take your head out of your ass once in a while

I was invited on a camping trip last Saturday, to celebrate the birthday of a woman in my book club. Although I don't know her very well, my first impressions were that she's kind of self-serving and rigid. But I thought, hey, I like camping and it'd be good for me to hang out with some new people, and it was nice of her to invite me, so I'll go. Hell, maybe I'll even find out that my initial impressions of this woman were off-base. Maybe she's actually an awesome person. Here's an excerpt from the save the date (italics are mine):

BYOAnythingYouNeedToCampInTheWoods. Hiking to precede and follow for those interested.

For now, just save that date. Grab your significant other's calendar and save their date too. Grab your dog and definitely save his or her date. Hopefully I'll see you in the woods!

PS. I chose a site you can drive up to so never fear if hiking isn't for you.

Husband had to work, but Dog was available, so I did some research on the park and found that Dog was prohibited from the trails and the backcountry, but permitted in the campground. Cool. So I packed up Dog, picked up my friend C, and drove 2 1/2 hours to the park. Upon arrival, we were informed that our party had a backcountry site, and that we weren't allowed to drive to it. We'd have to hike our gear in, 2.5 miles. Also, the dog was not allowed at the site.

I was prepared to give the benefit of the doubt: that the organizer hadn't been aware of these conditions when she made the arrangements. But the ranger -- who was awesome and tried his best to help us -- had personally informed her of the restrictions upon her arrival the previous evening. And since there was free wifi at the entrance where she checked in, I can think of only one explanation for her failure to send us an update: she wanted us to have driven all the way up there before we found out, so that we wouldn't back out. Instead, we were operating on the information provided in the invitation:

Call me or one of many other people to get shuttled with your stuff, or drive your things in and then hike down.

We have a backpacking tent that I could've brought, if I'd known it was a backcountry trip. I could've left Dog and the cooler at home, and packed appropriately. But after being told it was a car camping trip, I thought it might be nice to have a cooler in 90°F weather. Just, you know, a thought.

View from the park, near the campground

C phoned the birthday girl, who abjectly refused to move to a site in the main campground, which would have allowed both Dog and the car to shuttle gear. So I had no choice but to turn around and drive back home. The ranger offered to drive C's gear -- including the birthday cake she'd made for this woman -- out to the site. Knowing this, the rest of the group tried to sneak their car back out of the campground, for reasons that remain unclear to me. Of course, they got busted by the rangers. I'd sum it up as ludicrous.

What really scores me, though, beyond being deliberately misled, is that that woman hid 500 meters away on the hilltop instead of coming down with the rest of the group, and I can only conclude that it was to avoid me. She never even contacted me to say, "Gosh, I'm sorry you couldn't get in, that sucks." I didn't even need her to admit fault, I just wanted an acknowledgment that I'd tried to attend her fucking warm fuzzy center of the universe event. Nothing. Nada. Crickets.

I'm just good at reading people. If I dislike you right off the bat, it's probably because we're not compatible...or else because you're an inferior human being. So when I get the distinct impression that you're self-serving and rigid, it might be because you're the kind of person who passive-aggressively manipulates people into doing what you want, and then leaves them up shit creek without a paddle because, well, you dislike inconvenience. Personally, I can't imagine doing that to someone. Regardless of how disappointed I might feel at having to give up my preferred campsite, I think more highly of my friends than to send them chasing after wild geese.

Fortunately for me, my mom's cousin lives near the area in question, so I called her up and asked if she and her dogs would like to go to the park. I came home with a tired, happy Dog and a bag of fresh-picked figs from her backyard. So it wasn't a total waste of a day.

maybe some artists should move in

I've lived in one ghetto or another since moving out of my parents' house. Some of them were, in fact, decent places to live; I use the word ghetto in its traditional sense to refer to neighborhoods populated by minorities and plagued by crime. I've always felt they were reasonably priced places to live, and simply avoided being a lone pedestrian after dark...at least, after I got mugged and beaten up for about $25.

I've recently decided it's time to move on. I'm sick of the mentality that a neighborhood isn't worth saving, doesn't warrant investment. I'm sick of people not giving a shit.

Last week I had to scrape the contents of the recycling bin off the street after two assholes rummaged through it for cans and bottles (California has a cash redemption value for recyclables). I don't object strongly enough to their rummaging to interrupt it -- especially as there were two of them, they looked like hardasses, and I'm pretty sure they were drunk at 7 am -- even though it undercuts the ability of recycling services to cover their own costs. I object to the fact that they smeared trash all over the street, and that I had to clean up after them.

Yesterday, I picked up and disposed of the carcass of a cat that had been decaying by the side of the street for a week. It was in someone's front yard. Who the fuck leaves a rotting animal in their front yard for a week? Ghetto people. Animal control will come pick it up for free, but ghetto people are insufficiently invested in their own neighborhood to bother picking up the phone.

For over a month, the neighbors' newly adopted dog has been barking all night long. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. I've lost count of how many hours of sleep I've lost. I've gone to their house twice, all sugar and spice, let them know that their dog is disturbing the neighborhood, and asked them to please quiet it. The first time, they seemed stunned and remarked that "No one told us." Umm. Hi. This is me, your neighbor, standing here telling you about it. The second time, they told me all about other dogs in the neighborhood, who also bark. "We've had complaints!" they said, "but it's not always our dog." I smiled and replied, "Well, it's your dog right now, and I'd really appreciate it if you asked him to be quiet."

They did. But the peace is always short-lived; the following evening I called the police at midnight and asked them to please pay a visit to the neighbors, whose dog had been barking constantly for an hour and a half. I'm not exaggerating, either: I've been keeping a log at the request of county animal control, who can't take any action until one of the other neighbors makes a complaint. No one has. Even the folks next door, who complain to me every time I see them about the noise, and who scream over the fence at the dog to shut the fuck up...they won't file a complaint. It's not even about getting the dog removed from its home -- although that's the best solution I can think of in this case, since the dog isn't a part of the family but remains chained up in a walled-off portion of the yard (no wonder the poor creature barks). Animal control merely visits the residence to assist the owners in training their dog and suggesting tools that may aid in the process. But they can't do even that, since no one will register a complaint. This morning, that dog started barking at 4:36 am, and didn't stop until 6:00. Then he started back up again before 7:00. It's driving me bloody mad. I want to bust out the gate and unhook the dog from its chain. It's not registered, and if it has any sense at all it won't come back.

it's the phallic tail, isn't it?

Last semester, I took a volleyball class in addition to my academic courseload. It was intended to get my ass out for some exercise and not as a return to competitive play...but the coach and other players talked me into joining the team this fall. The team is comprised mainly of young 20-somethings; while my sense of humor can at times be juvenile, I am not exactly of their peer group. I think our generations go by different letters.

At the conclusion of the first practice, the coach brought us together for a final pep talk and a team cheer before break. "Would you like to be the Lady Comets, or the Comets?"

1. Longest hangover EVER. Title IX went into effect 40 years ago. For reference, other current events of the time:
   • the death of J. Edgar Hoover
   • the recent departure of Apollo 16
   • Notorious BIG and Busta Rhymes were born (within one day of each other)
   • the Lakers won their first NBA title since moving from Minneapolis (and now I know why they're called the Lakers)
    
2. What is so masculine about a comet that might cause it to require a modifier?

To be fair to coach, he didn't recommend the modifier, either.

in which the author makes claims as to the numerous nature of her cells

Disclaimer: I equate the antichoice (a.k.a. "pro-life") movement with the belief that women are incapable of making choices about what is best for ourselves and our families.

This evening I've come to lodge a protest against this image:

It has appeared a number of places, but most recently I saw it on a family member's facebook page with a caption that reads, "12 weeks gestation.....legal to kill in all 50 states.....is this a blob of cells to you?..."

First of all, my husband is a wise and loving man who warned me not to respond with the full extent of my reaction on my family member's post.  (Read: I did respond, but only to observe that the image has been photoshopped.)

Secondly, this image is obviously not a likeness of a human embryo at 12 weeks' gestation, and to state that it is negates, in my opinion, the very nature of the appeal being made: "Look at me, I'm so cute and fully formed, I'm clearly too adorable to scrape into a biohazard bag."  Bullshit.  If human embryos were this fully developed at 12 weeks, nobody would bother gestating for another 28 weeks.  If a 12 week fetus is valuable to you as a fully-fledged member of the human species, don't represent it in your appeal as something else entirely.  To do so is more than a concession that a 12 week fetus isn't actually terribly lovely, it's a tacit admission that a 12 week fetus, as it truly exists, is not worthy of legal protection.  Here's a real human fetus at approximately 12 weeks' gestation:

While possessed of many attributes that lead to the suspicion it might be en route to humanhood -- and while admittedly fascinating to contemplate at this stage of development -- this creature looks like a prop in a B horror movie based on radiation exposure.  It is decidedly un-cute.  And it'd be even less cute cradled in an adult human hand (due to the implication of its unceremonious removal from the womb, where it will likely remain until it manages to pack some flesh onto its scrawny limbs and perform some extensive remodeling of its cranial vault).  Abortion photographs, paradoxically, are a tactic employed by groups with the same goal as the misguided artist above, except that the products of abortion are never photoshopped into miniaturized adorableness.

This post will not enter into a diatribe on the right to choose (except for the strongly stated disclaimer above), but rather observes that to proffer a false image as testimony for a cause implies that the cause does not stand on its own merit but requires bolstering to attain viability.  Like a freaking 12 week fetus -- it requires a lot of bolstering to attain viability.

We're all freaking blobs of cells.  Some of us have just amassed a larger collection than others.

mother hubbard's bare little cupboard

Twice recently I threw together a meal from some disparate ingredients that were all that remained in the house.  I don't fancy myself a gifted chef, but I do hit on a keeper once in a while.  Next time I make them I'll have to take pictures.

Roasted Veggies & Mushroom Ravioli with Maple Orange Glaze

1 small yellow crookneck squash
1 bulb fennel
2 small parsnips
20 or so baby carrots
2 oranges
2 tsp maple syrup
1 package wild mushroom ravioli

Preheat oven to 400F.  Coarsely chop fennel, squash, and parsnips.  Zest oranges, then juice.  Toss veggies in mixing bowl with juice from 1/2 of one orange and a couple of tablespoons of olive oil.  Spread in jelly roll pan, sprinkle lightly with salt.  Roast for ~35 mns or until tender.  In the meantime, prepare maple orange glaze and start water boiling for ravioli.

Maple Orange Glaze:
Combine remaining OJ and maple syrup in saucepan and bring to boil, then reduce heat and cook down until mixture begins to thicken.  Add zest and cook another 2-5 minutes.

Remove veggies when tender and toss with maple orange glaze.  It will have cooked down substantially and what is left is a small amount of syrupy glaze -- just enough to glue the zest to the veggies.  Serve on a bed of ravioli with a wild yeast chardonnay.

Summer Spaetzle Salad

6 oz. spaetzle

1 can white beans, drained & rinsed

1/2 can quartered artichoke hearts, drained and slightly chopped

1/2 pouch ( 1 1/2 oz.) sun-dried tomatoes, julienne cut

12-20 leaves fresh basil, julienned

1/4 cup romano cheese, grated

1 Tbsp. cream cheese

Boil spaetzle in lightly salted water 20-25 mns or until tender.  Drain and return to warm cooking pot.  Stir in cream cheese until melted.  In a large bowl, toss remaining ingredients.  Add spaetzle mixture and stir until combined.  Serve immediately.  Leftovers can be refrigerated and eaten cold.

This recipe is deliberately bland to showcase the basil, but I do think it could be "kicked up a notch" if desired.  What pleased me the most about it was the complementary textures of the spaetzle and white beans. It's got to be the German in me.  I'm definitely taking it on my next camping trip.

archives encore

The previous selection was less about authorship than content. This selection is more about the latter and less about the former.  But, really, who can argue with adolescent poetry for abject quality?  These are all taken from a blank book I had in 9th grade called The Nothing Book, which was intended as a starting place but which I kept as a title.  It was circulated about amongst anyone who cared to write in it.  "DOE" is date of entry.

theirs:

and because keeping safe my own adolescent angst seems unfair:


[from when I used to sneak out onto the roof to smoke:]

[this one must be from 10th grade:]

from the archives

This weekend, I opened a box of notes exchanged between me and my classmates during junior high school.  Most of them were too adolescent to bear re-reading, but overall it was a nostalgic experience.  I object to facebook's photo policy (i.e., I object to their "right" to steal my images), and so am posting a selection here.

Perhaps worth noting:

• "silent bell" refers to the year the school decided to turn off the bells that indicated the start and finish of class/passing time
• "W/B" abbreviates "write back," but is so often followed by its translation that one wonders how the texting culture ever managed to become established

I have fewer of my own notes (presumably having delivered the majority to their intended recipients), but here are a few examples:

And some from other folks, whose privacy I've tried to protect:

 

 

 The next one is from one of the valedictorians of our class (we had ten, for some reason).  I'm relatively certain she didn't actually think l'école était très stupide.

 The sad part about the next one is the sheer number of notes I have from this particular person, and I don't know who he is.  Even though I referenced him in the lavender flowers note above.  They almost all contain "I don't need you I don't want you" -- maybe a song lyric? -- and then ask for some commitment of attention or attendance at an event.  Hopefully I was nice to him.

 [From the same guy]  You don't like my little brother?  You mean, the kid who's going to blow his brains out next year at the tender age of 14?  On second thought, perhaps I don't care whether or not I was nice to you.  I certainly don't give a fuck what you think about my brother.

 From the guy I was dating, who was apparently having trouble fending off my competition?

they know about the power of greyskull

Recently, my best friend (who was visiting from out of town) chided me about the amount of time I spend on facebook.  Given the amount of time she spends sending and receiving text messages, I'm not sure she's in a place to criticize, but neither can I really object.  There was one day last week when I checked my mobile facebook before I got out of bed.  At the time, it seemed a good excuse to remain sequestered within the coziness for just one more minute...but as it turns out, I may have an addiction.  So, how did this happen?

Far from being a social butterfly with numerous network connections requiring maintenance, I'm perhaps an eremetic tortoise, rarely sticking my nose outside the house unless it's required.  As a younger tortoise, I attempted to channel the butterfly, but I wasn't well-suited to all the flitting about and niceties and obligations.  While a carapace may seem fairly aerodynamic, it's awkward and limits mobility.  It's terribly convenient, however, when one is overstimulated and craves respite.  For the record, I have never gotten carried away with my own analogies.

Facebook is socialization at arm's length.  It enables wall-flowering, permits admiration from afar, and provides a socially acceptable medium for inserting comments at one's comfort level.  It provides a sense of social connection without overwhelming the hypersensitive natures of the un-social.  (I'm not antisocial, per se, just afflicted with a mild allergy for crowds.  Actually, I think it's growing in severity.)  I did not even consider attending my high school reunion last year, but I have enjoyed "friending" some classmates who I haven't seen since graduation.  It turns out they're mostly grown-ups now, too, and we can interact on more even ground than we did as teenagers.  Developmental psychology posits that there is an aspect of human nature that compels us to check in against our cohort group; it seems reasonable that the ideal cohort is the group with which one is locked up to gain one's education.  The most interesting part of facebook reunion-ing was posting a pile of old pictures I'd scanned and tagging former classmates, who then left comments ranging from protestations against adolescent awkwardness to nostalgia to condemnations of the insular environment.  One girl -- er, woman -- commented to the effect of, "if only we'd known the world was so much bigger outside of high school!"  Umm, sweetie?  Those of us who were aware of that fact were just waiting for our release.

 On facebook, a person can have at least a peripheral awareness of the events in the lives of many others, and participate in their updates at a self-selected level.  It's kind of amazing how it creates a common ground amongst people whose lives may have taken disparate paths many years ago.

unexpected expenses

Driving home today, we came across a group of people hoisting hand-painted signs advertising a carwash, bakesale, and Mexican food for sale.  I thought it was a strange combination of goods and services, and an unlikely location (in a residential neighborhood).  Then one of the women said, "Help me bury my baby."  One of the banners said the event was a funeral fundraiser.

Those life insurance commercials say the average funeral costs over $6000, and I started to wonder.  So I ran some numbers.  According to this local service, basic preparation of the body, a rental casket, a short service, and an urn will run $3195.  I included embalming in the figures because sometimes it's required, even if the family doesn't want it.  There'd be additional cost for a person to conduct a service, or to buy a casket and deliver it to an interment site -- which also carries a cost -- and to have flowers or other displays at the service.  Going even more basic ("minimal preparation" of the remains and cremation in a cardboard container) brings the cost under $500, and the venue even offers the use of its chapel for 1/2 hour.

Generally speaking, a person doesn't plan to hold a funeral for his or her children, so it's an unexpected expense.  And, also generally speaking, children don't have life insurance policies to cover their "final expenses."  In my neighborhood, I seriously doubt most people have $3195 sitting around to spend on a funeral.  But for those who are deeply religious or who just feel strongly about having a memorial service to remember a life lived, a bare minimum processing of remains simply adds insult to unimaginable injury.

Amazingly, this woman appeared to have a lot of moral support, as there were a dozen or so people at the roadside advertising the fundraising event, and more managing the sales and services.  People can be such good and altruistic creatures sometimes.

to plate

Presentation of food is important to appetite.  Otherwise, there'd be much less parsley in the world, and "plating" would still refer to the coating of a surface with metal.  Don't read this post if you'd prefer your food not watch you eat it.

So, you're in an American grocery store, doing the shopping.  You pick up the produce, check its color, sniff it, squeeze it, heft it, knock on it and listen for hollowness or denseness or just a pleasing resonant frequency.  Sometimes there's even a paid employee giving out samples, so you can have quality assurance before committing.

And then you arrive at the deli or meat counter.  [Disclaimer: I've been a vegetarian for most of my life.  Qualifier: I have no objection to the responsible harvesting of animals for food.]  How do you select your meat products? -- by color, texture, fat content?  How do you judge their freshness?  There's been some hoopla about treating meat with carbon monoxide to keep its red color longer, and I assure you I have opinions about that, but it's a different topic.  My parents eat a lot of fish, a phenomenon which seems to be growing with concerns about "bad" cholesterol, obesity, and the popularity of the Mediterranean diet.  In selecting their fish, they're looking for freshness and the source of the animal, which are associated with healthfulness and sustainability.  Many medium-sized fish are sold "cleaned" (read: gutted) and with their heads and/or tails still attached.  Allegedly, fresh fish have clear eyes; cloudy eyes mean the fish was less healthy and/or spent more time on the shelf.

Americans, generally speaking, don't buy things to eat that (currently) have heads.  American delis and meat counters present meat in neatly anonymous butchered chunks, packaged securely in plastic wrap with its flaws cut off and sold separately for the family dog, whose tastes are, presumably, less discriminating.  American consumers are comfortably separated from the process by which the doe-eyed animals at the petting zoo become options in a refrigerated display case.  It's not even labeled for the animal it came from; rather an additional degree of separation is achieved through euphemisms like pork chops, filet mignon ("cute cut"), ham hock, bacon strips.  The renaming applies most to pigs -- perhaps because they're thought of as dirty animals -- and red meat, and less so to poultry, which is recognized as having breasts, thighs, and wings.  These last are discernable body parts, whereas the typical person can't point to a cow and identify the source of a skirt steak, although ribs and shoulders are more familiar.

And yet, fish are sold with heads on.  In some cases, they're cooked with heads on, and served as though they might watch you pick daintily away at what remains of their bodies.  I think Americans prefer meat acquired from a larger-than-single-serving-size animal.  There's less uncomfortable mental processing required to consume an anonymous cut of meat than there is when served a mostly intact body: shall I begin at the head or the tail?  It's rather like eating a chocolate bunny.  Additionally, being served an entire animal body requires acknowledgment of a life lost: one head per person per meal.  I think that's an uncomfortable realization for people who'd prefer to just enjoy their dinners, rather than reflect too deeply upon their arrival on the plate.  The sprig of parsley no doubt helps.

to whom it may concern: i demand satisfaction!

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.

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 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.

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