One time when I was chatting with someone about it, I learned of the phrase "bachelor wash," which means the phenomenon must extend beyond my household and the times I've seen it executed (frequently) by my darling husband and (a few times) by his somewhat wayward nephew.
And I'm not using this symbolic space to complain, only to muse about it. Well, ok, maybe I'll complain a little.
For those who don't know - and I'm by no means a professional on the topic but I'll take an educated guess - a bachelor wash generally means, a sloppy dishwashing job. Define "sloppy"? I suspect it can be a variety of things. In >my< experience, it means: putting some dish soap on the fingers, running the fingers over the surfaces of a dish/glass/what have you - but only those upon which a nutritive substance has obviously made contact. So, for instance, that means the inside of a glass, or the top of a plate. Rinse. Done!
Ya know what I'm talkin' about? Can I get an "amen"?
Mark well, the decent side of my character usually comes to the fore when I notice signs of the bachelor wash. I usually think, "well, bless his heart, at least he makes an attempt," as I re-wash the item(s) I've found.
There was one time I went kinda spasmotic. We had both the husband and the nephew living under the same roof. In our kitchen, our dish situation is thus.
Our kitchen is wee small; very little counter space. So, above the sink there is a good-sized window; on either side of the window there are cabinets. In front of that window, bracketed to the sets of cabinets, we've run 2 rows of racks that we use for letting the dishes air dry. Pretty smart, I think. Drying dishes are out of the way, the dripping water (mostly) falls down into the sink, and there's enough rack room to hold the aftereffects of a decent-sized dinner party.
So, on the spasmodic day in question, I schlepped into the kitchen for a cuppa joe, where the early morning sunlight came beaming murkily through a top rack of rather filthy-looking glasses. It's one thing to pull out the occasional dirty glass out of a cabinet. It was another thing to see a whole set of purportedly clean dishes that would need to get re-washed. Dealing with one male doing the bachelor wash was one thing; I wasn't going to re-do the work of two.
Thus I shepherded the menfolk into the kitchen, explained that I was tired of re-washing their dishes, and explained that BOTH sides of dishes get dirty, and both sides need to witness the cleansing effects of soap and a sponge (or some other device that will make good, wiping contact with the surface area), not just an index finger. One might think that this would be already obvious. I mean, just look, for goodness' sake. See this wine glass? See the fingerprints and smudges all over it? Do you really want to have a guest over and serve him or her a nice bit of wine in this? Do >you< really want to drink a nice bit of wine out of this? I sure wouldn't. And that's to say nothing of plates the undersides of which are greasy where they were once sitting atop another dish that was dirty, and so on.
I am >pretty< sure, if I remember the looks on the faces rightly, that I came across as a total, overreacting, bitch. Didn't care, and still don't. I wasn't going to - and still wouldn't were I similarly situated again - re-do TWO people's work.
But at bottom, I just couldn't understand, and still don't, why anyone would do the bachelor wash in the first place. Does it satisfy the prime directive (i.e., to have clean dishes)? Not really. Is it faster than washing dishes well? Absolutely not. I've slung suds more than any normal person should have to in my years of barrista-ing, when the dishes really and truly did need to be all clean and sanitized. Washing them well and washing them fast are not mutually exclusive. Mind, I know I'm not one to get every single thing perfectly spot-free (looking at the outsides of our pots and pans will make that clear enough). But you sure won't get a finger-printed lip-smudged wine glass from me when I'm done, either.
So, yeh, the bachelor wash. Don't get it. And fortunately, even though our house has been full of people all summer, I haven't had to deal much with it - thanks, y'all! But still, every now and then, I still pull out of the cabinet a "clean" glass all covered in fingerprints, I'm sure symptomatic of G's dishwashing. Sigh. Bless his heart, at least he makes the attempt...
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Why "Ender's Game" fails
The few folks I've talked to about this book were pretty enthusiastic, so I set out with decent expectations of a nice sci-fi read. I'm sorry to say that more pages I turn, the more it's coming from a sense of duty to finish this book than an interest to see where the storyline goes.
The main thing that I think is supposed to be the "hook" for the story has failed to grab me: that the warriors in this world, and particularly in the main character Ender's case, are children.
Admittedly, I think I was set up to be resistant to the hook by a line - one single, eensey sentence - fairly early in the story when Ender was being recruited. He asked something about whether there were girls in the Battle School. His recruiter said that there were a few, but that females in general had evolution working against their favor in becoming soldiers.
That stopped my reading dead in its tracks. What? There wasn't anything in the setup of this alternative reality thus far indicating that women were especially different. The assertion came completely out of the blue, and as such bore all the significance of an author-ial device that would insert into the narrative an explanation for why the writer didn't include many female characters: because the author, for whatever reason, didn't want to deal with them. The stupidity of that move grinded increasingly into the back of my mind as I've read, because the secondary agents receive effectively zero character development - they could be utterly sex-less (excepting the few cases where someone gets kicked in the balls) as far as the story's concerned. So why not include females? Methinks I detect a hint of sexism, and it isn't stymied by the fact that one of the lead characters is female: Ender's sister, Valentine. But now, 7/8ths of the way through the book, she is a female mainly is all the cliched senses: empathetic, loving, and supportive. She's a bit rebellious, but it all is performed under the devices of being agreeable and submissive.
So anyway, with that irritation flagging away in the back of my consciousness, still I read on. And the tragic note that I think supposed to be sounded in the story - Child Soldiers! - I'm just not getting lured in. There's no clear tension. For all of the behavior and inner experiences that are revealed, the characters could just as well be adults, and the ONLY thing that creates a pause in my mind as I read along is an occasional tag to the effect of a character saying "but I'm only 11 years old," or, "this is a pretty serious political movement we're causing, especially considering we've got only 8 pubic hairs between the two of us."
Without sentences like that, the reader can effortlessly forget that the characters are anywhere from 8 to 16 years old. At best, it's a repackaging of stereotypes - the ineffective leader, the efficient soldier with a conscience, the plucky underdog who rises to the occasion - inserted into different, younger bottles. Yawn.
One might say, my easy acceptance of the story's premise evidences the tragedy, the acceptance of child killers, err, children who are killers. I say: absolutely not. If there is a dramatic tension between childhood innocence (or whatever - honestly, I can't tell what the author thinks is so dramatically at stake) and ruthless behavior, it is the author's job to bring it. And the author needs to bring it by more than a counting of pubic hairs which, as executed, comes across like adults with hormonal problems more than anything else. The reader shouldn't have to supply half of the narrative tension him or herself.
At bottom, the story is a gimmick drawn about a single shiney idea the author had when he was young - this zero-gravity Battle Room and suits that cause their wearers to "freeze" if they get hit during practice fights (sort of like laser tag). (More interesting to me are the "desks" that sound an awful lot like the modern-day iPad.) Most of the book's action deals with the Battle Room. But now, as I've gotten to the place where Ender is about to be trained as a Commander, after reading - what? a couple hundred pages of Battle Room interactions? - I can't help but think: what's the effing point?
Now we're on about Star Cruisers and all the ships they carry in preparation for battling against the enemy (which - to flag another frustration - has been one big McGuffin for the whole book) in a way that looks to be conducted in anything but in-person combat. So, absent of devices like teleporters or whatever to get these characters to fight one-on-one, or troop-on-troop, what the FUCK has been the purpose of all the Battle Room training? Unless the ships carrying soldiers - ships which will have GUNS that can BLOW UP other ships, there is no reason for Battle Room training. Unless we get the ships to approach each other, stop, dispel their troops out into the void of space where then they can proceed to shoot each other. Really? This this where we're going in the story? Gawd, I hope not. Far as I'm concerned, this book is one big "fail."
The main thing that I think is supposed to be the "hook" for the story has failed to grab me: that the warriors in this world, and particularly in the main character Ender's case, are children.
Admittedly, I think I was set up to be resistant to the hook by a line - one single, eensey sentence - fairly early in the story when Ender was being recruited. He asked something about whether there were girls in the Battle School. His recruiter said that there were a few, but that females in general had evolution working against their favor in becoming soldiers.
That stopped my reading dead in its tracks. What? There wasn't anything in the setup of this alternative reality thus far indicating that women were especially different. The assertion came completely out of the blue, and as such bore all the significance of an author-ial device that would insert into the narrative an explanation for why the writer didn't include many female characters: because the author, for whatever reason, didn't want to deal with them. The stupidity of that move grinded increasingly into the back of my mind as I've read, because the secondary agents receive effectively zero character development - they could be utterly sex-less (excepting the few cases where someone gets kicked in the balls) as far as the story's concerned. So why not include females? Methinks I detect a hint of sexism, and it isn't stymied by the fact that one of the lead characters is female: Ender's sister, Valentine. But now, 7/8ths of the way through the book, she is a female mainly is all the cliched senses: empathetic, loving, and supportive. She's a bit rebellious, but it all is performed under the devices of being agreeable and submissive.
So anyway, with that irritation flagging away in the back of my consciousness, still I read on. And the tragic note that I think supposed to be sounded in the story - Child Soldiers! - I'm just not getting lured in. There's no clear tension. For all of the behavior and inner experiences that are revealed, the characters could just as well be adults, and the ONLY thing that creates a pause in my mind as I read along is an occasional tag to the effect of a character saying "but I'm only 11 years old," or, "this is a pretty serious political movement we're causing, especially considering we've got only 8 pubic hairs between the two of us."
Without sentences like that, the reader can effortlessly forget that the characters are anywhere from 8 to 16 years old. At best, it's a repackaging of stereotypes - the ineffective leader, the efficient soldier with a conscience, the plucky underdog who rises to the occasion - inserted into different, younger bottles. Yawn.
One might say, my easy acceptance of the story's premise evidences the tragedy, the acceptance of child killers, err, children who are killers. I say: absolutely not. If there is a dramatic tension between childhood innocence (or whatever - honestly, I can't tell what the author thinks is so dramatically at stake) and ruthless behavior, it is the author's job to bring it. And the author needs to bring it by more than a counting of pubic hairs which, as executed, comes across like adults with hormonal problems more than anything else. The reader shouldn't have to supply half of the narrative tension him or herself.
At bottom, the story is a gimmick drawn about a single shiney idea the author had when he was young - this zero-gravity Battle Room and suits that cause their wearers to "freeze" if they get hit during practice fights (sort of like laser tag). (More interesting to me are the "desks" that sound an awful lot like the modern-day iPad.) Most of the book's action deals with the Battle Room. But now, as I've gotten to the place where Ender is about to be trained as a Commander, after reading - what? a couple hundred pages of Battle Room interactions? - I can't help but think: what's the effing point?
Now we're on about Star Cruisers and all the ships they carry in preparation for battling against the enemy (which - to flag another frustration - has been one big McGuffin for the whole book) in a way that looks to be conducted in anything but in-person combat. So, absent of devices like teleporters or whatever to get these characters to fight one-on-one, or troop-on-troop, what the FUCK has been the purpose of all the Battle Room training? Unless the ships carrying soldiers - ships which will have GUNS that can BLOW UP other ships, there is no reason for Battle Room training. Unless we get the ships to approach each other, stop, dispel their troops out into the void of space where then they can proceed to shoot each other. Really? This this where we're going in the story? Gawd, I hope not. Far as I'm concerned, this book is one big "fail."
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Concerning the mosque to allegedly be built at or around "Ground Zero"
I've been hearing a fair bit of NPR air time being dedicated to this subject lately, and this morning I was going to sit down and reflect on why the idea doesn't faze me so much.
But then it occurred to me, that going on about what >I< think didn't sound so interesting. Why don't I try inverting the picture, and consider reasons for why the construction of the mosque would be such a phenomenally BAD idea?
So off I trotted into imagining all sorts of farcical fear-laden reasons for opposing the mosque. But I stopped again. It didn't seem fair or respectful. To my mind, excepting cases where you're dealing with someone who is certifiably institutionally bat-shit crazy, it's a good move to hear the other side of the story and take it on its own terms.
Thus I spent a fair bit of time this morning perusing various blogs and websites, of both politicians and common folk, and listening to video commentary. I found consensus circulating around the reasons that follow (without any order except sequentially, as they came across my field of view):
1. The person in charge of the project, Feisal Abdul Rauf, thinks the U.S. is to blame for the 9/11 attacks.
2. If Feisal Abdul Rauf were so interested in handshaking and harmonizing across different faiths, then he should have proposed building a multi-religious site, not just an Islamic one.
3. The plan to build a mosque is a disguised attempt to assert Islamic superiority
4. U.S. support of a mosque at ground zero effectively honors the terrorists who caused the deaths of the 9/11 victims
5. Just because there is a constitutional right to practice religious freedom, doesn't mean we should practice religious freedom
6. There are already plenty of mosques around - and if they want to build another one, they can build it somewhere else.
7. Even if the site would not endorse violent radical behavior, it is a place where non-violent means (cultural, economic, political, legal) can be used to further Muslim totalitarian "stealth" supremacy.
8. "Moo-slimes" build mosques on the sites they conquer - letting this site be built signifies that we've been conquered.
9. We should heed the "Islamification" of Europe, and not follow in its footsteps by allowing a mosque to be built at ground zero.
10. Any religion that endorses violence is incapable of delivering spiritual enlightenment, and has no right to call itself a religion. It is a "religion" of hate, and has no right to display itself at ground zero.
11. The ground zero mosque, to be called "Cordorba House" is intended to symbolize the conquering victory of the Muslims in Cordoba, Spain - thus sending the message that the Muslims have conquered us.
12. The mosque would symbolize a jihad victory.
13. The mosque, and the people it would indoctrinate, would foster their black-and-white, us-versus-them mentality.
14. Preventing the mosque being built will be a stand for everything Americans value: justice and equality for all men and women.
I'm not making any of these up, and some of them - such as #14 and #5 - simply make my mind reel. But I won't go on a rant (brief memory flash of Dennis Miller, back when he was funny); I'll let these ideas simmer a little in my brain and maybe I'll come back to say something about at least some of them later.
But then it occurred to me, that going on about what >I< think didn't sound so interesting. Why don't I try inverting the picture, and consider reasons for why the construction of the mosque would be such a phenomenally BAD idea?
So off I trotted into imagining all sorts of farcical fear-laden reasons for opposing the mosque. But I stopped again. It didn't seem fair or respectful. To my mind, excepting cases where you're dealing with someone who is certifiably institutionally bat-shit crazy, it's a good move to hear the other side of the story and take it on its own terms.
Thus I spent a fair bit of time this morning perusing various blogs and websites, of both politicians and common folk, and listening to video commentary. I found consensus circulating around the reasons that follow (without any order except sequentially, as they came across my field of view):
1. The person in charge of the project, Feisal Abdul Rauf, thinks the U.S. is to blame for the 9/11 attacks.
2. If Feisal Abdul Rauf were so interested in handshaking and harmonizing across different faiths, then he should have proposed building a multi-religious site, not just an Islamic one.
3. The plan to build a mosque is a disguised attempt to assert Islamic superiority
4. U.S. support of a mosque at ground zero effectively honors the terrorists who caused the deaths of the 9/11 victims
5. Just because there is a constitutional right to practice religious freedom, doesn't mean we should practice religious freedom
6. There are already plenty of mosques around - and if they want to build another one, they can build it somewhere else.
7. Even if the site would not endorse violent radical behavior, it is a place where non-violent means (cultural, economic, political, legal) can be used to further Muslim totalitarian "stealth" supremacy.
8. "Moo-slimes" build mosques on the sites they conquer - letting this site be built signifies that we've been conquered.
9. We should heed the "Islamification" of Europe, and not follow in its footsteps by allowing a mosque to be built at ground zero.
10. Any religion that endorses violence is incapable of delivering spiritual enlightenment, and has no right to call itself a religion. It is a "religion" of hate, and has no right to display itself at ground zero.
11. The ground zero mosque, to be called "Cordorba House" is intended to symbolize the conquering victory of the Muslims in Cordoba, Spain - thus sending the message that the Muslims have conquered us.
12. The mosque would symbolize a jihad victory.
13. The mosque, and the people it would indoctrinate, would foster their black-and-white, us-versus-them mentality.
14. Preventing the mosque being built will be a stand for everything Americans value: justice and equality for all men and women.
I'm not making any of these up, and some of them - such as #14 and #5 - simply make my mind reel. But I won't go on a rant (brief memory flash of Dennis Miller, back when he was funny); I'll let these ideas simmer a little in my brain and maybe I'll come back to say something about at least some of them later.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Glad to have the happy back, back
It starts as a vague, dull, ache: the kind that can be easily brushed off. But the sensation of dread quickly mounts as its signature changes. Oh god, it's been what - 2, 3 years since this happened last? But all that happy-body in-between time collapses into nothing as the memory from before is so vivid, it is as though it happened only yesterday.
I shift around and think, maybe if I just change my position I can short-circuit it. I've just been sitting too long too often lately. I mentally pat my back on the head, sort of like how you do a car that's threatening to stall and you try to encourage it to make just a little bit further so you can park in safety. I rub that spot, just under my left shoulder blade, to hopefully calm the muscle down.
But no, a half hour later and the awful spasmey rhythm increases in amplitude: rather than a persistent kind of tension it turns into a moment of ache, and then a rest, then another ache, and a rest. I envision the poor muscle, located somewhere in the wee areas between my ribs (as a physical therapist explained once to me). I managed to stress it out somehow, and I have to battle my native inclination to do some stretching to work it out for past experience has taught me, that only Makes It Worse.
God, I've only got two more tasks to do and then I can take you home, I tell my body, and lie down. Just give me another hour. I swallow down about a thousand milligrams of ibuprofin that Rich offers. But it's no good. Another half hour later and I'm incapable of sitting still; my whole body tenses up as the muscle strengthens its grip on a nerve and when it lets go, I'm practically panting in relief. I manage to make it through one of my tasks, jump up and suddenly announce I've got to go. I probably should have left earlier because now the drive back to Mountain View - thankfully not in rush hour traffic - is heinous.
At home I make a beeline for the bathroom where the heating pad is kept, grab some Doan's and the bottle of ibuprofin, a large glass of water, and make my camp on the couch. It still hurts like hell, but the heating pad helps, as does lying as still as humanly possible. Everything else: bathroom breaks, trying to sit up and eat at the table in a semblance of normality, taking a deep breath, sucks.
I'm not myself. I have no sense of humor. I have no patience. I have a completely and utterly one-track mind: to be on the heating pad and resting, and whatever interferes with that is like an enemy to me. I know that my routine will get this spasm to calm down in quick time without heavy pharmaceuticals.
I don't know where this damned spasm came from. There was a time once, several years ago, when I was trying everything short of going on heavy muscle-relaxing drugs, to get relief. I tried out acupuncture. I went to a physical therapist. We had family visiting from overseas, and I wanted to be up doing things with them, so as soon as I'd have a good day I'd return to bouncing around doing whatever, just to have the damned pain flare back up again and return me to my writhing, prone position. It was, like, just kill me now and get it over with.
Finally, after I think a couple of weeks, I gave in and went to the doctor; I didn't care anymore - I'd take whatever they gave me. And thank the gods, she gave me some heavy-duty muscle relaxers. And the most excellent advice: "lay down, and stay down for a week, no matter how good you feel." The muscle relaxers put me to sleep, and in a mostly unconscious state I remained for several days, which quite helped me to follow the advice of not getting up and moving around like I would have wanted to had I been more aware.
Luckily, now I know that the most effective medicine is the lying still (as much as I dislike it, when I feel just fine) for a couple of days. If I catch it at the quick, and distract myself with bad TV or computer games, the body heals itself and I can let the heavy medicine be. And I guess that, as much as I hate that muscle spasm when it happens, I'm grateful for that, at least.
I shift around and think, maybe if I just change my position I can short-circuit it. I've just been sitting too long too often lately. I mentally pat my back on the head, sort of like how you do a car that's threatening to stall and you try to encourage it to make just a little bit further so you can park in safety. I rub that spot, just under my left shoulder blade, to hopefully calm the muscle down.
But no, a half hour later and the awful spasmey rhythm increases in amplitude: rather than a persistent kind of tension it turns into a moment of ache, and then a rest, then another ache, and a rest. I envision the poor muscle, located somewhere in the wee areas between my ribs (as a physical therapist explained once to me). I managed to stress it out somehow, and I have to battle my native inclination to do some stretching to work it out for past experience has taught me, that only Makes It Worse.
God, I've only got two more tasks to do and then I can take you home, I tell my body, and lie down. Just give me another hour. I swallow down about a thousand milligrams of ibuprofin that Rich offers. But it's no good. Another half hour later and I'm incapable of sitting still; my whole body tenses up as the muscle strengthens its grip on a nerve and when it lets go, I'm practically panting in relief. I manage to make it through one of my tasks, jump up and suddenly announce I've got to go. I probably should have left earlier because now the drive back to Mountain View - thankfully not in rush hour traffic - is heinous.
At home I make a beeline for the bathroom where the heating pad is kept, grab some Doan's and the bottle of ibuprofin, a large glass of water, and make my camp on the couch. It still hurts like hell, but the heating pad helps, as does lying as still as humanly possible. Everything else: bathroom breaks, trying to sit up and eat at the table in a semblance of normality, taking a deep breath, sucks.
I'm not myself. I have no sense of humor. I have no patience. I have a completely and utterly one-track mind: to be on the heating pad and resting, and whatever interferes with that is like an enemy to me. I know that my routine will get this spasm to calm down in quick time without heavy pharmaceuticals.
I don't know where this damned spasm came from. There was a time once, several years ago, when I was trying everything short of going on heavy muscle-relaxing drugs, to get relief. I tried out acupuncture. I went to a physical therapist. We had family visiting from overseas, and I wanted to be up doing things with them, so as soon as I'd have a good day I'd return to bouncing around doing whatever, just to have the damned pain flare back up again and return me to my writhing, prone position. It was, like, just kill me now and get it over with.
Finally, after I think a couple of weeks, I gave in and went to the doctor; I didn't care anymore - I'd take whatever they gave me. And thank the gods, she gave me some heavy-duty muscle relaxers. And the most excellent advice: "lay down, and stay down for a week, no matter how good you feel." The muscle relaxers put me to sleep, and in a mostly unconscious state I remained for several days, which quite helped me to follow the advice of not getting up and moving around like I would have wanted to had I been more aware.
Luckily, now I know that the most effective medicine is the lying still (as much as I dislike it, when I feel just fine) for a couple of days. If I catch it at the quick, and distract myself with bad TV or computer games, the body heals itself and I can let the heavy medicine be. And I guess that, as much as I hate that muscle spasm when it happens, I'm grateful for that, at least.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Dreams are awesome!
I had the presence of mind to write down what I remember dreaming last night, so I wouldn't forget. I looked back to my last entry (several months ago - I'm not very good at this), and found something pretty hilarious that I thought I'd share.
I dreamt that I met up with Val and Dre for lunch, and we wound up at the Mythbusters site. I was super excited to be there. We drove past the two main guys, Jamie and Adam, who were loading up their pickup truck with gear.
Shortly thereafter, we discovered that we were being pursued, not by police, byt it initiated a high-speed chase. Dre kicked in with some serious evasive-driving skills, and next thing I knew, I had a gun! So I was leaning out of the rear window and shooting at the car behind us, and I managed to stop them (I hope, by doing something like blowing out their tires or engine).
Right after that, Dre pulled our car around into a fabulous 360 and we skidded to a halt right at the edge of a drop-off into the bay. Jamie and Adam came running up to our car, and we were sure we were all about to get busted. They had seen us on surveillance, and were wowed by our awesome skills, and there were jobs for everyone! Crazy.
Last night's dream was also righteous, but in a different way. I went to go visit my mom (who, in actuality, passed away a few years ago). I was so happy to see her and talk to her, and hug her, and be back home. I slept in that dream, and in it, I slept like a baby - no holds barred all peaced and blissed out. I think it transmitted over into my actual sleeping experience last night!
I dreamt that I met up with Val and Dre for lunch, and we wound up at the Mythbusters site. I was super excited to be there. We drove past the two main guys, Jamie and Adam, who were loading up their pickup truck with gear.
Shortly thereafter, we discovered that we were being pursued, not by police, byt it initiated a high-speed chase. Dre kicked in with some serious evasive-driving skills, and next thing I knew, I had a gun! So I was leaning out of the rear window and shooting at the car behind us, and I managed to stop them (I hope, by doing something like blowing out their tires or engine).
Right after that, Dre pulled our car around into a fabulous 360 and we skidded to a halt right at the edge of a drop-off into the bay. Jamie and Adam came running up to our car, and we were sure we were all about to get busted. They had seen us on surveillance, and were wowed by our awesome skills, and there were jobs for everyone! Crazy.
Last night's dream was also righteous, but in a different way. I went to go visit my mom (who, in actuality, passed away a few years ago). I was so happy to see her and talk to her, and hug her, and be back home. I slept in that dream, and in it, I slept like a baby - no holds barred all peaced and blissed out. I think it transmitted over into my actual sleeping experience last night!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Concerning trust
Back in the days when I was grossly underpaid but making a helluvalotta more money than I do now...ah, nice flashbacks. Back when I could contribute regularly to independent radio stations during their fund-raisers. Back when I could shop for my favorite colorful fashioney clothes at Oilily (now out of business, boo) and trendy boutiques. Oops. I was drooling a little bit there. Sure am jonesing for a new pair of jeans.
Anyway, back when I didn't have nagging second thoughts about spending money generally, I answered the call from a firefighters' relief fund, or maybe it was a disabled police officers' fund. It's hard to remember, but I answered with some small donation, on the order of $20 or $25. That opened a floodgate of similar calls. Well, "floodgate" is not quite right. It opened up a trickling that turned into a floodgate.
After a time, I got a call from a different, but similar-sounding, organization. Some kind of support service - like firefighters, or police officers, or ambulance drivers, or whatever, and maybe a different way of their being disabled and needing help. Such as having become injured in the line of duty, or killed in the line of duty, or having their funding cut and wanting help to host a camp for at-risk teenagers.
Goodness, well of course I can send you $15. The forms and information they sent - although this was a different "charity" - looked exactly the same as for the first one I donated to, which started up some low-level alarm bells. But $15: no big deal.
After a year, I guess, they call back again - "you gave so generously last time, do you think you could manage donating a little bit more?" Now the alarm bells get a little louder. "Is this a charitable organization that I can write contribution off to on our taxes?" Not that I'd contribute very much, but I guess it was my way of asking if the organization was bona fide.
"Of course," was the answer. I'd find the information on the back of the form they mailed me, upon which receipt I would send them my check.
I got the information in the mail, and read the small print very carefully. After that and a little internet searching I found, not to my complete surprise, that things weren't quite as legit as one would be led to believe. Although somewhere in there, a camp for at-risk teens or a fund for disabled firefighters MAY have been involved, it was orchestrated by a fund-raising business that kept anywhere from 85 to 90% of the money.
(here's a url for helping you to spot these thieves, in case you get a similar call:)
http://www.fraud.org/scamsagainstbusinesses/tips/charity.htm
Naturally, that struck me as positively criminal. So I didn't send any money in. I called the number on the back of the donation card to talk to someone at the organization about what scam artists they were, but got a place where I could leave a voice mail. So I did, telling them I thought they were bastards, they could kiss my meager donation goodbye, and they should take my number off their calling list.
After a couple weeks, they called back. Where was my donation? I explained I had left a message about that, but it must not have gone through. I asked the person I talked to whether he understood what a racket this money-raising activity was. He didn't know what I was talking about. I asked him to put me on the line with someone who would. I got someone else on the phone, and I asked straight out whether what I had found was true about the organization and how they kept nearly all the money for themselves. At least he was honest. I told him to take my name off their register and never to call me again.
Then the OTHER organization I had given money to before, called again and asked if I can afford to donate more. I said "no," and told them to take my name off their calling list.
Then another organization called. Similar emotional tug: widows of police officers killed in the line of duty or whatever. No, please take me off your calling list. Help the firefighters fund circus tickets for a kids' night out? No, and take me off your mother fucking master call list already! It's no exaggeration: it got to where every 3 weeks, we were getting a call from a needy emergency services group to sponsor something. (Mind: once you get on the register of a "charity" kind of thing, the do-not-call list doesn't help, and these calls are one of the reasons we don't answer our land line any more. Don't ask why we even have a land line anymore; that's another matter entirely!)
I remember once taking one of these calls in a bad moment, and I did something like called the person on the other end of the line a prick for participating in manipulating people's heartstrings so that they give money that the firefighters (or whatever) never see. And he quietly responded, "I *am* a firefighter, and I'm donating my time to work the phones to try and get contributions."
Pause. Giant pause.
What was I gonna do? There seemed two basic options. (1) Believe the guy on the other end of the line, and go with my trusting and generous instincts, and do a donation. (2) Don't believe him. Think instead: this is all part of the same operation, and the person on the other end of the line (for the likes of whom there is a special circle of hell set aside) is prepared to say any goddamned thing in order to sucker people like me into giving money.
I sadly went with the second option. I hated doing it. I apologized to the guy on the phone; if he really was a firefighter, then it wasn't him or his fundraiser (which in truth sounded in script an *awful lot!* like the other asking-for-money calls) that was the problem, but this thefty money-raising organization that was to blame.
It sticks out in my memory, because in that giant pause while I deliberated through that conscious choice I vividly perceived what crumbling trust feels like.
That phenomenon can happen - and I think it often does happen - so quickly that it's hardly noticed: when a homo-phobic politician gets busted for hiring a rent-a-boy to "carry his bags," your priest gets busted on child molestation charges, companies hire expensive lawyers rather than take responsibility and pay up for their mistakes. In those fast moments, it goes, "well of course you can't trust X" - maybe the crumbling of trust happens SO quickly, it's as though the trust was never there to start with. You know?
But when you can feel it, at least, how it seemed I felt it, it's like a horrible sense of psychic erosion. Like a balloon deflating in slow motion, where that balloon is your hope, and your love, and your support for all things good, all collapsing in on itself. (Interesting side-speculation about the choice of "balloon" to capture the sensation, and symbolic connotations balloons have....)
It sucked it feel it, but also curious is the pondering now of the effect of this happening - in the moments when it occurs so quickly that it's not even noticed - by the myriad moments and news stories that cross our paths.
What can we do to maintain a state of buoyancy? I think I'll ruminate on that and maybe answer my question, at least for myself, another time.
Anyway, back when I didn't have nagging second thoughts about spending money generally, I answered the call from a firefighters' relief fund, or maybe it was a disabled police officers' fund. It's hard to remember, but I answered with some small donation, on the order of $20 or $25. That opened a floodgate of similar calls. Well, "floodgate" is not quite right. It opened up a trickling that turned into a floodgate.
After a time, I got a call from a different, but similar-sounding, organization. Some kind of support service - like firefighters, or police officers, or ambulance drivers, or whatever, and maybe a different way of their being disabled and needing help. Such as having become injured in the line of duty, or killed in the line of duty, or having their funding cut and wanting help to host a camp for at-risk teenagers.
Goodness, well of course I can send you $15. The forms and information they sent - although this was a different "charity" - looked exactly the same as for the first one I donated to, which started up some low-level alarm bells. But $15: no big deal.
After a year, I guess, they call back again - "you gave so generously last time, do you think you could manage donating a little bit more?" Now the alarm bells get a little louder. "Is this a charitable organization that I can write contribution off to on our taxes?" Not that I'd contribute very much, but I guess it was my way of asking if the organization was bona fide.
"Of course," was the answer. I'd find the information on the back of the form they mailed me, upon which receipt I would send them my check.
I got the information in the mail, and read the small print very carefully. After that and a little internet searching I found, not to my complete surprise, that things weren't quite as legit as one would be led to believe. Although somewhere in there, a camp for at-risk teens or a fund for disabled firefighters MAY have been involved, it was orchestrated by a fund-raising business that kept anywhere from 85 to 90% of the money.
(here's a url for helping you to spot these thieves, in case you get a similar call:)
http://www.fraud.org/scamsagainstbusinesses/tips/charity.htm
Naturally, that struck me as positively criminal. So I didn't send any money in. I called the number on the back of the donation card to talk to someone at the organization about what scam artists they were, but got a place where I could leave a voice mail. So I did, telling them I thought they were bastards, they could kiss my meager donation goodbye, and they should take my number off their calling list.
After a couple weeks, they called back. Where was my donation? I explained I had left a message about that, but it must not have gone through. I asked the person I talked to whether he understood what a racket this money-raising activity was. He didn't know what I was talking about. I asked him to put me on the line with someone who would. I got someone else on the phone, and I asked straight out whether what I had found was true about the organization and how they kept nearly all the money for themselves. At least he was honest. I told him to take my name off their register and never to call me again.
Then the OTHER organization I had given money to before, called again and asked if I can afford to donate more. I said "no," and told them to take my name off their calling list.
Then another organization called. Similar emotional tug: widows of police officers killed in the line of duty or whatever. No, please take me off your calling list. Help the firefighters fund circus tickets for a kids' night out? No, and take me off your mother fucking master call list already! It's no exaggeration: it got to where every 3 weeks, we were getting a call from a needy emergency services group to sponsor something. (Mind: once you get on the register of a "charity" kind of thing, the do-not-call list doesn't help, and these calls are one of the reasons we don't answer our land line any more. Don't ask why we even have a land line anymore; that's another matter entirely!)
I remember once taking one of these calls in a bad moment, and I did something like called the person on the other end of the line a prick for participating in manipulating people's heartstrings so that they give money that the firefighters (or whatever) never see. And he quietly responded, "I *am* a firefighter, and I'm donating my time to work the phones to try and get contributions."
Pause. Giant pause.
What was I gonna do? There seemed two basic options. (1) Believe the guy on the other end of the line, and go with my trusting and generous instincts, and do a donation. (2) Don't believe him. Think instead: this is all part of the same operation, and the person on the other end of the line (for the likes of whom there is a special circle of hell set aside) is prepared to say any goddamned thing in order to sucker people like me into giving money.
I sadly went with the second option. I hated doing it. I apologized to the guy on the phone; if he really was a firefighter, then it wasn't him or his fundraiser (which in truth sounded in script an *awful lot!* like the other asking-for-money calls) that was the problem, but this thefty money-raising organization that was to blame.
It sticks out in my memory, because in that giant pause while I deliberated through that conscious choice I vividly perceived what crumbling trust feels like.
That phenomenon can happen - and I think it often does happen - so quickly that it's hardly noticed: when a homo-phobic politician gets busted for hiring a rent-a-boy to "carry his bags," your priest gets busted on child molestation charges, companies hire expensive lawyers rather than take responsibility and pay up for their mistakes. In those fast moments, it goes, "well of course you can't trust X" - maybe the crumbling of trust happens SO quickly, it's as though the trust was never there to start with. You know?
But when you can feel it, at least, how it seemed I felt it, it's like a horrible sense of psychic erosion. Like a balloon deflating in slow motion, where that balloon is your hope, and your love, and your support for all things good, all collapsing in on itself. (Interesting side-speculation about the choice of "balloon" to capture the sensation, and symbolic connotations balloons have....)
It sucked it feel it, but also curious is the pondering now of the effect of this happening - in the moments when it occurs so quickly that it's not even noticed - by the myriad moments and news stories that cross our paths.
What can we do to maintain a state of buoyancy? I think I'll ruminate on that and maybe answer my question, at least for myself, another time.
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