Category: Words

Please state your misunderstanding after the tone…

It seems really strange to me how much time I spend explaining.
Misunderstanding.
Thinking people are mad at me.
Being sad about how I think they feel about something I think I did or said that upset them. Maybe. Or chastising myself for being a nutcase for worrying about things I only imagine.

I always feel like I’m so clear. When I talk, anyway.

Or maybe people really are just mad at me all the time. Or disappointed, sad or any of the dozens of other things I credit them with being.

Would that be better or worse, I wonder?

There are only a few people I would be able to state it to so baldly if I did think they were…not right with me in some way. Most people would look at me funny and respond with a monosyllable, which would make me even more worried. Which is really probably a sensible response to my crazy. I can only think of one person who not only would get it if I asked her if she was mad at me for no reason but would also respond as if my concerns were not insane at all. Thanks, Sharon, for being that person.

This is the sort of conversation I imagine myself being able to have:
“Hey, did I say or do something to piss you off/make you sad/anxious or otherwise upset the other day?”
“No, why”
“No reason. You said “nice” in response to something I said, and I assumed that you meant it sarcastically and hate me/are mad/sad/frustrated.”
“No, we’re good. Thanks for checking.”
“And thank you for answering me when I’m crazy.”

Wouldn’t it be nice?
In a totally non-Beach Boys kind of way?
Brian Wilson wouldn’t have had to spend nearly as much time in bed if he’d been able to just get the crazy stuff in his head out of his head.

Having such a good imagination can be a challenge at times.

Here comes the judge

An anti-fur group (the Anti-Fur Society) on Facebook posted a link to this story in the Daily Mail about Rihanna arriving at Heathrow wearing what appears to be a fox fur lined jacket. One of my Facebook friends shared the post and commented on it. I read the post, read the story, shrugged and started reading the comments.

The comments on the Daily Mail’s website are pretty bad. Terms like stupid pig are thrown out. The anti-fur site is much, much worse. The singer is a called a whore, slag, cunt, bitch, ugly and stupid cow among other things. There is not one single rational argument against wearing fur in any of the 800 plus comments. There are plenty of rational arguments that could be made, of course. Even as someone who has been known to wear fur on occasion, I can come up with some. I’m not going to here, because why should I do their work for them?

Me? I don’t care if people wear fur. I wear leather. I eat meat. I don’t care if people hunt for meat, but I’m not thrilled about hunting for trophies. I do understand why other people might have reservations about any or all of those things, even strong reservations. I can understand why people would be anti-meat or anti-fur activists. What I don’t understand is why the only form of commentary used on this particular page against those who disagree with their views was to degrade the person they disagreed with.

The best anyone could come up with about why Rihanna shouldn’t wear fur is to call her a fucking cunt.

Wanna call me a cunt because I ate lamb for lunch or because I’m wearing leather shoes? Do you think it’s OK to refer to me in print as a fucking bitch if I wear a fox collar? I’ll put it on for you. Go ahead and call me whatever you want. See where it gets you.

Mostly, It gets you nowhere. If your best argument against wearing fur is “you’re a fucking cunt” then you lose. Demeaning women who disagree with your views accomplishes nothing. In fact it turns people away from your cause. That is true regardless of what your cause is.

It puts you in the same category as bullies like the Westboro Baptist Church.

If you’ve followed the success rate of their tactics at all, you may have noted that gay marriage is considered perfectly acceptable by more Americans than ever. People find them and their views repellant. That is what happens when you spew hate.

If you have to demean human beings to defend your cause, then this particular fucking bitch is not going to support you. It doesn’t matter what your cause is.
















Sunday at home

Certain places are home.
For me, that’s Eugene. Or, rather, the Eugene-Springfield area as a whole.

I haven’t lived there since the mid-eighties, but it’s still home. Portland is also home. I’ve also lived in Oklahoma and France, and they could never be.

Driving down I-5 South from Tigard to Eugene, the thing that tells me I am home is when I start seeing those random hills plunked down in all the fields north of Harrisburg.

It’s not the miles left to travel, it’s the scenery. Hawks on fence posts. Lambs frolicking in the fields in the Spring. Green fields and hills. The mountains in the distance on either side of the freeway.

It’s hard to be sure, but I am pretty sure that anyone would think it is one of the lovelier stretches of scenery anywhere on an interstate. You’d have to have a thing for mountains, valleys, trees and emerald green fields. How could you not?

Then there’s having a room that is your room even if it’s in a house you’ve never lived in. Where people always love you. Even if they don’t necessarily always like you.

It would be easy for me to define why Texas or Oklahoma could never be home to me. The people are friendly and hospitable, but the landscape is foreign to me. That would be both the literal landscape as well as the religious and political landscape. France is beautiful and politically less strange to me than Oklahoma, but the people…well…let’s just say home could never be somewhere where a young woman can pass out on a train and be completely ignored. France cares more about style and food than it does about people. Or at least that is the feeling France evoked in me. I could never be home in a place that feels so emotionally freezing.

Home is where the hippies still flourish. Where you can stop and smell the patchouli. Where everything smells green and, sometimes, very herbal. Where people argue about where to get the best coffee and beer. Where you hate Huskies way more than Beavers. Where we cherish every ray of sun, and wear sandals in the Winter. Where people won’t carry umbrellas even though we know it’s going to rain. Where you still see VW vans. Where we go to the beach even in February. Where people eat fish, crabs and clams they caught themselves. Where people complain that it’s too crowded if there are more than 10 people on the same 2 mile stretch of beach.

When you live in a town with mountains in every direction, and a river or two running through it, you are one of the luckiest people on the planet.

If you’re me, your home is here. In one of the most beautiful places there is.

I might like to travel, but the best part will always be coming home.

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