only serve to distance.

Gray days like today require perseverance. Hanging on like that dead bee requires no effort. Unlike that creature, I’m hanging on by doing small tasks in 5 minutes apiece. I’m accumulating minor activities, like grains of pollen, to abate the clutter of my surroundings and cobwebs in my thoughts. Though the mist outside dews my face, I’m hanging on, hanging on.

Grouchy but Passionate

 

I’m having a grouchy couple of days.

To divert my attention from the ouchies and aches that distract me from my usual attitude of focusing on happiness, I’m thinking about things that I’m passionate about.

The Boys of Summer, 2007 (c) JustHavingFun

First answer that popped into my head: My kids.  Then, … the sound of crickets.

Oh, I have my yarn to knit and crochet, watercolors to smear into new paintings, and my fabric stash to quilt and sew. I have my blog to write, and the entire World Wide Web to feed my curiosity about anything I want to learn. And of course, I have my library card. Maybe I’m not too passionate these days. I expect passion to evoke some wild, urgent feelings, and frankly, my ouchies are the only ones that feel urgent. Sneer. Grumble. Hand me a pain-killer, or find a way to let me sleep through the night.

Paul Hudson wrote in Elite Daily  “10 Things That Truly Passionate People Do Differently“:

1. Start their days early.
2. Always have their passions on their mind.
3. Get excited more than the average person.
4. Get pissed off and emotional more than the average person.
5. Willing to risk more and put more on the line.
6. Devote their lives to their dreams.
7. Surround themselves with their work.
8. Can’t help but talk about their projects.
9. Tend to either be pushing ahead full throttle or are completely still.
10. Always think positively about the future.

So I’m reading the list and mentally checking off the Yes/No boxes. It seems to me they’re mostly “no”:

Second Avenue Subway, October 2014 by Metropolitan Transportation Authority, used under CC BY 2.0

1. Rarely. Night owl. Always was.
2. Nope.
3. Not me. I’m pretty calm.
4. Pissed off? Me? Slow to anger…
5. Not a risk taker. Anymore. Would like to get a motorcycle, however.
6. Last night I dreamed about buying yarn in Iceland.
7. I’m surrounded by … clutter.
8. Got nothing [interesting] to say.
9. Completely still. That’s one I can get into.
10. Think positively about the future. Well, yeah, duh!

I guess my passion is the future. Then I can indulge in all of my interests. Things will be good. My sons are growing into wonderful, caring men and I look forward to seeing how they turn out. In the future there will be freedom from this pain; all the ouchies will go away.  Like Manhattan’s Second Avenue Subway line, it is anxiously and happily awaited.