Exasperation, irritation…

…frustration.

Lacking a punching bag and the requisite energy to jab the punching bag, I need to find an appropriate substitute. I’m going to assign blame to my hair. Yesterday, I went for the periodical untangling of the rat’s nest and shearing of the fleece. As hairdressers are wont to do, mine straightened the curls. I don’t care for this, as a rule, but she actually makes it look like something other than newsreader hair so I keep my gob shut and let her attack me with the flat iron. Now I have a headache because trying to keep the mess out of my eyes is a Herculean effort. The hair – it knows not what to do. It just wants to hang…straight…in my face. Now, don’t get me wrong, I usually keep the hair wild and longish so I can hide behind it but I do this of my own volition. I AM IN CONTROL – not the fucking hair. This is me. Right now.

Contributing to my positively shitty mood is my struggle with a stupid essay I have been trying to write for five or six (sive) weeks now. Oh yes, I crow about how wonderful it is to limit myself to essays. I say “Why yes, real writers of books and things, if I get bored or if a concept refuses to come together, I can just bin the shit and move on to the next because I am awesome, lazy and lacking in discipline.” The sad, pathetic truth is that I might find myself reworking something to the point of madness. Barking madness. Madness that results in stuffing cookies in my face and retreating to my bed to snuggle two stuffed bunnies and whichever cat decides to grace me with his or her presence (lately, it’s been Annabel – the kitty that is so muscular and solid, it feels like a cinder block is crushing your legs). It is as ridiculous as it sounds, especially given the pajamas that I’m wearing when I engage in this behavior.

My undoing, my descent into rambling lunacy came at the hands of an upgrade. Miss Thang actually got off her ass and renewed the domain and upgraded the website early this year. The upgrade has given me power and nothing is more intoxicating to Kang than power (ok…maybe a foreign accent emanating from a handsome man or a quality Belgian beer). Knowing that my involvement with style sheets and CSS results in bad things, I refrained from going anywhere near that mess. No one wants to help unfuck whatever fuckups I make while coding. People would sooner try to figure out my parents’ A/V rig than sort out what I call coding and that’s saying quite a lot because the A/V rig cum home entertainment system is a hot fucking mess of a nightmare.

But I’m genuinely irritated because I ~~might~~ have OCD tendencies.

Depending on the device and/or platform I use to access the site, the justification is off. I make adjustments for tablets and it skews the view for computers. I make adjustments for computers and tablets and mobile devices suffer. The alignment looks a lot like my son’s handwriting did in the beginning of the school year (or my husband’s current penmanship). I look at the analytics and the device mix is 50/50 so no matter my decision, I’m going make sweet, sweet fuckery love to one segment of the wittew audience we have. And, yes, I might just be like the average male who is driving a car and finds himself lost; I’m not going to ask for directions or guidance. I’m going to drive in circles until the tears flow freely and the tank is empty. Which is where I am now – on a park bench, stroking myself (not in that way, you disgusting pervert) and telling myself I’m pretty and I have value to someone, somewhere (likely only my parents or my kid).

Right now, the Emotional Traffic Light Engagement essay (see – even the concept sounds clunky) is back in the draft bin for the millionth time, paragraphs are askew in some posts and my sack of fucks to give is very small and lacking depth (Dock just loves that line).

Round Robin Exercise

A refresher for those who have been following since the days of Kang World and an explanation for those who are t3h n00bz.

For a short while, we used to pick a theme and everyone would write something within that. Usually it was some version of longform because I cannot poem. Seriously, I cannot even write a haiku – I’m that fucking useless in this regard. But we did this and it was challenging and fun. Please don’t ask me to unearth the archives because I cannot be arsed to code, migrate or resurrect the dead. My skillz are mad but they are limited.

Anyhow, while we’re introducing some new things: Go Fuck Yourself Weekly (double entendre intended), we’re going to bring back some old things. The Round Robin is one but it may not be permanent.

Brian Kurcaba of West Virginia made a horrendous comment about rape, unplanned pregnancy and abortion this week. Automatically, we decided he was going to be nominated for GFYW. As I started to work through some ideas, I realized I wanted to tell a story. Kitten has a story, too. Actually, a lot of people have a story to tell. These stories are about sexual abuse (any form). The mere thought of condensing these stories just doesn’t sit well with me. It didn’t sit well with her or another RMer, either. After some discussion about how best to approach this topic, keep it isolated from the rest of the site due to the content, be sensitive to others and work with the limitations of WordPress, we decided it would be best if we put the Round Robin in a page (you can see it at the tippy-top, next to About) and have our posts as subs, just as our bios are. For whatever reason, I decided to spew first. Just in one of those wormholes today.

This is not funny content. It’s not supposed to be funny content. The content is deeply personal, graphic and potentially upsetting. You’re not going to be able to unsee this, folks. We ask that you take the time to read the Round Robin detail and respect the rules of engagement. We ask that you read the detail in advance of reading the pages as they are published. We’re not going to push them en masse. From my perspective, not only does one have to be willing to write the story – they have to be willing to hit publish and deal with everything that comes with hitting publish.

So that is what is brewing today.

In a few hours or a few days, the snark will be back. The snark never leaves. It does like a nap now and then, though. And the poets, they’re still here, as well. Well, they’re actually outside building their first snowman or shoveling snow or complaining about snow or thinking about getting the fuck away from snow. Whatever. Normality is just around the corner, y’all.

Random Misanthrope’s…

….Go Fuck Yourself Weekly!!!

Since my return from my self-imposed exile, I have refrained from scribbling about politics because, at this point, it’s pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s effortless skewering requiring little thought – these idiots write the material themselves. All we need to do is read any old newspaper (note: NOT BLOG. A blog is not a legitimate news source, you right winged asshats. Neither is a newsletter from your local “I have a throbbing hard-on for the 2^nd Amendment” gun club.) and it’s all there in its glory. Be it from Palin, LePage (a personal favorite of mine), Chris “Governor Sammiches” Christie or Rand Paul – it is an infinite font of stupid. Thus, I have been reluctant to dispense of the stink-eye because *everyone* is doing that and Kang is not a joiner. Kang is a trendsetter. Remember that. ಠ_ಠ

Until today.

Until I had some inspiration. Or…several sources of inspiration.

Aside from my daily devouring of various LIEberal (tut tut tut) media websites, I also troll for memes and keep a reasonable cache of them for quick and easy reference. I do this because, sadly, my humor is not far removed from that of a 12 year old boy or the average 4chan user. The more ridiculous the meme the better, too. For instance – take any children’s show, slap adult language on top of it and I’ll keel over with laughter. It has become the visual version of the “what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs?” jokes that, for whatever reason, bring forth a laughter induced asthma attack. Not only am I a cheap date, I’m easily amused by dad jokes and shit.

Between the reading of the news and the trolling of the memes, I thought “Hmmm…it’s been years since we have done any sort of writing exercises. The last time I had posted any asshole du jour spleen vents was back when Kang World was still Kang World – 2008, mebbe? What if I tried a serial? Do I have the attention span and stamina for that?” Welp – let’s find out. And let’s give it a catchy title, too. How about: “Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly?” A nice lilt. No irritating alliteration. Includes the word “fuck.” Ok, possible. I might get bored and change things if I find it’s not succinct enough. Or, I might get bored and forget about it altogether (the more likely of the two possibilities). But let’s just amuse the strange lady and let her have her moment, shall we?

The inaugural installment of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly is dedicated to the junior senator from my current state (how I miss living in a Commonwealth. It sounds much more dignified.), Thom Tillis.

Thom Tillis. Think about this for a second. Thom. Thom with an h. This annoys me. This annoys me almost as much as Toms who spell their names with the letter ö. No, assholes, your names are not pronounced “Teum” so, for fuck’s sake, stop using a letter that has no place in American English. Just stop it. And to you, Senator Tillis…learn to spell. You’re making us Southerners look bad.

Once upon a time, Pa Tillis and Ma Tillis birthed a baby in Jacksonville, FL, America (see…he’s not even from here. Wait…most of us aren’t. Never mind.). Being born a white male in the United States, this lad was destined for great things and a life of marginal leisure. After frittering about at two universities (1/2 the amount of colleges attended by Sarah Palin), he managed to obtain his sheepskin at the tender age of 36. According to Wikipedia, the source of all things correct and valid, Senator Tillis’ life of public service began shortly after moving to suburban Charlotte and serving on the park board for his town (Leslie Knope or Leslie NOPE). After serving as town commissioner for two years and getting a taste of that sweet, sweet nectar that is power, Tillis set his eyes on a higher branch of government, The State House of Representatives.

Really? Who the fuck cares. The guy is our junior senator because the evil Koch brothers bought an election and threw an otherwise competent and exceedingly moderate senator out on her ass (Sorry, Kay. I tried. I really tried.).

Yesterday (see how interested I am in the body politic these days), Thom-with-an-h makes some noise news. This bastion of Conservative Values® thinks that people who work in the food service industry should be freed of the yoke of socialist oppression and have the freedom to decide whether or not to wash their own damn hands (soap optional) after throwing mud, as our Founding Fathers intended. I guess that’s reducing the stranglehold of the nanny state? But…he does feel that a sign should be posted (so, would that not be a form of…regulation????). Ultimately, Senathor Thillis feels the Frhee Marketh will remedy the situation and the businesses that don’t make their employees engage in appropriate hygiene practices will go under. That’s great, Thom. What happens in the interim when one of the poorly paid line cooks comes back from his trip to the potty with a ½ wiped ass and unclean paws and gives everyone an extra serving of E. Coli with their barbecue? Please refrain from saying the market will take care of that. It won’t. Now shut up and sit down before I make you sit in a corner or something.

So, for the man who thinks that public health is a non-issue, the man who thinks excrement the perfect flavor enhancer for any meal – all I have to say is “Congratulations for being the first in a line of an esteemed many!” or until I get bored with the concept of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly.

Hugs and kisses
/Kang

A very middle class…

…sort of afternoon.

Let me start by saying that I have an extreme disdain for A Southern Season on the weekend. For the years that I worked at the hospital, I was able to skitter over to A Southern Season during lunch, snap up what was necessary and get the fuck out without having to deal with the doddering, old people trawling for free samples. I was able to avoid overhearing the annoying conversations between Bitsy and Tweety about their quilted handbags and their grandchildren. I didn’t have to dig down deep within myself to find the restraint necessary to avoid grabbing a Wüsthof knife and driving it through the heart of a Junior League member lamenting about how hard it is to find good help these days. Also, I didn’t have to play dodge the portable oxygen tank. As I have said previously, that is the must have accessory for a majority of the clientele.

I have long maintained that there should be certain hours set aside for those of us who need to shop for actual groceries so we can get in and out without any irritation. Call me bougie all you want but there are certain food stuffs that I can only get there or I can pay 50 trillion dollars in shipping to some weird internet shop specializing in French salami and Kalles kaviar (not that I would dare eat that shit). Also, blame my father for this. He was the one who foisted this upon me. I was perfectly fine with a diet of Pop-Tarts and scorched meat (my stepfather, my lovely, learned stepfather…my wonderful stepfather who should not be permitted to touch meat at all) until I moved in with my father. Then my life turned into “eat like a proper European and like it or starve.” Also, have some wine with dinner…even if you’re only 9 (ok…even if you’re only 17).

On Christmas, I made a horrible discovery. We had one jar of lingonsylt (lingon berries) remaining. There is an Ikea in Charlotte but it’s an Ikea…in Charlotte. People go there as a tourist destination. Anyone who needs to get in, get lingonsylt and get the fuck out does not have the time to waste driving two hours only to deal with drop-jawed morons stumbling and bumbling through a low grade furniture store, massacring the names of Scandinavian towns. Also, there are no meetings for work scheduled in Charlotte in the near future so I have no actual reason to go to Charlotte. Further complicating my life is the obliteration of Ericsson’s footprint in RTP (thank goodness I left Ericsson for the current job). Finding Swedish anything at the regular grocery store is no longer a possibility. No more Ballerina cookies. No more Felix anything. My choices for acquiring Swedish foods are now limited to Ikea, the internet, begging for parcels from my friends or going to A Southern Season (or ASS as my husband calls it). I make köttbullar (Swedish meatballs or shitballs, if you’re my husband) often enough that we must have a reasonable inventory of lingonsylt. Köttbullar without lingonsylt is like college without beer – why bother?

So, I break the news that Milkface is going to have to run a marginally uninteresting errand with Mommy today. He was in his fort in the living room and stayed silent in hope that I would forget that I had a child. I lured him out with the promise of a handsome reward/threat of death. It never ceases to amaze me that the child who is never tired always seems to come down with chronic fatigue syndrome whenever it’s time to get dressed to run an errand. I manage to get his limp body into clothes, bundle him up and stuff him in the car. Then he forces me to listen to Avril Latrine (yeah…Avril Latrine. When you have to listen to Avril Lavigne over and over and over again until your ears bleed, she becomes Avril Latrine. And believe me, this is one time I find myself wishing my hearing impairment is way worse than it actually is, too.) ½ way up I-40. The child, he’s good. He’s already mastered the art of manipulation from his conniving, scheming and evil mother.

We get to ASS, walk through the doors and Milky inhales. He immediately recognizes the smell of happiness. The smell that brings much joy and harmony to the house. The smell that represents comfort, sanity and security because Mommy isn’t losing her shit over something inconsequential: coffee. Milky is intrigued. Milky is comforted. Milky is willing to push the cart and cooperate. We head over to the jam aisle and start our search for lingonsylt. There were four jars. We scooped up three. I always feel guilty taking the entire stock of whatever in the event that there is someone else who is having an emergency. I would hate to be the asshole that caused distress because I took everything (see, I am considerate!). Then I noticed the rows and rows of French jams Dock and I fell in love with while on one of our trench hiking holidays so I placed a few of those in the cart. After that – marmalade because my father loves marmalade. Examining the cart, I’m thinking we have the equivalent of Milky’s freshman year of college tuition in jam and decide it’s time to move along. But where to next? We satisfied the need: lingonsylt. We obtained the want: jam. Oooooh…bread! Must have bread for all this glorious jam. To the bakery, we go. And now, my ambivalent sloth of a child is getting into the experience. After a brief discussion, we decide brioche would be better than several croissant so we get a loaf of that. I think that may have cost more than my boots.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Milky drifting towards the left to the case with the desserts. Of course. There are two King cakes in the case and Milky loves anything that is sparkly and purple. The whining begins in earnest. Lower lip protrudes, eyes well with crocodile tears but I manage to convince him to hold off for a minute. What Milky doesn’t realize is that ASS has a candy section that is something to behold. And this is where things get a little weird and where I fail to understand how the brain of a five year old functions at times because five year olds glom on to some really weird shit.

On our way to candy land, we cruise by my mother’s concept of heaven: cookware and cutlery. Rows upon rows of knives (which she may or may not wield when I arrive home with another tattoo; not unlike the first time I came home with a tattoo when she waved a chef’s knife at me and was certainly not smiling) twinkling beneath the lights strategically placed to showcase the wares. Shelf upon shelf of Le Creuset cookware and bakeware. Milkface notes the lack of purple cookware and wonders if Bubbe can do anything about that (note to mom: I’m totally serious). A table display of Scanpans are taunting me. Then my weird kid fixates on a pie bird. Of course he reaches for it (what five year old wouldn’t grab something fragile) and demands to know what it is, what it does and, of course, can he have it. I explain why pie birds are used and that Mommy isn’t big on baking pies but this is irrelevant. Milky now wants a pie bird. Oh…and the pie bird should be made by Le Creuset (properly pronounced) and preferably red or purple (because purple is his favorite color and red is the favorite color of his bestie). Somehow, I’m now finding myself in a lamentation reserved for an Op/Ed piece in The Guardian about Middle Class Shame. This is all very confusing. Especially given the fact that I look like something that has been pulled out of a shower drain and dressed in a Ponyville Public Library shirt, jeans and ratty cowgirl boots.

I finally manage to lure the child to the candy section and watch what every parent dreams of, even if they’re unwilling to admit it, a face awash in joy at the sight of endless candy and impending tooth decay. As is Milky’s wont, he stands still and processes all that he sees before diving in. Then the “May I have…” begins. At first, I restrain him much to his chagrin. I don’t want him loading up the cart with the first thing he sees or stuff he can get anywhere (supply chain toady represent – we do not buy M&Ms at an exorbitant markup). I want him to explore a bit. I want him to have the full kid-in-the-candy-store experience. We cruise the aisles looking at all the things. He recognizes the goodies Uncle Magnus brings him from Sweden. He sees lollipops with insects in them. Then he finds the good stuff…the stuff of infinite possibilities…the bulk candy: jelly beans, chocolate of endless varieties, gummy this and gummy that, licorice, gumballs, jawbreakers. Then it’s time to really blow his mind, I put on one of those non-latex gloves, grab a handful of empty bags and tell him he can have whatever he wants. Who has two thumbs and is mom of the year? This train wreck. And load up the bags we did. The staff smiled. The other patrons sneered. Let them. My kid and I were having a moment, dammit.

Even after we had cleaned out a good bit of the gummy inventory, Milky still had his mind on the bakery and the pie bird. And, because I have done a stellar job of spoiling the child rotten, I suspected that there was going to be an addition to what was already in the cart. I managed to distract Milkface from the pie bird by taunting him with stinky cheese. Then we negotiated a deal – there would be no King cake coming home (it was large, it’s not yet Mardi Gras and I don’t care for holiday creep as it is) but Milky could have petit fours or an individual cake. He chose sponge cake with strawberry mousse. And somewhere, the bougie brigade agreed to overlook the fromage foul, grant me a pass on the pile of gummy goodness in the cart and allow me to keep my tastefully muted membership card granting me access to the most exclusive of food and beverage markets provided Milkface partake of ethically sourced foie gras by the end of February.

Once that was all said and done, we left ASS and walked through the remaining shops of University Mall (all four of them – maybe five?) where Milky was additionally rewarded with his first pieces of art glass because a cultured lad is never young enough to start building his own collection. He selected a plane, a turtle, a heart and an octopus (or maybe I chose that for myself?).

And as I sit here, with Scooby Doo (might I say – I really dislike Scooby Doo) in the background, I’m having a hard time figuring out if today is 2015 and Milky’s childhood or if it’s 1976 and my childhood. My parents saw nothing wrong with taking me to a gourmet grocery store and feeding me food that grown-ups eat. They didn’t see anything wrong with allowing an outrageous indulgence now and then. If there was something random and weird that I wanted and I was well behaved, I could, conceivably, have been rewarded with the random and weird object. Today, it appears that I gave Milky a little of what was given to me – a little bit of the weird, magical, offbeat childhood that I had that a lot of kids didn’t necessarily experience. While I may make fun of myself for the excess, I’m also quite proud to pass along the some of the kookiness. And, maybe there will come a day when Milky is flying solo with a kid of his own, doing the same nonsensical, silly things while thinking about the day that his goofball of a mom did the same with him. Parenting may feel like a series of really long and really frustrating days but the reality of the situation is that it is a very narrow allocation of time. The ultimate goal is to raise kids to be self-sufficient and self-actualized adults. But…who is to say that the process can’t be fun, too?

“There is nothing like puking with somebody…

…to make you into old friends.” – Sylvia Plath

Note: For Clifton. For the only person who comes close to understanding.

It’s winter and winter, in my opinion, is a useless season. It’s boring. It traps us in the house, it shrouds us in darkness and makes us overeat. It drives some of us bananas. For as much as I love Sweden, I don’t know if I could handle living there permanently because the mere thought of very few hours of sunlight a day horrifies me. And, I don’t think the light box therapy would do much for me, either. Neither would copious amounts of vitamin D. Winter just sucks. It makes my fingers and toes turn bone white if they’re not wrapped up in thick socks and gloves, my skin crack and it gives me cabin fever. Compared to Kate, I handle winter well. Kate loathed winter. It sucked the life out of her – so much so that she lacked the energy to spew a torrent of fury about how much she despised winter. The most she would say was “I hate winter. I’m going back to bed. Wake me when spring comes.” Maybe she should have been a bear? Maybe we should all be bears? I wouldn’t object to hibernating. I really like to sleep, I don’t care much for the insanity between Thanksgiving and New Years and the only thing I would really miss is post-season football (and, as an Eagles fan, it’s not as if I would be missing much there, either).

To get through the tedium of winter, Kate and I started building little rituals. For a while, we saw each other over Martin Luther King, Jr weekend. Were we being servicey? Nope. Were we drunk? Yup. Did we sit in a lump on the sofa, under a pile of blankets and overdose on carbs, cheese and wine? Of course! We would also watch really crappy movies, eat more really crappy food, paint our toenails, lament about guys and life in general and spend money on clothes. Kate’s mood was usually meh even if she was happy to have company. I was thrilled to escape the doldrums of daily life and see Kate. Anytime there is a change in geography, my spirits immediately perk up a little. My perkiness likely annoyed Kate but she tolerated it.

Spring, though, spring was the time of year where Kate and I would go bananas. Spring spelled trouble. We started celebrating Easter together in our own little way. Our sole observation of Easter, itself, was eating the ears and tails of chocolate bunnies. Maybe a few jellybeans. Certainly a lot of bread (ok…so she had her fill of the Body of Christ, I suppose). Kate was a health nut and carbs were off limits and only to be enjoyed when her less than healthy friend, Kang, would come rolling into town. Throwing a loaf of freshly baked bread at Kate was like dumping catnip on the floor and watching a trillion cats come streaming out of the woodwork. Through mouthfuls she would always say “Oh…my…god…this…is…sooooooo…good. I…cannot…stop.” :chomp gnaw chomp gnaw gulp gulp gulp: Then she would reach for another loaf and a glass of wine to wash it down.

Do you really think carbs were trouble for us, though? Really? Come on, now.

Putting together a renewed Kate and an excitable Kang is like the clichéd putting the two things together in chem lab that results in an explosion which causes the evacuation of an entire school and surrounding neighborhood. Bad things or potentially scary things happen. Use of judgment is suspended. It becomes an exercise in giving zero fucks, albeit not instantaneously. It takes a while to get the ball rolling. During my “eulogy” (I really don’t want to call it that but I’m not sure what else one would call it), I explained that Kate and I were yin-yang. When Kate came alive, there were no limits. She was bold and she took risks. Kate could be wild, fun and outgoing. Meanwhile, she would be dragging along her shy (until certain level of intoxication was achieved) pal who had the proverbial rod up her ass at all times. You know the type – the woman who would dust off seats before sitting down because she’s a freakish germaphobe; the woman who worried if the guys we were talking to would try to slip roofies in our drinks. Why Kate never pulled the rod out of my ass and clubbed me over the head with it remains a mystery but there was one instance where my being a total tight-ass worked in our favor (we may or may not have bogarted someone’s entire stash of weed while camping out at a NASCAR race and they may or may not have expected compensation in forms other than monetary and I may or may not have suggested that we run like the fucking wind to get away only to end up falling into a gully and having Kate standing over me, laughing too hard to help me out of the gully with the worms, snakes, tarantulas, alligators, rodents, scorpions, grizzly bears, wild boar, etc…).

Easter weekend always resulted in several incriminating photos of us (once, she decided we were going line dancing and dressed me in head to toe denim – RED, made me wear ropers with fringe and teased my hair). One night always ended with our running away from men who thought our game of “let’s see how many free drinks we can get from these weasels” wasn’t a fun game for them. One of us was usually screaming “OMG! RUN! Run faster!” Alternatively, “Hide here. They’ll never find us here (the aforementioned gully was not part of the ‘hide here’ plan)!” Most nights culminated at the Waffle House with a table full of food while we mewled incorrect lyrics to really shitty country songs. And in our drunken, maudlin stupor, we made plans for our retirement. No matter where we were in life, no matter what we accomplished, no matter how much money we had, how many husbands we had been through, how many children were involved, Kate and I were going to buy a house somewhere in the South (preferably near water) with a giant porch. We were going to have 20 million cats, sit on the porch, gum our dinners off of tv trays and gossip about everyone who walked by. We would also be doing this while wearing all the really nice clothes we had purchased during the daylight hours while we were sober. And maybe some of the jewelry, too. Ok…definitely the jewelry and none of that cheap shit for us, either. Sure, there was a time and a place for paste and there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with wearing costume jewelry but we were ladies and, as such, we demanded the good stuff from the men who would not be permitted to live in our retirement home. They (the men) were, however, welcome to live a few doors down and come over to fix whatever was broken. We may have hatched these plans while we were seeing double, stumbling drunk and on our way to throw up the delicious vittles we just stuffed in our faces at the Waffle House but we were always, always pragmatists.

Oh…and did I mention shopping? Yes, it might seem like something that girlfriends do together but Kate and I have been doing that together since we were fifteen or sixteen years old. We were exceptionally impatient with each other on our particular snipe hunts for the perfect whatever. Kate’s sense of style was impeccable – from slutty chic to well put together slob – she could pull it off. Whereas I was floundering in the finest of corporate attire (something which caused her considerable angst when she saw me in a suit and pearls for the first time). Kate also possessed this uncanny ability to find the niftiest stuff at second hand shops (again, something I would never dream of doing since…GERMS). One weekend, I lamented that I didn’t have a decent pair of jeans so Kate took it upon herself to find one for me. She regretted it from the minute she volunteered. How did I know she regretted it? We lost count at pair number 80 (no embellishment). As she brought pair after pair back to me in the dressing room, she went from knocking on the door and handing them to me to throwing them over the door. Then the throwing became aggressive with intent to harm. Probably around pair 90, I decided that I would take two of the same solely because I didn’t want to lose an eye. But…when you’re with your best friend, even assault by denim and whiffs of pending death are simply signs that you’re loved dearly.

Sundays would eventually come and it would be time for me to load the car. Usually, at this point, the sisterly aspect of our friendship would manifest itself. There was a lot of “Oooooh…I love you so very much, I’m so glad you came but…please get the fuck out.” on her part and I would be thinking “Oh…I love you very much. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Please try not to get us killed the next time we get together.” We would stuff all of my shopping loot in the trunk, pound the trunk shut, exchange hugs and kisses and I would be on my way back to Raleigh where I knew a verbal spanking awaited me for my husband did not view these weekends as fondly as I. To this day, I remain confused by that. Granted, I may have spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment or two but it’s not like I was arrested or anything. It’s not like I came home with a second husband. And, really, what’s another tattoo, anyhow? It’s my body; not his.

Whenever spring rolls around now, I wait until the yellow clouds of pollen settle and then I go for a drive on the back roads near the house. I roll down the windows and open the sunroof as Kate would do. I’ll play music that Kate would listen to (except the Grateful Dead. Kate – I’m so, so very sorry but I cannot abide by that shit and you know it) or might like now. I’ll think of our high jinks and smile a devilish smile. I’ll choke back a tear or two and remind myself that I’m supposed to be enjoying this moment on her behalf. Then, I’ll return home and resume life with no one knowing what I have just done because best friends, among many things, are also the keepers of the secrets. If I’m feeling particularly untethered or lost, I might pull out the hatbox full of the pictures she loved to take and send and go through them. Or, I’ll go through my closet and look at the clothes I bought during one of our many sprees. And then, I’ll envision Kate rolling her eyes at me, making a silly face and laughing at me for being the closeted, sentimental fool that I am. The side of me that only Kate and a very select few ever get to see because, again, secrets.

In real time, it’s the end of January. MLK Jr weekend has passed. Easter has yet to arrive. My fingers and toes are still bone white and totally numb. I’m in total agreement with Kate about the eternal suckitude that is winter – especially winters that bring only cold rain and no snow. At least light reflects off of snow and no matter how old you are, you can play in snow. My hibernation tendencies are high but there are things to be done. Milky and I need to go find lingonsylt today since the grocery store near our house stopped carrying it. Much to my surprise, the end of the month of single-momming it finds me upright and marginally pleasant but I believe a lot has to do with the fact that each day, I try to do one thing that Kate would enjoy doing. One thing to keep Kate’s spirit present. One thing to keep Kate with me in a way that’s more than just a memory. Maybe today will be about a freshly baked loaf of bread or maybe it will involve a giant nap? Maybe I’ll be wild and crazy and do both if Milky allows. I will certainly do one thing, regardless of Milkface’s plan: think of spring.

You load sixteen tons, what do you get…

…Another day older and deeper in debt.

A few years ago, Mat Honan wrote a piece for Gizmodo called Generation X is Sick of Your Bullshit. Outwardly, we Gen Xers read the article and responded with a nod and “mmhmm.” Inwardly, most of us were jumping up and down, screaming “Can I get an Amen, brotha man?” We are sick of your bullshit. But we have always been sick of your bullshit. And who is the “you?” Everyone else who isn’t us. We are legion. We are misanthrope. You are welcome to kiss our asses, get the fuck out or die in a fire. Your choice. I don’t care. Really. I just don’t care. Just do it, do it now and preferably without much noise because I have fucking work to do and my stress level is way too fucking high because, thanks to you corporate, soulless baby boomers – pensions are no longer an option. You may suck my non-existent dick for that. I love not having financial security. Really. Sincerely. I love not being able to sleep at night knowing that my entire future rides on the backs of people in a largely unregulated industry where malfeasance goes unpunished. I love that this crushing pressure has reduced me to a rambling idiot who should be locked away in a padded cell for the protection of all mankind. Thanks for the solid, bitches.

For some time now, we have been hearing about “change” at my current sandbox. No one knew how this change would manifest itself. We had our own conspiracy theories but there was no valid inkling as to what lies ahead for us. Our organization is a shape shifter so most of us ignore the whole “change” warning and continue banging away at our keyboards until we’re told to come to a meeting and meet our new boss. Then we go back to banging away at our keyboards. One of my former bosses said during one of these re-orgs that he had been with the company X amount of years and had seven different managers. I interpreted that message as “Don’t fret about job security. This is simply our corporate culture.” and I resumed banging away at my keyboard like 100 monkeys on typewriters.

The “change” messages picked up steam shortly after the New Year and there was a different tone to them. A sense of urgency, maybe? I couldn’t put my apathetic finger on it but, instinctively, I didn’t like what I was hearing. I certainly didn’t like what I was feeling in my gut. Then I started losing some sleep.

Last weekend, I was at lunch with my father. My father, being of the Silent Generation, understands what it’s like to be overlooked or fucked over on a consistent basis. He also has keen insight into what I do since he was a supply chain wonk for many years, as well (my following in my father’s swag sneaker footprints was entirely coincidental). My father appreciates the misery of going to a production meeting, having zero inventory of a necessary part and knowing the line is going to stop because you’re the purchasing manager and you’re responsible for everything – even if you cannot control everything. He also taught me my most treasured retort in my entire career: “What do you want me to do? Eat iron and shit parts?” Trust me on this one – when you’re the only female manager in the entire ops division and you say that in a production meeting – you turn some fucking heads.

So, Daddy asks “Are you worried about what’s coming?” I thought for a minute and said “Yes and no? I’m sort of Zen about the whole thing. After all, I’m a Gen Xer. Yes. I’m terrified I could be made redundant or be laid off for no reason because I’m the primary bread winner and that would mean the family ends up homeless. Yet, I’m not worried because I have dealt with this level of bullshit my entire career.” And Gen Xers have.

Back in the glorious, money grabbing 90s, if you worked in RTP and you didn’t like your job or your comp & ben packet, you could walk across the street, announce your presence and say “I would like to work here, make $xx,xxx or $xxx,xxx and have y-amount of paid time off” and you would likely get a job. Maybe you would luck into some stock options. You would also have a cafeteria plan for health insurance. My first job in RTP had a dry cleaning service that came to our floor to pick up and drop off our laundry. Life was good. Then the dotcom bubble burst and life was unpleasant. First the cafeteria plans went away. Then the value of shares went in the toilet. Then the email came: Go to Glittery Pines Conference Room on Wednesday at 3 pm for a mandatory meeting. Note: mandatory meetings on Wednesdays means someone is losing his/her job. Most payrolls close on Wednesdays (or did? I try to avoid the trolls in accounting as they make my life hell with credit holds).

I sat in Glittery Pines Conference Room across from the VP of our department and listened to him go through this rigmarole about how we need to streamline our offerings to better service our internal customers. Everyone’s eyes widened. None of us knew what the fuck he was talking about because, again, this was the glorious, money grabbing 90s. The VP tells us that some people will be losing their jobs. I remember talking back to him but I don’t remember what I said. I was in my 20s. Being in your 20s and being marginally good (ok…in this instance, toot my own horn – really fucking good at what you do) is a potentially lethal combination because…hubris. I was lucky. Not only was I not made redundant – I didn’t lose my job for being a blistering asshole in front of a group of people. My take away from that experience was – time to GTFO and find another job. I’m not going to deal with this level of insecurity on a daily basis. So, months later, I was the purchasing manager at a different company. Stupid, stupid, stupid octopus.

Y2K arrives. We’re all still spending money like the bubble hadn’t burst. I’m at the new job. It’s been a few months and while it wasn’t overly challenging, I was having a rip-roaring good time playing practical jokes on my coworkers. In between turning offices upside down, developing a procure-to-pay process for the organization and saving some serious cabbage, I noticed another peculiar vibe developing. Board members started coming in for more frequent meetings. No one leaned on me to be extra aggressive with cost cutting but I wasn’t making any capital acquisitions, either. People started huddling and whispering. I cornered my boss and said “Are we in trouble? Do I need to send out my CV?” He said he couldn’t tell me anything. It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to realize that if an organization’s funding is drying up, the first one out the door is going to be the person who spends the money. Fortunately, on my way out, one of the board members asked for my resume which is how I ended up on the administrative side of healthcare.

In the course of 12 months, I had been exposed to “right-sizing” and “fuck you! The doors are locked.” Fourteen years later, not much has changed, unfortunately. If anything, the climate has become much, much worse for the worker bee. Gone are the 50 hour work weeks. Here are the 55 to 60 hour work weeks and if you happen to have a job, you’re happy to be working those ridiculous hours. If you’re lucky, you may be able to wrangle a merit increase of 3%. If you’re really lucky, your organization offers an incentive plan that will provide some sort of reasonable bonus (call me ungrateful but anything under four digits to the left of the decimal point…meh). You may have a reasonable allocation of paid time off but the likelihood that your workload will allow you to use all of it is not very promising. Last year, I was so burned out from the previous year, I scheduled shoulder surgery to get some much needed rest. And I have it good. Really good.

How good do I have it? Well, let’s take a look – my job is my dream job. Years ago, when I was working as a civil servant for a large academic medical center, one of my colleagues knocked on my door and was received by resting-bitch-face-Kang. I was doing an analysis of a particular vendor’s book of business at our hospital and she said something along the lines of “How do you do that and not go crazy?” What??? Back then, it was hard for me to determine which provided me with more pleasure: redlining proposals and pretending I was some sort of legal mastermind or sitting down with thousands of lines of data and trying to figure out where the markup was buried. Both were favored by me because they afforded me the luxury of not having to interact with people directly. I could ensconce myself in my office, among all the plants that I grew (including the Venus Flytrap which was there as a message to all vendors – piss me off and I will feed you, bit by bit, to my little pet), stream Swedish radio and just do my fucking work without having to smile, make small talk, deal with office politics or be remotely pleasant if I didn’t feel like being remotely pleasant that day. I do remember responding to my coworker “No – this is my dream job. It’s procurement without the bullshit.”

And somehow – a cross between years of really hard work and good timing landed me where I am today: working from home, playing with spreadsheets, learning all sorts of really neat clinical stuff and not having to worry about who mistakes painful shyness for snobbery. And yes, I really mean it. I LOVE my job. I believe in what it is that I do. Between the academic medical center and shape shifting corporation, I tried life in a different business and it was awful. I didn’t feel as if I was making any contribution to the world at all. In healthcare, in my own little way, I get to make things better. And – given my Marxist tendencies, extreme disdain for Free Market Capitalism in healthcare, I get to poke little holes in the system each day with every silly little scenario I devise. One cost saving measure at a time, I’m sticking it to profiteering corporations. And maybe, just maybe, there’s one less family out on the street because they didn’t lose their home to offset an astronomical medical bill. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s someone whose life is slightly better because all of these community based, not-for-profit and non-profit hospitals are finally able to sit at the table with the big business bullies and hold their own during negotiations? Or, maybe I’m delusional (likely a little bit of each)?

Which brings me back to the whole Gen X is sick of your bullshit, I’m Zen about the whole re-org bit yet I’m hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time. Yesterday was an exercise in epic trolling. Two meetings. Both mandatory. Both involving participation from human resources (people I consider to be just as low as garden variety bill collectors, repo men or Ferguson police officers). When the words: mandatory and human resources appear in the same meeting invitation, nothing good can come of it. Nothing. Before I know it, I’m in tears and texting my mommy “I’m sc-sc-scarrrrrrred” which I genuinely was because, again, I love my job, I know I have it good and I know without this job my family is fucked. In this instance, Shape Shifters, LLC did what it typically does and pleasantly surprises most of us. Just like it did the last time this happened when I was given the opportunity to demote myself so I could stay in town and raise my child (something I had wanted) without losing any pay.

Unfortunately, not everyone works for a Shape Shifters, LLC. Unfortunately, not everyone who wants to work is working. And no, conservatards, they’re not sitting at home doing nothing with an Escalade parked outside while they collect welfare from your precious tax dollars. I’m sorry if that offends your delicate sensibilities. Your mere existence offends mine.

We’re at a weird time and place when people are no longer a valued asset to most organizations. We’re human capital. While we have long been viewed as parts of the machinery, it’s now perfectly acceptable to treat us as such instead of as people. Those of us who have jobs are fairly afraid to speak out about anything that seems unfair because the alternative is pretty harsh (no job at all). The employed have gone from doing the job of 1.5 people to that of 2 or 3 and the merit increases shrink year over year. Don’t even get me started on comp & ben packets, either. What I saw and experienced with Canuckian Telecom was beyond the pale and really showed me that humanity, as a whole, is very disappointing – as in…just lob a giant meteor at the Earth and get it over with disappointing.

By the end of the day, yesterday, I couldn’t speak. The toll from the emotional roller coaster ride was just too much for me. I wanted to speak. There were people I wanted to talk to. I had things I wanted to do. I was just too damn worn out from worrying myself (physically) sick. So, maybe Gen X cares a little bit about something after all? And maybe there will come a day when Gen X isn’t hovering over a garbage can with a case of the dry heaves in their office, waiting for that fucking mandatory meeting. And maybe there will come a day when a human being returns to being recognized as such. In the interim, the fuck if I know what to do other than hope that I have the same job this time next year and that my 401k statement isn’t a photocopied picture of someone’s middle finger.

It had to happen…

…eventually.

Being married to a self-proclaimed Evangelical Agnostic and drifting further and further away from my faith, the question loomed large. What are we going to do with the child? Since there is more to being a Jew than the religious aspects, we really were faced with a significant challenge. The Evangelical Agnostic is not shy about his feelings. At one point, he said anyone who followed any religion was “stupid.” I was sitting in the den. EA was standing in the doorway. Hanging on the wall, facing me was a plaque that reads “Shalom” (it’s still in the same spot but the den is now Milky’s bedroom). My house is not outfitted with Judaica but there are bits and pieces here and there. I collect dreidels. I have menorot (one via my grandmother and namesake). There is a mezuzah on the doorpost. None of these things speak to my level of commitment to my faith, though. At least not on a conscious level. They’re more along the lines of “things Kang likes” or “things you just do.” When you move into a home, you put a mezuzah on the doorpost. It’s just what is done. As Milkface grew inside me, I thought of the whole “stupid” comment while sitting in my den, looking at the word “Shalom” and trying to keep the definition and spirit present within and wonder…what do we with the kid?

While I’m of the Reform persuasion, looking back, my upbringing was leaning a bit conservative. Had it not been an interfaith marriage, I’m pretty sure our family would have been members of the Conservative temple. For years, my stepfather dragged me to and from shul for Hebrew school (Mondays or Tuesdays), Sunday school and confirmation classes. My mother would deal with my sullen, unpleasant tween self by forcing me out of bed, into a dress and over to temple for whatever classes were on Saturday and services. I’m a proud member of the Jew Camp Illuminati (credit to Foster Kamer for that brilliance), having gone away to the Poconos for eight glorious summers of shenanigans, kosher food, prayer and the opportunity to not be a minority for at least four to eight weeks a year. Jewish summer camp is a pretty big deal and I highly recommend reading City Boy: The Adventures of Herbie Bookbinder by Herman Wouk if you’re interested in learning about the long tradition of sending little Jewish kids off to the mountains in the summer since it’s been going on for nearly 100 years.

Ultimately, we decided that, at the very minimum, Milky would be culturally Jewish. He would identify as a Jew. Half of his family is Jewish. Random Yiddish words pop up in conversation so naturally that I’m completely unaware of the occurrence. My family is delightfully neurotic and prone to self-deprecating humor. On my part, there is a very strong passion to keep the family folklore alive – from how my father’s family managed to evade a Pogrom, my stepfather’s family experience with the Holocaust and the general immigrant experience that many Jews either had first hand or have heard via tales from their Bubbes and Zaydes. Then there’s the ugly baggage that comes along with being Jewish (culturally or observant) – bigotry and rampant racism. If the child is going to be raised as a Jew (practicing or non), we, as parents, are going to have to prepare him for that. There is no avoiding that. Not even if you grow up in suburbia with other Jews. The bigots…they will find you and depending on where you are in life, what your experiences are and how you are adept at managing this bullshit, your life will become a temporary hell.

Now that we consigned Milky to his fate, without his permission (something oft criticized by the EA set), all we needed to do was put the plan in motion. Here you go, kid. Have fun with your new identify! You is J00, now. You will have latkes, gefilte fish and chopped liver and like them. You will grow up being told that you will be a doctor and a doctor you will be (Sorry, it’s your father’s fault you were born male). Your mommy will wreak such havoc with your psyche that all future romantic partners will curse my existence for perpetuity. And don’t even think about looking at a state college, pal. It’s Hopkins, MIT or Duke for you. Fret not, you’ll find other young, Jewish males whose soul has been sucked from them, too. You will sit around bars and basements with them, watch sports and critique the game play at an expert level while being completely unable to play said game yourself because, let’s face it, we’re not exactly athletic people. You’re welcome. Really. You should be a little more gracious and appreciative, however. Mommy had to do an enormous amount of work and sacrifice a great deal of herself to provide you with all of this. And you won’t even pick up the phone and call…

Since we are not religious and are not practicing anything other than how to not leave the living room looking like a toy tornado ripped through it, religious symbols, holidays and other things haven’t exactly been high on the list of things we discuss. Sure, we’ll whip out the menorah at Chanukkah and light the candles but we also have the tree and give presents on Christmas. Dock may not like the concept of religion but he sure as shit loves the concept of presents. This year, however, things are changing as Milky is in kinderMAPP and is learning *everything* at a pace that defies description. This includes symbolism. Last month, it occurred to Milky that the “stars” are ours and the “t’s” belong to everyone else. Ok. Time to discuss religion, explain symbolism and tell him that there are many more flavors at the old ice cream parlor. But the point – Milky knows he is Jewish and he seems pretty down with that. Kewl. Let’s hope he doesn’t decide he wants to go to synagogue or have a Bar Mitzvah because I’m not sure I want to deal with that aspect of it for reasons I’ll explain later.

The drawback to Milky’s realization and self-identification is now he knows he’s Jewish and to my point earlier, this privilege comes with a whole lot of unnecessary and unpleasant baggage. The other day I wrote about my experiences on Rosh Hashanah where the Jews were eating each other. I don’t want Milky to experience that. I don’t want Milky to have to listen to ramblings about how Jewish he is because his lineage isn’t 100% Jewish. I don’t want Milky to be put in the position of questioning his identity as I was when I was a teenager. That shit hurts! You think you’re in a safe zone when you’re among your own and it turns out…you’re not! Scripture is murky and can be interpreted many different ways. Some may say that certain people aren’t Jewish but others will accept that they are. People outside the faith make no distinction when it’s time to put us on train cars, though. So, that’s huge problem number one: potential discrimination from within the tribe. I don’t like dealing with that. Do you think I want to put my child in those crosshairs? Say what you will about my parenting methods but no one can say that I’m not one hell of a protective mom.

On to problem number two: discrimination and intimidation from everyone and everywhere else. I mean, do I really have to cite specific examples? Is that really necessary? Were we not paying attention in history class, folks? Very well – what happened yesterday in Paris? Unsatisfied with the outcome at Charlie Hebdo’s office, the fanatics decided to raise the bar on the berserk scale and go buck wild at a kosher grocery shortly before the start of Sabbath. Four people were killed. Why? Wrong place at the wrong time? Did they do something offensive? Did they run over a cute little bunny on their way to work? Possibly. Nope. Nope. They were killed because they were Jewish. Of course. Now, France doesn’t have the best track record managing anti-Semitism and I feel fairly comfortable pointing a finger because I did spend time in France and did spend over ten years of my life studying all things French. So no, I’m not rambling from a knee-jerk perspective, looking for a source to assign blame. That said, you know it’s bad, you know it’s legitimate when François Hollande flatly declares the attack at Hyper Cacher was anti-Semitic.

Awesome.

I should like to add – as the events of yesterday unfolded and I was jabbering with my family, this came as a surprise to no one. We all saw this coming. As soon as the words “kosher market” were said, we knew. We knew why. We knew what the outcome would be. We know these things because we have lived this directly or indirectly. And, as I mentioned the other day, there will be plenty of commentary stating that the evil, horrible Jews deserved what they got.

Tell me, again, why I chose this life for my child? Of all the things I could bestow on my kid, I decided to give him a life of managing this? What was I thinking? Why am I even thinking these things? I’m not the one with the fucking problem. Neither is my family. Nor most Jews. And please, shut the fuck up about Israel. This is about being Jewish; not Israeli. Stop linking the two every single time something happens and stop using politics as an excuse to be a fucking racist asshole. Jews don’t deserve to be targeted because of the actions of a nation they don’t live in. YES. It is that simple. Furthermore, if people keep attacking Jews and killing us, these people are simply enforcing the need for a Jewish state where we nice, minding-our-own-damn-business Jews can go about our lives without having pennies thrown at us, having to endure hate speech, see swastikas, listen to “jokes” or worry about being killed.

My question about whether or not human beings deserve such a privilege as religion may be nearing an answer in my own brain. I’m beginning to lean towards: NO. It’s far too destructive and we do not use the tool/device as we should. Looking back through history, we haven’t been, either. My personal perspective – I’m very close to cashing in the old chips and walking out the door with my remaining kitty. I know I’ll never cease being a cultural Jew and that part I will not relinquish. That part I will pass along to my child. As for the religious aspect, I don’t think I am capable of fully relinquishing that, either. There’s too much guilt and fear. Yet another reason why I wonder if religion is a good thing. If you think about walking away from it but don’t because you’re guilty or afraid – that isn’t a good thing. That’s an abusive relationship, is it not?

Another day, more words, continuing frustrations and no answers. And in due course, I’m going to have to have the conversation that all Jewish parents have with their children. I’m going to have the good fortune of trying to explain why, throughout history, people have been killing us because of religion. No amount of self-deprecating humor, jokes about the IJC or funny stories about the insane allegations that Mommy is an agent of Mossad will soften the blow, either.

I do not want…

…your fucking shirt.

Everybody’s talking at me
I don’t hear a word they’re saying
Only the echoes of my mind

People stopping, staring
I can’t see their faces
Only the shadows of their eyes

I’m going where the sun keeps shining
Through the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes – Harry Nilsson

No, he wasn’t talking about the cacophony emanating from the human race but the lyrics really suit the mood of the day regarding cacophony. With the pain of the mass murder of the great minds at Charlie Hebdo still fresh, condemnation freely flows. A good amount of it is justifiable. From our perspective, no one has the right to silence another because the message may be unsavory. We have a right to argue. We have a right to disagree. We have a right to ignore. We have no right to kill another human being because we find their particular message distasteful or blasphemous. This seems to be lost among many (regardless of preferred religion).

Along with the justifiable outrage, sheer terror and tremendous heartbreak, now we get to wade through the sea of bigotry because this is what happens when a subset of a particular group behaves horrendously. The few become the sole representation of the many and unfairly so. Being a religious minority myself, I certainly appreciate that special feeling of mortification and understand the dread in anticipation of the backlash. Each time Israel blunders, I steel myself for the hate speech and look at the computer monitor through splayed fingers with a turning stomach and legs that feel like lead. Today, tomorrow and, potentially, the following day, decent Muslims will be attacked by the ignorant masses who presume that bad apples represent an entire belief system. It’s shameful and disgusting. It’s why so many people looked at Australia with wonder in middle-December when they responded to an attack with love instead of hate via I’ll Ride with You. The rest of the world seems completely incapable of doing that. It’s why I have a tendency to get a bit twitchy and bitchy when I hear people say :insert random demographic here: are dangerous/evil/vile/must be wiped off the planet. It’s why I won’t allow others to besmirch what they do not know or understand – at least in my presence. It’s very easy to look at something, form an opinion and stick to it when you lack basic facts and knowledge, especially when everyone else appears to be doing the same. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that is the very definition of prejudice. Oh…and you thought you were so very evolved and enlightened, didn’t you?

Alas, this isn’t a tentacle wag at the bigots. This is actually something a bit different. The above is actually a rambling aside.

I freely admit that I spent a large portion of my time in my 20s in a drunken stupor or stoned (possibly). If you’re unmarried, childless, gainfully employed and unencumbered by any other responsibility, your 20s are the appropriate time for fucking around and fuck around I did. That said, for as drunk as I was, I don’t recall the world being as barking mad as it appears to be today. Could it have been because I spent ½ of my 20s living outside of the Bible Belt where religion was just one of those things that was a part of life and not the sole point of life? I really don’t think so. I lived in predominantly Catholic Western Pennsylvania, went to a state university and for the life of me, I don’t recall the cafeteria feeding us meat on Friday. It was fish. Every Friday in Western Pennsylvania was fish and mac and cheese day. Yet, no one was hounding me to surrender my faith. Those who even bothered to ask really didn’t care that I wasn’t one of them. Oh, and I really loved fish and mac and cheese day, too.

Religion didn’t really become an issue for me until I moved to the Bible Belt. Since then, I have had the joy of experiencing discrimination at every single job I have had. It’s not pleasant. But what’s really unpleasant, what’s really the catalyst behind my picking up my ball and going home (reevaluating my entire position on religion, in general) is the incessant attempts at evangelization. Yes. I understand that certain groups have instructions to go forth and seed. And, yes, I have tried to be patient and respectful of this but a person can only stomach so much before it becomes offensive.

As I see it, religion and attempts to shift someone away from their existing ideology to the ideology of another is just madness. And it’s presumptuous, rude and in very poor taste. Think about this scenario:

You’re out and about doing whatever it is that you do and someone walks up to you with a shirt in their hands. They see that you’re already wearing a shirt but that doesn’t really matter to them. That person thinks their shirt is better than the shirt you’re currently wearing. They say “Look. I have a shirt for you. I think you need to put it on right now. This very minute, to be exact.” You tilt your head in confusion. You point to your shirt. You tell them that you’re already wearing a shirt that you quite like. Yet, the person you’re speaking to is neither listening nor caring about the words coming out of your mouth. Instead, they say “NO. You must wear THIS shirt. This shirt. Right here in my hands. Wear it. Wear it now.” Again, you look at your shirt and the slightly deranged person talking to you and you say “Allow me to iterate, I have a shirt. I’m wearing a shirt. It is a comfortable shirt. No thank you.” Still in denial, they thrust the shirt in your face and adamantly exclaim “But MY shirt is better than YOUR shirt. It will save you!” “Save me? Save me from what?” you ask “Is it made of Kevlar and thus bullet proof?” The shirt bearer stares at you like you’re crazy and says “No.” You ask “Is it impregnated with some sort of anti-bacterial and/or anti-viral substance that will keep me immune from all disease?” Shirt bearer shakes head no. “In the event that I’m standing atop a very high building, near the ledge, and someone decides to shove me, will a parachute deploy and will I float safely to the ground?” The shirt bearer, again, responds “No.” You follow with “Ok. Given that there is zero evidence that this particular shirt will save me from three imminent threats (or three terrible traps, three terrible traps, three terrible traps – so terrible!), please tell me how and why you think this shirt can save me.”

Marginally flummoxed, the shirt bearer responds in the only manner they can “Well, it’s because that is what I believe.” You, finding this data insufficient, tell the person that you disagree with them which prompts the de rigueur “But then you will go to hell.” Not one to pass up the opportunity to scramble brains, you say “Well, the joke is on you. I don’t believe hell exists.” Completely exasperated, the shirt bearer hollers “PUT ON THIS SHIRT!” You calmly say “Please take your shirt and leave.” “MY SHIRT IS BETTER THAN YOUR SHIRT! I WILL NOT BE DENIED” howls the shirt bearer. You repeat “Please take your shirt and leave.” “WHY WON’T YOU WEAR MY FUCKING SHIRT?” Losing patience, you testily snap “Please take your shirt and your very un-pious self and go away.” “I HATE YOU. I WILL ONLY LIKE YOU IF YOU WEAR THIS SHIRT. “ Again, “Please take your shirt and leave.” Shirt bearer snarls “YOU ARE A VILE HUMAN BEING AND I’M GOING TO SPEW HATEFUL WORDS AT YOU, YOU BLASPHEMOUS, SINFUL PIG!”

In that scenario – do you want to put on that shirt? Do you want to spend time with that shirt bearing freak? NO. And now you understand why many of us are growing tired of religion, in general? Is the popularity of the Flying Spaghetti Monster starting to make sense?

Within the first few months of living in North Carolina, a colleague asked me out to lunch. I was excited as I thought “Hey! Friend making time! Hooray!!!” And, since we know how much I love putting myself out there and trying to make friends, this was a pretty big deal to me. On our way to lunch, she played Christian rock which I found peculiar but kept my mouth shut. At lunch, she openly prayed before eating. Again, for someone not from the Bible Belt – different but something I was going to have to accept as the cultural norm. Then she proceeds to talk to me about religion. She expresses her grave concern for my soul since Jesus is not my savior. She is very worried that I’m going to hell; so worried that she invited me to lunch to talk to me about where I was going astray. All I could do was look at her, smile and say “I’m not concerned about hell. I know you’re praying for me and that should take care of it.” We never went to lunch together again.

Mind you, all of this isn’t meant as an indictment of Christianity. Like every family has its crazy relative, each religion has its crazy zealots who taint the rest of the followers. Each religion has its own issues with thinking it’s the only path (towards what…who the fuck really knows). Each religion sits in judgment of the next. Shit – each religion judges itself. I spent one Rosh Hashanah listening to a Rabbi drone on forever about how horrible the Hasidim are towards those who are less orthodox. The Rabbi condemned someone in our own faith for condemning us. It was one of the most fucked up experiences I have ever had. I wanted to walk out of synagogue but I was too afraid that the Almighty above would smite me for leaving temple in the middle of a High Holy Day. And don’t even get me started on how fucked up being afraid of something that may or may not exist is. My attempts to reconcile that one over the past 18 years have proven unsuccessful.

And this is why I sit with a very fatigued brain and heart and wonder if any of this is worth it. Aside from some inner peace which could, theoretically, be obtained through various other methods, what is humanity getting out of this whole religion thing? War. Discrimination. Murder. Death. Women being treated as chattel or worse. On a good day, we’re lucky if someone is simply offended by hearing their religion used as a verb, it seems. That’s not sufficient enough for me. Not anymore.

There are many things I think humans are not capable of handling responsibly, as collectively, we all do a wonderful job of dropping the ball and screwing things up. I’m starting to wonder if religion is one of those things. Have we bastardized the whole concept to the point where it is more detrimental than beneficial? Is religion simply an outmoded technology (a series of laws before there were actual governments)? I genuinely do not know. What I do know is this – I cannot bear another yesterday. I don’t want to raise my child in a world where yesterdays are not only possible but normal.

Je suis Charlie…

…aujourd’hui et toujours.

We want to laugh at the extremists — every extremist. They can be Muslim, Jewish, Catholic. Everyone can be religious, but extremist thoughts and acts we cannot accept. – Laurent Léger

More headdesk

Ha ha! Fuck you!

Behold…the end of the calendar and fiscal year. All reports (time and expense) must be filed by close of business today to make the finance trolls less stabby. Surely you did not expect things to function properly? Why would the most erratic VPN on Earth be anything but? And why, why would you operate under the silly assumption that your piece of shit Lenovo StinkPad not crash 40 times whilst reworking a file the size of…I dunno…something really large? At this point, I’m really at a loss for words. And hope. That’s lost, as well. And sanity. Let’s review what is lost: hope, words, sanity. Yup.

Please, please keep crashing, StinkPad. Please inhibit any progress I may attempt to make today. Please make doing rework more exhilarating. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the exact same position, performing the exact same exercise in futility at 10 pm. Really. I would. Don’t believe otherwise for this is the stuff I live for. This is the stuff of dreams.