I'm fortunate to have quality healthcare. Unfortunately for me, it's through a managed healthcare organization and I have some fundamental issues with their operation. I just returned home from a mandatory educational clinic on a condition with with I was diagnosed several years ago, when I was under different insurance coverage. Since my diagnosis, I researched the condition extensively and I've been seen by a number of practitioners -- in short, an educational clinic will not educate me. I went anyway, because it didn't seem worth resisting, even though the clinic is only scheduled in conflict with one of my classes. Did I mention that this is the last week of classes? Next week is finals. Also? The clinic was cancelled. I guess they didn't think it was worthwhile to notify me of the cancellation, so that I could, you know, attend the last meeting of my real class -- the one in which I actually learn things. The woman at the reception desk was sympathetic, but told me there was no manager on site who could receive comment.
Those who know me in real life likely know I have a tendency to provide feedback. I received this letter from the Director of the DMV in response to my feedback to services (not) received. I'm not, however, a person who makes a scene at the reception desk. Customer service folks are usually not to blame for the failed operations of their employers; treating them as though they are is...ghetto. It happens a lot at my HMO (which is conveniently located squarely in the ghetto, where I live). I have some anger management problems, but I feel it's appropriate to channel the rage where it's deserved. I mean, isn't that how things get accomplished?
Last week Dog and I walked to the local post office to post a letter that had been siting in our mailbox (that is, Husband's and my mailbox, not Dog's -- he doesn't have a mailbox on his house) for days without being picked up. The employee to whom I spoke said she couldn't document our lack of postal service and gave me a phone number to call to file the complaint. I called, recounted the particular dates we'd not had service, and the dismissive agent assured me he'd get back to me as soon as he talked to the carrier. I've not heard back. Who on earth, you ask, documents the calendar dates their mail carrier fails to perform? Someone whose postal delivery was discontinued for a year because the carrier determined the house was vacant. When the housing bubble burst, the houses on either side of our address went into foreclosure and stood vacant for some time. Apparently, our postal carrier grouped our residence with them, despite the fact that our lawn was still (mostly) maintained and cars were parked in front of the house. Nothing Husband did produced any response from USPS. He asked people to send test envelopes, which were never delivered...but neither were they returned to sender. They simply disappeared into the void. USPS suggested he wait outside for the mail carrier to go by and speak to him personally. Fortunately for the mail carrier, I wasn't yet living here at the time. Before the service recommenced, Husband accrued a hefty fine for a parking ticket that remained unpaid. As it turns out, neither city parking enforcement nor his creditors believed that his mail wasn't being delivered. That doesn't happen, does it?
So to return to the present time, I'm unconvinced my friendly alert to USPS will produce any action. I've determined I must send them (via USPS, of course) a letter to follow up. I'll try to cc myself, but I'm not confident I'll receive the copy.
After this failed clinic today, I provided some feedback to my HMO through their website. I also came home to find that my mail had been delivered! Among the pieces were several to a previous occupant who has lived elsewhere for at least the past ten years. I might as well tell you that they come from Chevron, his employer. We routinely receive Chevron mail addressed to him, routinely return it to sender, addressee unknown (perhaps that's why our mail carrier avoids us). Most often, it's his retirement investment statements, which contain confidential information. Husband also notified the intended recipient years ago that his new address hadn't been updated, but he doesn't appear to mind that he doesn't receive statements. It makes us want to close the account and roll the funds into our own. Clearly, we could put them to better use than he can.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
tell me all your thoughts on god
There are two topics I try to avoid discussing publicly, and those are politics and religion. It's not because my own beliefs are too weak to stand up to the challenge, but rather because a) conviction and passion run high in both arenas, and b) debate doesn't change people minds, it just builds walls between them. I even tend to avoid these two hotbutton topics in conversation with people who share my beliefs, because I find them difficult to navigate when the other person is closed off (read: militant).
I was raised by a moderately religious family in a fairly progressive iteration of a common faith. The religious education I received through their church was poorly organized, extremely biased, incomplete, and abjectly failed to answer the reasonable questions I politely posed for discussion. So I asked myself some poignant questions, the primary amongst them being, what is my most trusted source of information? And then I turned my back on faith, because at heart I'm an empiricist: I trust my own perception and interpretation above anything else. I was trained, as a scientist, to evaluate truth based on the scientific method, such that what can be proven false is not true. Being a scientist and being a person of faith are not mutually exclusive -- the empirical method cannot prove anything as definitively true (but can only fail to reject a statement as false), although theories become increasingly probable when supported by a body of evidence -- but I believe there is no god. That statement differs from the statement "I don't believe in god" in that it's a positive belief and not an absence of belief. I'm not an agnostic, I'm not a person without conviction, I'm an atheist. In my opinion, which I base upon the evidence I've collected empirically, there is no god and there never was. The universe and all its contents came about by some distant celestial event that we do not yet understand, and has evolved over the millennia via numerous processes, including the process of natural selection, into the universe that exists today.
Lots of people want to save my mortal soul. They feel sorry for me because I "lack" belief, I have no higher power in which to put my faith and to whom to turn in times of trouble and pain. After I elected not to become a member of my parents' church, my godmother wrote me a letter telling me that she believed that the celestial part of a nonbeliever is condemned to suffer for eternity as punishment for walking away from god. Then my brother -- who also believed that there is no god -- died, and I have always wanted to ask her if she thinks he's in hell. (I never have asked because although I'm curious, her beliefs don't ultimately affect mine, and also because our relationship would probably never recover from her response.) The alternative to his being damned for eternity is that she's devised an escape strategy for him: maybe her god doesn't damn children's souls?
I don't lack belief, and I don't lack exposure to faith practices, and I'm not misguided or pitiable. I'm an intelligent, rational person, and I've considered all the available systems of belief. I selected the one that has always described me, and I'm devoted to it.
I'm also a vegetarian, and one who was raised as an omnivore. People find that unaccountably interesting and often want to hear in detail about my motivations and challenges surrounding the choice to pursue vegetarianism. It was a practice I wanted to test out, and it fit me so well that I never went back. Like my belief system, it just came naturally to me. No, I don't feel deprived, I don't miss meat, I don't have any problems getting adequate nutrition. Yes, it took my family some time to adjust to the idea, but they've come around, and even though they don't necessarily agree with me, they respect my dietary choices. And there's one thing I always make certain to say when asked about my vegetarianism: "I don't pretend to know what anyone else should or shouldn't eat. I only know what works well for me." What I mean is, I don't intend to control or judge your diet...and I'd appreciate the same courtesy.
I don't intend to control or judge the religious beliefs of others, and I'd appreciate the same courtesy. I steadfastly support freedom of religion, which is to say that we all can practice whatever faith we see fit, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else. I think religion offers a neat and tidy package of morality, humanitarian values, and personal strength that is accessible to the masses, and for that it is a great and necessary practice. I also think it's important to realize that not everyone conforms to the same belief system, and that it is entirely possible to be a strong, moral, humanitarian being while not buying into faith. I think sharing information about one's belief systems is perfectly okay (although it has been my experience that persons of faith are positively repelled by discussions about atheism), but pushing one's beliefs on another person is reprehensible.
That is why phrases like "Go with God!" or "Jesus loves you!" raise my hackles. How presumptuous to assume that others share your beliefs, and what an undertone of intolerance such a message communicates! It's the directive phrasing that bothers me: "do this" and "you can't avoid being a part of our fold." You just seriously invaded my personal bubble, and I think such behavior is ignorant and rude. The same is not true for such comments as "I'm praying for you," -- which, in my mind, is an expression of empathy embedded in the lifepath of the speaker, and not a directive statement about how I should deal with a situation. If you ask me to pray for you, though, I'll be happy to let you know that I will keep you in my thoughts.
Once a year, I darken the doors of the church to attend a service with my grandmother. She loves taking the whole family, and to be honest there is very little in this world that I wouldn't do to make that woman happy. Given that I never joined a church or other congregation, that I listen respectfully but silently during prayers, and that she has never asked about my faith, I'm fairly certain she knows I don't agree with her. But I do believe that attending religious services is the best way to learn about and gain appreciation for any faith, and attendance does not constitute tacit acceptance. I do feel, though, that my atheism is a dark secret within my family. Because I'm not outspoken about it, it has never become a bone of contention, and I don't intend for it to be. I did politely request that a couple of people remove me from their faith-based emails. To be sure, I'm not ashamed to be an atheist -- I am quite comfortable with my beliefs and prideful of the thought and experience that formed them -- but they make other people so goddamned uncomfortable that avoiding the topic is the best assurance of harmony. I don't get the sense that people of faith make as much effort to respect the beliefs of atheists as (most) atheists make to avoid offending people of faith.
I was raised by a moderately religious family in a fairly progressive iteration of a common faith. The religious education I received through their church was poorly organized, extremely biased, incomplete, and abjectly failed to answer the reasonable questions I politely posed for discussion. So I asked myself some poignant questions, the primary amongst them being, what is my most trusted source of information? And then I turned my back on faith, because at heart I'm an empiricist: I trust my own perception and interpretation above anything else. I was trained, as a scientist, to evaluate truth based on the scientific method, such that what can be proven false is not true. Being a scientist and being a person of faith are not mutually exclusive -- the empirical method cannot prove anything as definitively true (but can only fail to reject a statement as false), although theories become increasingly probable when supported by a body of evidence -- but I believe there is no god. That statement differs from the statement "I don't believe in god" in that it's a positive belief and not an absence of belief. I'm not an agnostic, I'm not a person without conviction, I'm an atheist. In my opinion, which I base upon the evidence I've collected empirically, there is no god and there never was. The universe and all its contents came about by some distant celestial event that we do not yet understand, and has evolved over the millennia via numerous processes, including the process of natural selection, into the universe that exists today.
Lots of people want to save my mortal soul. They feel sorry for me because I "lack" belief, I have no higher power in which to put my faith and to whom to turn in times of trouble and pain. After I elected not to become a member of my parents' church, my godmother wrote me a letter telling me that she believed that the celestial part of a nonbeliever is condemned to suffer for eternity as punishment for walking away from god. Then my brother -- who also believed that there is no god -- died, and I have always wanted to ask her if she thinks he's in hell. (I never have asked because although I'm curious, her beliefs don't ultimately affect mine, and also because our relationship would probably never recover from her response.) The alternative to his being damned for eternity is that she's devised an escape strategy for him: maybe her god doesn't damn children's souls?
I don't lack belief, and I don't lack exposure to faith practices, and I'm not misguided or pitiable. I'm an intelligent, rational person, and I've considered all the available systems of belief. I selected the one that has always described me, and I'm devoted to it.
I'm also a vegetarian, and one who was raised as an omnivore. People find that unaccountably interesting and often want to hear in detail about my motivations and challenges surrounding the choice to pursue vegetarianism. It was a practice I wanted to test out, and it fit me so well that I never went back. Like my belief system, it just came naturally to me. No, I don't feel deprived, I don't miss meat, I don't have any problems getting adequate nutrition. Yes, it took my family some time to adjust to the idea, but they've come around, and even though they don't necessarily agree with me, they respect my dietary choices. And there's one thing I always make certain to say when asked about my vegetarianism: "I don't pretend to know what anyone else should or shouldn't eat. I only know what works well for me." What I mean is, I don't intend to control or judge your diet...and I'd appreciate the same courtesy.
I don't intend to control or judge the religious beliefs of others, and I'd appreciate the same courtesy. I steadfastly support freedom of religion, which is to say that we all can practice whatever faith we see fit, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else. I think religion offers a neat and tidy package of morality, humanitarian values, and personal strength that is accessible to the masses, and for that it is a great and necessary practice. I also think it's important to realize that not everyone conforms to the same belief system, and that it is entirely possible to be a strong, moral, humanitarian being while not buying into faith. I think sharing information about one's belief systems is perfectly okay (although it has been my experience that persons of faith are positively repelled by discussions about atheism), but pushing one's beliefs on another person is reprehensible.
That is why phrases like "Go with God!" or "Jesus loves you!" raise my hackles. How presumptuous to assume that others share your beliefs, and what an undertone of intolerance such a message communicates! It's the directive phrasing that bothers me: "do this" and "you can't avoid being a part of our fold." You just seriously invaded my personal bubble, and I think such behavior is ignorant and rude. The same is not true for such comments as "I'm praying for you," -- which, in my mind, is an expression of empathy embedded in the lifepath of the speaker, and not a directive statement about how I should deal with a situation. If you ask me to pray for you, though, I'll be happy to let you know that I will keep you in my thoughts.
Once a year, I darken the doors of the church to attend a service with my grandmother. She loves taking the whole family, and to be honest there is very little in this world that I wouldn't do to make that woman happy. Given that I never joined a church or other congregation, that I listen respectfully but silently during prayers, and that she has never asked about my faith, I'm fairly certain she knows I don't agree with her. But I do believe that attending religious services is the best way to learn about and gain appreciation for any faith, and attendance does not constitute tacit acceptance. I do feel, though, that my atheism is a dark secret within my family. Because I'm not outspoken about it, it has never become a bone of contention, and I don't intend for it to be. I did politely request that a couple of people remove me from their faith-based emails. To be sure, I'm not ashamed to be an atheist -- I am quite comfortable with my beliefs and prideful of the thought and experience that formed them -- but they make other people so goddamned uncomfortable that avoiding the topic is the best assurance of harmony. I don't get the sense that people of faith make as much effort to respect the beliefs of atheists as (most) atheists make to avoid offending people of faith.
Monday, April 9, 2012
misgivings
My response to an email.
First of all, I LOVE LOVE LOVE that you do your morning writing. I wrote nearly every day from about eighth grade through sophomore year of college, and I know for a fact that it was a major factor in keeping (most of) my sanity. There's something so liberating and simultaneously clarifying about bleeding it all out on paper, and it got me through some really dark times. I wish I were still doing it, but I basically stopped after I got mugged and the scoundrels took my journal, with 300 some completed pages. I went back and looked for it in dumpsters and trash cans the next day, but no dice. So, everything else that was stolen from me was replaceable, but what they really got was my most healthy habit. I know, I know, I could totally start doing it again, but I'd be working against inertia.
Secondly, I agree it's not a sad email. It's a "soul"-searching email (the word soul is a loaded word, hopefully enveloping it in quotation marks makes it less so). Who was it who said that the unexamined life is not worth living?
I don't think I'm the person to come to for advice on purpose or direction. I have spent my entire life coasting along, falling into opportunity once in a while, but generally failing to fulfill my potential. I don't have the intrinsic motivation to go into business for myself, or even to get an independent project off the ground of my own volition. I quit my job mostly because my boss was a psycho hose beast, true, but I also had a role in making it a dead end before my former boss was promoted. If I'd framed myself as a go-getter then, I'd never have ended up pigeon-holed, but I don't appear to have the faith in myself necessary to make a commitment and go full-bore on anything. It's too bad, too, because I had a really lucrative and smart research proposal that fizzled out because of it, and it would've been a skill I could parlay into other areas.
I don't know what your direction should be, but I can tell you that I've been waiting for mine to become clear to me since...well, forever. My college major was a default choice. My job for the last seven years was sort of accidental. This nursing school thing is self-driven, I think, because I've always been interested in medicine but not hard-core enough to commit to medical school, but recently I'm not convinced nursing is what I want to do, either. I'm desperately envious of the people who knew their calling from the start, and pursued it, and love their jobs. I've never even had a job I liked very much. And my conclusion is that since I don't have a singular passion, but rather a number of interests (which are passing or perseverant), maybe I'm not destined for any particular career. Maybe it's okay not to commit to anything, but to transition every few years. And maybe I won't even have a passionate career, in which case I find something that isn't horrible and allow myself to work as a means to an end, the end being to have a comfortable life, to be able to save money for the things I want, and to be able to take the time off work to enjoy them. It's not going to advance me through the corporate ladder, but I'm just not that driven by work. I'm good at organizing explicit tasks, setting deadlines, and meeting them, but not very good at dreaming up the projects in the first place. Clearly, that's why I do poorly in art classes...except pottery, for some reason.
I can tell you that I believe everyone needs to live away from the place they grew up for a while, because it takes being removed from it to evaluate it objectively. I know you were out of the country for some time, but that might have been a little too far away to seem real? Have you thought about living elsewhere in the States?
Have you ever picked up one of those "what should I do with my life?" books, or the vocational surveys they offer? I think they're abject bullshit. I score equally highly in so many areas that they never point me in a definitive direction. Moreover, questions like, "Would you rather assemble a table from written instructions, or figure out how much everyone owes for a restaurant meal?" never provide a response like, "well, I like building Ikea tables about once a year, but I'd shoot myself if I had to do it every day." I think it's fairly clear that I should drop out of school, start a hippie commune, and begin popping out babies. I have certainly been neglecting my biological imperative, and looking after a pack of offspring and teaching them to hoe corn ought to leave little time for restless introspection. Fuck, I should start blogging again, at least. OMG, that's the perfect plot. I will reinstate my neglected blog, perhaps with the text of this very message, and my readership will grow until I'm the new dooce.com and I can just live off the proceeds of my brilliant restless introspection. YES! (Only problem is, I've always sucked at making friends, so the readership ranks will likely never swell to such illustrious numbers to support my lazy housewifery.)
I guess that my overall response is -- you're not tapping into your purpose? Well, that makes me feel a little better, because I'm fucking certain I'm not, either. And I've had similar conversations with at least two other mutual friends of ours, so I guess we're in good company. GenX is supposed to be angsty and entitled, right? Although I recently read that we're not actually GenX or GenY, but some orphaned middle group. GenX 2.0, maybe. In buggy beta. Look, I made a techy joke! I'm fucking 7eet! (Did I say that right?)
I miss you, too. And I miss when it seemed like we were so on track, and that we deserved to go out on the weekends and get blitzed. In fact, that's what we were expected to do, so really we'd have been letting someone down if we didn't. I rarely have that much fun anymore.
<3,
~ snatch
First of all, I LOVE LOVE LOVE that you do your morning writing. I wrote nearly every day from about eighth grade through sophomore year of college, and I know for a fact that it was a major factor in keeping (most of) my sanity. There's something so liberating and simultaneously clarifying about bleeding it all out on paper, and it got me through some really dark times. I wish I were still doing it, but I basically stopped after I got mugged and the scoundrels took my journal, with 300 some completed pages. I went back and looked for it in dumpsters and trash cans the next day, but no dice. So, everything else that was stolen from me was replaceable, but what they really got was my most healthy habit. I know, I know, I could totally start doing it again, but I'd be working against inertia.
Secondly, I agree it's not a sad email. It's a "soul"-searching email (the word soul is a loaded word, hopefully enveloping it in quotation marks makes it less so). Who was it who said that the unexamined life is not worth living?
I don't think I'm the person to come to for advice on purpose or direction. I have spent my entire life coasting along, falling into opportunity once in a while, but generally failing to fulfill my potential. I don't have the intrinsic motivation to go into business for myself, or even to get an independent project off the ground of my own volition. I quit my job mostly because my boss was a psycho hose beast, true, but I also had a role in making it a dead end before my former boss was promoted. If I'd framed myself as a go-getter then, I'd never have ended up pigeon-holed, but I don't appear to have the faith in myself necessary to make a commitment and go full-bore on anything. It's too bad, too, because I had a really lucrative and smart research proposal that fizzled out because of it, and it would've been a skill I could parlay into other areas.
I don't know what your direction should be, but I can tell you that I've been waiting for mine to become clear to me since...well, forever. My college major was a default choice. My job for the last seven years was sort of accidental. This nursing school thing is self-driven, I think, because I've always been interested in medicine but not hard-core enough to commit to medical school, but recently I'm not convinced nursing is what I want to do, either. I'm desperately envious of the people who knew their calling from the start, and pursued it, and love their jobs. I've never even had a job I liked very much. And my conclusion is that since I don't have a singular passion, but rather a number of interests (which are passing or perseverant), maybe I'm not destined for any particular career. Maybe it's okay not to commit to anything, but to transition every few years. And maybe I won't even have a passionate career, in which case I find something that isn't horrible and allow myself to work as a means to an end, the end being to have a comfortable life, to be able to save money for the things I want, and to be able to take the time off work to enjoy them. It's not going to advance me through the corporate ladder, but I'm just not that driven by work. I'm good at organizing explicit tasks, setting deadlines, and meeting them, but not very good at dreaming up the projects in the first place. Clearly, that's why I do poorly in art classes...except pottery, for some reason.
I can tell you that I believe everyone needs to live away from the place they grew up for a while, because it takes being removed from it to evaluate it objectively. I know you were out of the country for some time, but that might have been a little too far away to seem real? Have you thought about living elsewhere in the States?
Have you ever picked up one of those "what should I do with my life?" books, or the vocational surveys they offer? I think they're abject bullshit. I score equally highly in so many areas that they never point me in a definitive direction. Moreover, questions like, "Would you rather assemble a table from written instructions, or figure out how much everyone owes for a restaurant meal?" never provide a response like, "well, I like building Ikea tables about once a year, but I'd shoot myself if I had to do it every day." I think it's fairly clear that I should drop out of school, start a hippie commune, and begin popping out babies. I have certainly been neglecting my biological imperative, and looking after a pack of offspring and teaching them to hoe corn ought to leave little time for restless introspection. Fuck, I should start blogging again, at least. OMG, that's the perfect plot. I will reinstate my neglected blog, perhaps with the text of this very message, and my readership will grow until I'm the new dooce.com and I can just live off the proceeds of my brilliant restless introspection. YES! (Only problem is, I've always sucked at making friends, so the readership ranks will likely never swell to such illustrious numbers to support my lazy housewifery.)
I guess that my overall response is -- you're not tapping into your purpose? Well, that makes me feel a little better, because I'm fucking certain I'm not, either. And I've had similar conversations with at least two other mutual friends of ours, so I guess we're in good company. GenX is supposed to be angsty and entitled, right? Although I recently read that we're not actually GenX or GenY, but some orphaned middle group. GenX 2.0, maybe. In buggy beta. Look, I made a techy joke! I'm fucking 7eet! (Did I say that right?)
I miss you, too. And I miss when it seemed like we were so on track, and that we deserved to go out on the weekends and get blitzed. In fact, that's what we were expected to do, so really we'd have been letting someone down if we didn't. I rarely have that much fun anymore.
<3,
~ snatch
Friday, July 15, 2011
pelicans are especially special
In August of 2008, I was on a camping trip on the northern coast with the man I didn't yet know was to be my husband, and a couple of friends. It's a place that's very special to him, a status that I attribute to a previous trip that he spent agog on the beach for days watching whales breach offshore. I've only ever seen one there, but I imagine that watching a pod of the behemoths flopping around in the surf is like finding god and spying on his playtime with his friends. The four of us illustrious campers were on a walk on the beach, approaching a pelican seated in the shorebreak -- by which I mean, periodically a wave actually pushed him further up the beach and partially onto his side before he righted himself. I took pictures as we approached, awaiting the inevitable trigger-point of take-off over the water. It never came.
That pelican let me walk right up next to him and sit down on the sand, with hardly a protest. Initially, I was fairly certain he was going to use that two-foot beak to teach my fingers a lesson they'd not soon forget, but he must have been so sick or exhausted as to warrant such an expenditure of effort unfeasible. Like when you're in the emergency room with as-yet-undiagnosed mono, and the effort of pulling on your winter coat over your pajamas and walking across the street to the hospital has sapped all your remaining energy and you gratefully pass out in a holding room for three hours until the doctor discovers you there, curled up alone in the fetal position on that rickety hospital cot, undisturbed by the GSW-induced screams and short-on-patience patients around you. Because surely, anything that could befall you in such a state could not be resisted anyway, especially by such a paltry defense as you could mount.
After ascertaining that I wasn't a threat, the pelican closed his eyes as I gently stroked the feathers on the top of his head. He rested his head on his breast. The pictures of us together on the beach are lovely, but they're a facade. That pelican smelled of rotting fish, his feathers were bedraggled, he lacked the strength to stand up, and his entire body was crawling with bugs. They poked in and out among dirty down feathers as we sat together on the sand, him resigned, me protective. Later, I had to comb them out of my hair, although I'm not sure they were actually there. My friends had proceeded up the beach and were sitting a short distance away, having had the sense to avoid a dying wild animal, and one to which they could give no aid.
When I was a child, a fledgling goldfinch crashed into our sliding glass door and blinded himself. After he didn't leave the scene of the accident overnight, we brought him inside and put him in a cardboard box with a dish of water, and the family took turns catching bugs to feed him. In the mornings, that bird sang his little heart out, perched in the middle of his cardboard box. Perhaps he was calling his parents, I don't know, but he didn't seem anxious about his new lifestyle and was eating well. After a few days, we dropped him off at the bird sanctuary. Soon after, we received a form letter thanking us for our effort and informing us that since the blinded bird would be unable to survive, they'd euthanized him.
It seemed harsh to a seven-year-old, but it was clearly the route that produced the least pain and suffering. I have since often wished that people showed the same humanity to our human loved ones as we do to our pets. And so, communing with that sick pelican on the beach, it became suddenly clear to me that the proper next step was to end the pelican's suffering. The conclusion was both horrifying and calming to reach: I couldn't imagine killing that poor bird that had decided to trust me, but neither could I imagine leaving him to his destiny when he was too weak to defend himself against marauders. So I sat with the idea for a while.
I used to hold a job that required me to cull litters and to euthanize animals, under the auspices of an institutional review board, i.e., via scientifically humane measures...but I didn't have a CO chamber or any sodium pentobarbitol or even an axe. Once, when I was house-sitting for my parents, a mousetrap failed to kill its victim and my father had advised me to put the entire trap into a bucket of water and hold it there. I cried my damn eyes out doing that, but I do think it was the kindest thing I could have done. Although I was standing adjacent to the largest stretch of water in the world, holding an adult pelican underwater did not seem like a good option. But I could probably break his neck. After that, the bird would feel no pain and would die very quickly, especially if I could cut off his breathing. And I shuddered to myself, because how could I do such a thing, when the bird had such a long and flexible neck? It was imperative that the operation go well, because otherwise I would be torturing instead of alleviating. And that's when my future husband came back and sat down next to me, while I was pondering how best to go about breaking this pelican's neck.
I wanted to tell him what I was going to do, and tried to start a couple of times, but I thought I'd lose my resolve if I vocalized it. I hoped he would tire of the monotony and go back to our friends, but he didn't. And then something told me that it was time to do this thing, and I thought maybe it was the bird. So I did it, without having warned my poor husband-to-be, who was sitting right next to me, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do it.
And now I can say that, beyond the emotional component, breaking a pelican's neck is at least as mechanically challenging as I anticipated it might be. I think I can also say that the procedure went as successfully as it could have, at least in terms of the bird's experience. My future husband was as shocked as anyone would be if his vegetarian girlfriend suddenly killed a docile animal with her bare hands, without having given any prior indication of intent. He maintained a little distance from me for the remainder of the afternoon, and I could place no blame on him for it, although I felt a little barbaric and like a pariah, I have always felt I did the right thing. After it was done, I was going to put the bird's body up in the brush on the beach, but took the boyfriend's suggestion to put it in the surf, because it was a seabird. And I did , and our friends joined us and asked if the bird had died, and I said yes, and B said that I had done it a kindness by sitting with it during its last moments. And I agree.
That pelican let me walk right up next to him and sit down on the sand, with hardly a protest. Initially, I was fairly certain he was going to use that two-foot beak to teach my fingers a lesson they'd not soon forget, but he must have been so sick or exhausted as to warrant such an expenditure of effort unfeasible. Like when you're in the emergency room with as-yet-undiagnosed mono, and the effort of pulling on your winter coat over your pajamas and walking across the street to the hospital has sapped all your remaining energy and you gratefully pass out in a holding room for three hours until the doctor discovers you there, curled up alone in the fetal position on that rickety hospital cot, undisturbed by the GSW-induced screams and short-on-patience patients around you. Because surely, anything that could befall you in such a state could not be resisted anyway, especially by such a paltry defense as you could mount.
When I was a child, a fledgling goldfinch crashed into our sliding glass door and blinded himself. After he didn't leave the scene of the accident overnight, we brought him inside and put him in a cardboard box with a dish of water, and the family took turns catching bugs to feed him. In the mornings, that bird sang his little heart out, perched in the middle of his cardboard box. Perhaps he was calling his parents, I don't know, but he didn't seem anxious about his new lifestyle and was eating well. After a few days, we dropped him off at the bird sanctuary. Soon after, we received a form letter thanking us for our effort and informing us that since the blinded bird would be unable to survive, they'd euthanized him.
It seemed harsh to a seven-year-old, but it was clearly the route that produced the least pain and suffering. I have since often wished that people showed the same humanity to our human loved ones as we do to our pets. And so, communing with that sick pelican on the beach, it became suddenly clear to me that the proper next step was to end the pelican's suffering. The conclusion was both horrifying and calming to reach: I couldn't imagine killing that poor bird that had decided to trust me, but neither could I imagine leaving him to his destiny when he was too weak to defend himself against marauders. So I sat with the idea for a while.
I used to hold a job that required me to cull litters and to euthanize animals, under the auspices of an institutional review board, i.e., via scientifically humane measures...but I didn't have a CO chamber or any sodium pentobarbitol or even an axe. Once, when I was house-sitting for my parents, a mousetrap failed to kill its victim and my father had advised me to put the entire trap into a bucket of water and hold it there. I cried my damn eyes out doing that, but I do think it was the kindest thing I could have done. Although I was standing adjacent to the largest stretch of water in the world, holding an adult pelican underwater did not seem like a good option. But I could probably break his neck. After that, the bird would feel no pain and would die very quickly, especially if I could cut off his breathing. And I shuddered to myself, because how could I do such a thing, when the bird had such a long and flexible neck? It was imperative that the operation go well, because otherwise I would be torturing instead of alleviating. And that's when my future husband came back and sat down next to me, while I was pondering how best to go about breaking this pelican's neck.
I wanted to tell him what I was going to do, and tried to start a couple of times, but I thought I'd lose my resolve if I vocalized it. I hoped he would tire of the monotony and go back to our friends, but he didn't. And then something told me that it was time to do this thing, and I thought maybe it was the bird. So I did it, without having warned my poor husband-to-be, who was sitting right next to me, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do it.
And now I can say that, beyond the emotional component, breaking a pelican's neck is at least as mechanically challenging as I anticipated it might be. I think I can also say that the procedure went as successfully as it could have, at least in terms of the bird's experience. My future husband was as shocked as anyone would be if his vegetarian girlfriend suddenly killed a docile animal with her bare hands, without having given any prior indication of intent. He maintained a little distance from me for the remainder of the afternoon, and I could place no blame on him for it, although I felt a little barbaric and like a pariah, I have always felt I did the right thing. After it was done, I was going to put the bird's body up in the brush on the beach, but took the boyfriend's suggestion to put it in the surf, because it was a seabird. And I did , and our friends joined us and asked if the bird had died, and I said yes, and B said that I had done it a kindness by sitting with it during its last moments. And I agree.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
more like a set of guidelines
Husband and I drove down to see his family for the 4th of July weekend, a round-trip of about 900 miles. At one point on the return trip, a highway patrol car merged on behind us. Suddenly, everyone remembered how to drive! People were using turn signals, passing on the left and driving on the right, completely eschewing the assholery to which I've grown accustomed on that desolate stretch of roadway that has, for no good reason that I can discern, only two lanes in each direction (except for the portion that construction has narrowed to one. single. solitary. lane).
My ex-boyfriend drove only rarely during the time we were together, which comprised seven years. He didn't have a car and couldn't drive my car's manual transmission. It meant that I was nearly always the sober cab, when driving was requisite, that I spent many hours of my life shuttling him back and forth, and it caused innumerable spats between us.
Although there had been some talk of getting back together, and although we passed a pleasant visit in each other's company, that relationship was never really meant to be. It was apparent on the first roadtrip I took with Husband that we were on common ground, and he'll always be my favorite driving buddy. Husband also reprimands me for "teaching people lessons" on the highway, but that's just because he's matured out of that phase himself, and that makes it much easier to take his advice. And he never blocks the fast lane.
My ex-boyfriend drove only rarely during the time we were together, which comprised seven years. He didn't have a car and couldn't drive my car's manual transmission. It meant that I was nearly always the sober cab, when driving was requisite, that I spent many hours of my life shuttling him back and forth, and it caused innumerable spats between us.
- Eg:
Him: Yay, we're going to Place with Person and Person tonight!
Me: Great! How are we getting there?
Him: Oh. Well...I guess we could take the bus? Or Person could pick us up!
Me: But Person always drives home wasted. You know how I feel about drunk driving.
Him: What the fuck do you want me to do about it?! You don't want to drive, but you don't want to ride with the other dude who's driving.
Me: Well, I would appreciate it if you didn't always just assume I will drive.
- Eg:
Him (a musician): Hey, can I have your keys? I need to put my stack, my guitar, and Drummer's kit in your car.
Me: No. Last time you shoved all that gear in my car, you scratched the door and bent the latch. My car's not big enough for all that equipment. Remember? We talked about this.
Him: Well, then how am I supposed to get it back to the practice space?
Me: I don't know. How did you get it here?
Him: ARGGHGHHSHISSTST.
- Eg:
Him: Hey, can you come pick me up at work?
Me: Huh? It's 3 am.
Him: I know. I called three cab companies and they all said this neighborhood is too dangerous.
Me: Okay. Are you ready to go now? Because I can't get into the facility, and I don't feel safe sitting outside waiting for you in the middle of the night.
Him: Yeah, I'll be waiting for you at the gate.
-- 20 minutes later --
Me: I thought you said you wouldn't leave me out here like a sitting duck. Where the fuck are you?
Him: Oh, sorry. I'm just finishing up some stuff. I'll be there in, like, ten minutes.
- Eg:
Me: AARRGGHGGHSHEHE! What the fuck are you doing?! Get the fuck out of the way! Ohhhh, I'm so going to teach your dumb fucking ass a lesson, you ignorant fucking cocksucker. ACK!
Him: Why are you always so angry all the time? It's not that big of a deal. Just let it go.
Me: I can't let it go! If he keeps pulling that shit, he's going to kill somebody! Self-entitled motherfucking asshole! Hey! I'm talking to you!
Him: Wow, you really need to calm down.
(Of course, in this scenario it is, of course, Ex-Boyfriend who is in the right. But I'm sure it was easy for him to stay calm while being chaufeurred around like Prince Fucking Charming. He used to turn off my music so he could make his Very Important Phone Calls during the precious few moments in the car when he wasn't preoccupied with other tasks. Don't mind me over here, I'm just the owner and operator of this, your handy conveyance.)
Although there had been some talk of getting back together, and although we passed a pleasant visit in each other's company, that relationship was never really meant to be. It was apparent on the first roadtrip I took with Husband that we were on common ground, and he'll always be my favorite driving buddy. Husband also reprimands me for "teaching people lessons" on the highway, but that's just because he's matured out of that phase himself, and that makes it much easier to take his advice. And he never blocks the fast lane.
Friday, June 24, 2011
shots from da island
I said I'd post pics from the HI trip here, and although I don't think I'm accountable to any gentle readers (because there aren't any), I am true to my word.
 |
| hibiscus flowers, waimea beach park |
 |
| cannonball tree, waimea beach park |
 |
| sunset at sunset beach |
 |
| house finch, uss arizona memorial |
 |
| hang gliding base, sandy beach |
 |
| roadside stop, north shore |
 |
| friends of malaekahana |
 |
Thursday, June 23, 2011
wardrobe malfunction
When I was a very little girl, I was all about the dresses. I only vaguely remember this phase, as I think it stopped in kindergarten or first grade: as my mom tells it, I came home from school one day very upset because the other kids could see my underwear while I was hanging upside down on the playground. I don't recall that particular event, but I do recall the neighbor girl and boy distracting me on the top of the jungle gym, observing that I was as tall standing atop it as the nearest young tree. While I paused, enchanted, she and the neighbor boy took the opportunity to look up my skirt.
I was a naked kid, and didn't feel any shame in that, but I guess being seen in one's underwear is less deliberate and therefore more embarrassing? Or, perhaps more likely, I was ashamed at having been duped. (They also once took me on a bike ride, further from home than I was allowed to go, and then all raced off and left me behind, straggling and pushing hard on the pedals while they all changed gears and climbed the hill on their powerful big-kid legs. I was ashamed then, too, because I thought they wanted me to hang out with them, and now I was all by myself and lost, couldn't figure out how to get home.) I don't think I learned modesty from the incident, because I remember being told gently at age 8 or 9 that from then on, pants and a shirt were required at the dinner table. Sitting on the woven bar stools sans vetements left red waffle-patterns on one's sitting parts. To this day I'm happy to change into my swimsuit on the beach, to prevent the bikini knot from digging into my spine on the drive there.
I never got back into dresses, though. I'll put one on for a special event, but pack along a change of clothes because I really feel unnatural with my knees constantly pressed together, all feminine-like. I think it strains my hips and my mental health. The girls that wear cute little sundresses to work amaze me -- you're really comfortable, sitting there in that thing all day? With your ankles daintily crossed? Yeesh. How do you drive in those four-inch heels? Don't get me wrong, you look good enough to eat, but that kind of an outfit is just too high-maintenance for me. I miss that brief grunge trend in the 90s when it was totally acceptable to wear a sundress over your skater jeans.
I was a naked kid, and didn't feel any shame in that, but I guess being seen in one's underwear is less deliberate and therefore more embarrassing? Or, perhaps more likely, I was ashamed at having been duped. (They also once took me on a bike ride, further from home than I was allowed to go, and then all raced off and left me behind, straggling and pushing hard on the pedals while they all changed gears and climbed the hill on their powerful big-kid legs. I was ashamed then, too, because I thought they wanted me to hang out with them, and now I was all by myself and lost, couldn't figure out how to get home.) I don't think I learned modesty from the incident, because I remember being told gently at age 8 or 9 that from then on, pants and a shirt were required at the dinner table. Sitting on the woven bar stools sans vetements left red waffle-patterns on one's sitting parts. To this day I'm happy to change into my swimsuit on the beach, to prevent the bikini knot from digging into my spine on the drive there.
I never got back into dresses, though. I'll put one on for a special event, but pack along a change of clothes because I really feel unnatural with my knees constantly pressed together, all feminine-like. I think it strains my hips and my mental health. The girls that wear cute little sundresses to work amaze me -- you're really comfortable, sitting there in that thing all day? With your ankles daintily crossed? Yeesh. How do you drive in those four-inch heels? Don't get me wrong, you look good enough to eat, but that kind of an outfit is just too high-maintenance for me. I miss that brief grunge trend in the 90s when it was totally acceptable to wear a sundress over your skater jeans.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)