Locker Room

     Looking back through my blog posts as far as last December, I was talking about the danger of Donald Trump's rhetoric.  Friends and family told me not to worry; he'd never go the distance, they said.  Here we sit, less than one month before the election with a second "debate" in the bag, and he's still here.  He can continue to say heinous things - often without any facts to back them up - more and more of his supporters are turning away, and now we get further proof of his character with the 2005 audio/video released on Friday.

     I had hoped that at the beginning of the debate when he was asked outright about his words by Anderson Cooper that he would be contrite:

"You described kissing women without their consent, grabbing their genitals. That is sexual assault. You bragged that you have sexually assaulted women. Do you understand that?"

"No, I didn't say that at all," Trump said. "I don't think you understand what was said. This was locker room talk. I'm not proud of it. I apologized to my family. I apologized to the American people."  

The exchange went back and forth for several minutes with Trump trying to change the topic to the Islamic State before Cooper was finally able to ask for the record if Trump had done these things, had sexually assaulted women. Trump said no.

     What we learned from the 2005 audio/video that was released is the true content of Donald Trump's character. He is a man with great power who feels that he can and should take what he wants from women. These sentiments come from a rape culture that has grown fat on misogyny.  Sexual assault and rape are acts perpetuated out of power and dominance.  We know this to be fact. This isn't locker room talk - which is insulting on so many levels.  That comes from the old "boys will be boys" mythos, which insults every decent, honorable man on this planet.  Normal humans do not talk about doing things against the wills of other humans.  That is sexual assault.  Misogyny is not going to go away if we get a female president, just as racism didn't magically disappear when President Obama came into office.

     All women have a story to tell about the misogyny they've experienced in their lives, you just need to listen.  I can't go into all of my stories, even though you've heard a fair number through this blog, because my children read this, and I'm not at a point where I can tell them everything.  But in the interest of honesty and trying to advance the cause of women, and thereby humanity, I will share some it.

     As you may remember, my father was a terrible man.  He was an alcoholic who routinely battered, belittled and assaulted my mother. He consistently told her that she was ugly, stupid and that no one else would have her.  And he told me that I, the eldest, was just like her.  Marital rape didn't become a crime in all 50 states until 1993 - think about that for a minute - and my mother was often subjected to this and other crimes.  I know this to be a fact, because all three of us children were present for one of the instances in 1984.

     In junior high and high school, I played soccer. My school only had a boys team, and I didn't care anyway, so I played with them.  I originally went to the football meeting, thinking I could be a kicker, but the coach laughed me out of the room, telling me no little girls were allowed.  On the soccer team, I was one of three girls and was constantly taunted and picked on by the boys.  Their favorite nickname for me was scrotum.  The coaches knew, but never stopped it, hoping I think that I would just quit. I used to think that it was because I wasn't good enough, so I tried harder.  It didn't change though.  I had to play without my glasses, something the boys would take advantage of in practice.  My glasses were held together by hot glue, and I couldn't risk breaking them. My brother played for the team for a short time, and they never did it in front of him. (Side note - I did get a scholarship to play soccer for Bridgewater College in Virginia, but it was a partial and I couldn't afford the full tuition so I had to decline. So, I clearly didn't suck.)

     When I got my first job at 14, the restaurant I bused tables at had a waiter who was known to sexually harass the female staff. The management knew but did nothing. He liked to back me into an alcove where the supplies were stored and try to rub up against me. I had to learn to avoid him at all costs. I also learned that if you tried to complain, your pay got docked for dinners that you were supposed to take but were never given the time to take. I didn't work there long, as I didn't think I could tell my mother what was bothering me so much. By this point, my father was gone, and she was under enough stress.

     The first time I was sexually assaulted I was 15. I will not go into it except to say, it was a boyfriend who tried to guilt me into a variety of things. I refused. He insisted. I refused. He forced me. Then he told me that it wasn't that big of a deal, and a number of other things that even as I try to write them make me feel gross, so I'll leave it at that.

     Throughout my work life, I've walked through so much misogyny it's almost laughable. I've had vendors tell me I was taking a job from a man who needed it when I was a receiving manager, had delivery drivers give me unending shit, been called all manner of names and epithets, had male customers ask where the real manager was when I showed up and have had a male boss tell me he'd never promote me until my kids weren't little anymore since my loyalties would be divided. There's so much more, but honestly, after a while it's exhausting.  Ask the women in your life.  It's an everyday thing.

     What's not everyday though is when the misogyny escalates to the attitude that Donald Trump has displayed.  It's not locker room talk.  Men don't gather together and discuss the women that they'll take by force without consent.  There are bad men out there, men with treacherous character and horrible morals.  We would not tolerate them in our lives or with our children. We should not tolerate them to lead our country.  

Jacob and Marie

     This afternoon at work, an older man came in needing some help, but I was with another client at the time. He was clearly frustrated that my associate suggested an appointment an hour away and that no one was available right that moment to help him.  Nevertheless, he left, stooped over his footed metal cane with a white package clutched to his side.  When he returned, the appointment I was with ran over 10 minutes, so that by the time I came to the lobby to collect him, he was extremely frustrated.  He gave me little old man side eye, refusing to speak to me when I told him my name and how I would be happy to help him. He slowly rose to his feet, package under his arm, and asked me where he was supposed to go. I directed him to my office, gingerly walked in front and then held the door open for him.
     When he sat down, he opened the package, pulled out a rather large magnifying glass and a huge manila folder filled with multiple binder clipped paperwork bunches.  All the while, he didn't speak to me. When he finished, he finally looked at me, seated across from him and asked, "so, is this how it's going to be now?"  Not understanding what he meant, I asked for clarification.  He asked whether he needed an appointment to get any help and then ultimately that it wouldn't matter since he was now being helped 15 minutes later than was promised. I apologized for the overlap from the previous client and said that an appointment was to respect his convenience but not mandatory.  But now that he was here, how could I help.
     Jacob went on to explain that his wife Marie had died recently, and we had sent him a lot of paperwork. He needed to know what to do with it. Then he opened the folder and started pulling it all out. I looked through it, found the pertinent pieces and quickly realized that the bulk of the rest of it was his statements. As we slowly started to speak to each other, he told me that he was legally blind and was having difficulty figuring out what out to do with the papers - thus the magnifying glass. I discovered that all the statements, three years worth in fact, were dramatically out of date order. I asked if he would be ok if I put them all in the right order. He was taken aback and thanked me. When I finished, I labeled each with a post-it. I found some superfluous things but explained them, found something he should have signed and returned a year ago but promised to mail it for him and made a copy of the paperwork that brought him in in the first place.
  When all was said and done, Jacob thanked me for all the help and apologized for his behavior when he arrived. I told him that he was going through a great deal having just lost Marie, and it was understandable. I asked how long they had been together.  He said that from courting until her death last month, it was 66 years.  He told me that when she took ill six years ago, he had cared for her at home until his children convinced him that she needed to be moved to an assisted living facility 2 years ago. Then a few months ago she was moved to hospice.  He said up until then, Marie knew who he was and could talk to him about her day, ask about their children. He visited her every single day while her sons took turns visiting every night.  Four children, nine grandchildren, two great grandchildren, he told me about all of them. The hospice grounds were lovely he said, although she never got to see them. Once she was moved there, she was on so much morphine to manage her pain, that they were no longer able to speak to each other.
     When Marie died and was taken to the funeral home, Jacob told the funeral director that she didn't look anything like herself.  He asked for a picture and promised Jacob that when he was done, Marie would look just as he remembered.  He also promised that before her casket was opened at the viewing, Jacob would decide if he had done a good job or not.  Jacob said that when the time came, Marie looked absolutely beautiful, just like when they had first met. At this point in his story, Jacob and I were both crying.  I passed the tissues back and forth between the two of us.  When he told me how beautiful she looked, I wish you could have seen his eyes, the smile on his face, like he wasn't with me at that moment. There are people on this planet who will never have another person look at them the way I imagine Jacob looked at Marie - the adoration, the complete look of contentment,and then the dawning realization of utter loss.
     When we finished crying, he told me about their last anniversary together, the party that his children put together for them, before she went to hospice.  Then he told me how sad he was for his children and grandchildren, and that the great grandchildren would never really remember her.  We stood slowly together, and he thanked me for listening.  I thanked him for telling me about Marie and their love story. Then he asked to kiss me goodbye, a gentle peck on the check, and I saw him out.
     I hope that every single person reading this will have this kind of love in their life, that you will know this level of happiness.  And I hope that the person you share your life with, this short time we have here together, looks at you the same way Jacob looked at Marie.

Baby Pouch

     Today at work, I was helping an older woman who can sometimes be a challenge.  While I was walking her from my office and to the lobby, she continued to make small talk while I worried after her and her cane.  Then she turned to me and asked if I was pregnant, her gaze resting for a moment on my mid-section.  I laughed and told her "no, I wish!"  Then I mentioned that after 4 pregnancies I still had a little baby pouch.  That's what we call it in my house - that leftover baby bump - my baby pouch.
     Apparently, what this old lady said upset my two co-workers much more than it did me.  In fact, my assistant hugged me sweetly and told me not to forget that this woman is often quite icky to us. She said the customer she was helping was appalled for me. I reiterated that I was cool; it wasn't a big deal to me.  Honestly my loves, as I've mentioned to you in the past, I would love to have another baby.  But I have another birthday looming on the horizon, and reality is rising in my throat.  Also, not to brag, but I'm only 14 pounds away from my college weight at this point in my life.  I've got suit pants I need to take in so I can stop using safety pins.  I look pretty good.
     But guess what, I looked pretty good 16 pounds ago, too.  Aside from being mindful of kidney stones and my back, this body can still get things done. Work, chores, errands, walks, extra curricular activities (bow chicka bow bow), more work, more chores ... I just keep moving.  Yes, I have a baby pouch ... ok.  It doesn't stop me from getting done what I need to do.  It doesn't bother the male I made the babies with who created the pouch.  And not for nothing, but I've had other offers, so it's clearly not bothering anybody else either.
     So why were my assistant and the other people within earshot bothered for me?  Probably because we've been taught at a very young age that our worth as women is 100% tied to our appearance and, in correlation, our age.  The older we get we learn that we better keep ourselves as attractive as possible to the opposite sex, lest we incur irrelevance in direct proportion to our lack of desirability.  That's why in 2016 a woman running for President has her pantsuits critiqued and her appearance mocked.  Whether you like her, and by extension, her experience and policies or not isn't the point I'm trying to make.  Have you heard people make fun of her appearance, her clothes, her age or her weight?  Of course you have.  And that is born from misogyny, first and foremost, and second from her refusing to conform.
     I own my baby pouch.  I will work that baby pouch.  Far from allowing myself to be embarrassed or chastised by someone else's words or perceptions of what I should be, I will know what and who I am and how that is so much more than the sum of my parts.    

Secrets

     At the grocery store this weekend, I saw one of my secret fears. This little older lady was putting single frozen  entrees into her cart.  Now, it could be she and her significant other don't eat very much, or her oven is broken and this is a short term solution, or she's buying for a friend, or she hates to cook, or maybe even a dozen other possible paradigms.  But I think the reason she was eating single serving frozen entrees is that she's alone ... all alone.
     I'm going to let you in on one of my deepest, darkest fears, my loves -  being alone when I'm older.  The kids are grown, the grandchildren (if there are any when that time comes) aren't interested in me, the husband is dead, the cabana boy has moved on (that's what we call humor) and friends are few and far between.  I'm still working, because a. why not if I can, b. have you seen my 401K and c. cat food does not taste good.  I'll still be cooking for myself, because I really enjoy that, but it'll be single servings. So, I can see myself resorting to the simplest things like eating cold cereal for dinner.
     I love quiet moments for contemplation, to work through my personal philosophies, to write, to read, to craft, but most of the time, it's not really that quiet.  Even now, the tv is on for background white noise, my son is practicing electric guitar six feet from me, the youngest is laying down a funky beat on her drum next to him and the eldest is typing on her laptop.  I can function amidst the wall of sound.  If there was silence, I'd be left alone with this brain of mine, and that might not be a completely pleasant experience.  Now before someone chimes in and tells me that time alone with myself will help me grow as a human and have a greater appreciation for any number of things, from the creator on down to staying in the lines when I paint my toes ... no, no it won't.  I have lived inside this head for 43 years, and in all actuality, I quite like it in there.  It can be a fun time, but I need to share my thoughts, to speak them out loud in order to not get stuck in the flowchart in my noggin.
     Someone I love told me recently that I was one of the strongest people they know.  Seeing that little older lady in the grocery store with her tiny collection of boxes made me question the veracity of that statement.  Because when I looked into her cart, it was like looking into a chasm of loneliness and despair.  It was me in 35 years, trying to navigate through the crowded store, picking out the smallest package of chicken and two onions, the small bottle of mayo and individual potatoes.  How do you even do that?  I buy the biggest bag I can put in the cart now, because I make five pounds at a time.  How do you cook one damn potato?  Some of you know full well that I will be having this conversation in the grocery store with myself in front of those potatoes.  I'm going to have to learn how to hide that part of me better.  An old lady having a talk with a potato is going to attract unnecessary attention.
     Maybe it's an unfounded fear.  Maybe the children will always be near, if there are grandchildren, they will come and help me clean, the cabana boy and I will vacation together while the husband writes his 57th novel, and I will have dark purple hair.  My sister and I, along with multiple friends will routinely get together to tell raucous jokes and curse like sailors.  Maybe they will improve the taste of cat food, too.    

Margaret & Bobby

     Margaret came into my work today looking for help.  It wasn't going to be difficult to do what she needed, but I had to make a phone call to get it done.  She apologized for the inconvenience, and as I put the phone to my ear, I told her I was sure she had more than enough going on in her life ... let me try to make something easier.  That's when she told me I didn't know the half of it, so I decided to hang up the phone and ask for the story.
     She said that her significant other had died two years ago, and she just couldn't move forward.  In fact, she had just come from her beloved's grave -  that's what she called him throughout our talk, her beloved Bobby.  As she started to cry, she looked up at the ceiling saying, "not now, Margaret, not now."  She said she was trying to sell their condo, but couldn't find anyone who would come close to the asking price.  Her health isn't good and she needs to sell it to take care of a variety of issues.  In fact, she told me that she was currently dealing with a urinary tract infection and had a hard time being able to afford the medicine.
     But every other thought she uttered kept bringing her back to her beloved.  She told me that they had had 22 years together, a true love affair.  One where he showed her daily how much he loved her and needed her.  She said he was quite romantic, with a smile that stopped her tears instantly.  She had been married before him for 25 years to a good man, but she said that was a marriage.  Not what she had with Bobby.  She said that her friends would ask her, how could he die and leave you ... you two were so in love.  Bobby was 89 when he died, she 10 years his junior.
     Eventually, there was a point in the conversation where it felt ok to make the call and get her situation resolved.  She thanked me immensely and rising to leave, took my hand in hers to say goodbye.  Her hands were so soft.  I thanked her for telling me her story, for telling me about Bobby and their love.  I told her that some people never get to experience such joy in their lives with someone who loves them completely, let alone have that for 22 years.  She smiled and left.  Then I went to the bathroom and wept.  I cried for Margaret, for my mother-in-law, for all the Margarets and their male analogs I've met in the last year, for love and loss and the unknown.  

Car Time

     Driving to work today, I started to think about seven years from now when I turn fifty.  I actually have a hard time grasping that concept, because in my head, I'm still half that age .  I'm in a good place physically, thanks to my urologist suggesting I triple my water intake to keep my kidneys happy and my amazing massage therapist who has eliminated the radiating pain from my back, making movement possible again.  Due to the water and the movement, I've lost a bit of weight, which is always a good thing.

     Yet, in the car, I couldn't get past that mile marker. It's not as though I feel some sense of lost possibilities when I hit that age.  As long as I have energy and breath, I will do whatever I want to do.  A new craft that intrigue me ... I'm trying it.  Is that something on the car that I can replace ... let me give it a whirl.  When we moved into this house, a small embankment wall beside the driveway was giving way.  I pulled the railroad ties out and built a concrete block wall (it's pretty, trust me) to replace it.  My point is not to brag, but to say as long as this brain works and the body cooperates, I'll figure out how to do it.

     But what I can't wrap my head around is what this life will look like without my babies around me.  In seven years, #1 will be 25, #2 will be 22 and #3 will be 15.  #1 will probably have figured out what her path in life will be by then.  She'll have finished school and might be on her own.  #2 will probably have finished school, exploring the world in front of him.  #3 will have finished her first draft on the constitution for her banana republic and what the military uniforms will look like.  As I've said before, the less I know, the better.  Although I do know that undoubtedly, there won't be three little people greeting me at the door.  That's the thought I couldn't get out of my head this morning.

     I know that if we've done our job, they will reach a point where they can function on their own in this big world.  I know that they have to have grown up lives and loves; they can't stay with me forever.  I'm not in any hurry for them to prove this ability.  My philosophy is you have plenty of time to do it all on your own, enjoy this time now - read and write as much as you want, teach yourself hobbies and crafts, learn who you are.  I'll feed you for as long as you want to eat my cooking.

     My mother used to say that she never understood the moms that used to be ecstatic at the start of school.  She always cried on our first day.  She would say, if you don't like having your kids around, why did you have them at all.  My kids are some of the best people I know on this planet.  Sure, sometimes I take extra time when I run errands or 10 minutes more in the bathroom with the door locked - mama needs a break, too - but otherwise I'd rather spend time with them.  I'm partial since they're half me, but they are incredible humans, simply marvelous.  Theoretically, when they've moved out, I'm supposed to live for me, but that feels foreign, unnatural.  Certainly, I'll be told that I'll adjust, but I haven't adjusted to mom's death after eight years, so I'm not thinking it's in the cards.

     Today is my youngest niece's birthday; my brother's youngest.  She is a glorious 1 year of age.  Her middle name is mom's name, Laurel.  I can write it, but I can't utter it without crying.  Looking at pictures of her today online was happy making.  It made me glad for my brother that he has a long time before their house will be empty.

Video Games

     I wholeheartedly believe in playing video games, both for myself and for the children.  Yes, it leads to the development of strategy, improves memory and fosters creativity, but for me at least, they also bring relaxation.  I laugh at that thought too, because mom used to complain about Frogger.  She'd say, "I can never get that fucking frog across the highway."  Game play certainly wasn't relaxing for her.
     When I was a preteen and teenager, we'd save quarters to play at the arcade - and I use that term loosely - at the front of the local grocery store.  There was a Ms. Pac Man that called to me, and a pinball machine that I bruised my right palm on once I learned you could slap the release for a faster shot instead of pulling it.  How can you pass up a pinball machine? The lights, the marvelous sounds, the adrenaline from keeping the ball in play ... it's heaven.
     When I went off to college, one of our friends off campus had a Nintendo.  During parties when everyone else was pairing off or climbing the fire escapes and generally having a drunk and debaucherous time, I was the moody girl with the bottle of Boone's Farm in front of the Nintendo willing Mario to finish each level.  As I look back on that time, another reason why those people were such good friends, and many brothers in the fraternity I later joined, was that they never gave me any grief about it.  The party just went on around me.  Also, I'll never drink Boone's Farm Sangria ever again.
     During the summers between school, my husband stayed at my mother's house with me.  We'd play shareware computer games that we picked up for a dollar a piece on the computer we set up in my brother's room.  When my husband and I moved to Texas, we were quite poor and living off very little, waiting for my student loan refund check to come.  We didn't have any furniture until a friend gave us a couch that came in pieces.  You put it together like a puzzle. We slept on a pile of blankets, ate at a low metal table that he liberated from a condemned building on campus, watched a tiny black and white TV that sat on his foot locker.  After the check came through, I bought a futon, a rocking chair, a color TV and stand, and a Nintendo 64.  Mario and I were together again.
     Long before we could afford a Playstation, I fell in love with Tomb Raider and Lara Croft on the computer.  I tried Myst, but it never really stuck.  I wanted adventure.  Years later, when we had finally saved up for a Playstation, he could play NBA Live promising the baby that he'd win the next game for her, and I could play ... whatever, as long as I got to 100% completion.  Our eldest likes certain games, but not as much as #2 and #3.  The boy has been playing religiously since he was 3 years old.  I used to hand him a disconnected controller so he could play beside me and not effect my outcome.  Eventually we would play together or separately, but always pushing each to be the first to finish a level.  We're always behind the most recent console by a couple generations, because I'm cheap, and I almost never trade my games in because you never know when you might want to play something again.
     #2 has to collect everything too, obsessive like his mother.  Now he likes the games where every time you finish the entire storyline, the difficulty ratchets up a notch ... so you finish it again.  That's my boy.  When he was six and broke his arm, we asked the doctor to put the cast on in such a way so he could still hold his controller.  I think we both would have been disconsolate if he couldn't play.  The youngest holds her own well on a console game or her tablet.  I like to believe it's improving her reading and planning skills, so when she's running her banana republic one day, she'll thank me.  We devour all the Lego games as a family.  Although Mario will always be dear to my heart, I've become quite fond of the Assassin's Creed games.  Nothing makes a long day at work more bearable than plugging in, pulling the cowl down to the edge of your eyes and dispatching some enemies in quick fashion.  For some reason, I find the efficiency of sharpened steel more comforting than bashing my head against bricks - which may be a weird metaphor for adulthood.  Or something I should embroider on a pillow.