tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217528556663915192024-03-05T00:15:15.470-08:00WashingTinaFrom D.C. to the desert...WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-23690248694217386112021-03-06T12:33:00.001-08:002021-03-06T12:33:18.131-08:00Thank you for being a friend<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I’m being honest, I’m not okay. We’re at nearly a year since this thing started, and though the end is in sight, it’s unclear when exactly that might be. I miss my friends. I miss my friends so much. Sure, we’ve had video chats. We have the group texts. We’re staying as connected as we can, even without being in the same room. But it is fucking hard. And it is not the same. My very best friends, my girls, have been my lifeblood, in some way or another, for as long I have a memory. We haven’t been all in the same room together since 2015. And, even though we live in different places, and have for some time, and might not even have seen each other in person anyway absent the pandemic, we </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">could</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> have. The past year apart (from them and nearly everyone else) feels so very hard. So very lonely. So very inhumane.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWwJ4YwAgh7YV-fG1CwEvJk4NiFe1SgRjqB5rpvLdoxFxKNsRPOpvcR-55ApQNcFdI6hbAAMqVMXMw5br8vMqfqXnsHPqNJIAnmH1M6ezw92DCUTwt1aCbmMjFw9ySk82DTxaSt4Qq40/s500/schitt.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWwJ4YwAgh7YV-fG1CwEvJk4NiFe1SgRjqB5rpvLdoxFxKNsRPOpvcR-55ApQNcFdI6hbAAMqVMXMw5br8vMqfqXnsHPqNJIAnmH1M6ezw92DCUTwt1aCbmMjFw9ySk82DTxaSt4Qq40/s320/schitt.gif" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">And so it has come to pass that I have adopted a network of surrogates. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia. Will, Grace, Jack, and Karen. Khadijah, Regine, Max, and Synclaire. Grace and Frankie. Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani, Jason, and Michael. Julia, Mary Jo, Charlene, Suzanne, and Anthony. David, Alexis, Stevie, Patrick, Moira, and Johnny. </span></p></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-33eb4da5-7fff-fad7-39af-e6a5f4bc7afb"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx-Zs3Kgw1FUNfIKdI1I1GPMsabo8BHSwZhN4gkxXNhaHo1OtJXRhMGFteyaAehEioX5iAMtBcSVvQWZK_YP5peg88T7u_e79Mgn7qvZDwdK7atCMN5aWn67YVUl40PUeQZp_nSlHMzU/s475/will+and+grace.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx-Zs3Kgw1FUNfIKdI1I1GPMsabo8BHSwZhN4gkxXNhaHo1OtJXRhMGFteyaAehEioX5iAMtBcSVvQWZK_YP5peg88T7u_e79Mgn7qvZDwdK7atCMN5aWn67YVUl40PUeQZp_nSlHMzU/s320/will+and+grace.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have escaped into the imaginary worlds of friends who are always together. Who live in houses where doors are always unlocked, cheesecake is always in the fridge, and nobody ever goes through a problem alone. Where, when you wake up late at night and feel like shit, there’s someone there to cuddle under the comforter with, or get in a fight with, or drink a glass of wine with, or eat a cheesecake with. Where there’s always an adventure to be had, from road trips to mundane workdays to bad double dates to eating cheesecake. Theirs is a world where even funerals are funny. (Have I mentioned the cheesecake?) </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVk_m3F0Ny-2DBeaSVvhBnT56d1vl1ZHXAO-UL8blhDqfbjwkms93NhxTb42jywjFLzDQJbfquXBktyYje4usk07i-hfveEGomyRlJoNYA3eqKeDiKsRZrlpA2MDGvzZ3dq_g7396vUU/s480/living+sing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVk_m3F0Ny-2DBeaSVvhBnT56d1vl1ZHXAO-UL8blhDqfbjwkms93NhxTb42jywjFLzDQJbfquXBktyYje4usk07i-hfveEGomyRlJoNYA3eqKeDiKsRZrlpA2MDGvzZ3dq_g7396vUU/s320/living+sing.gif" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></p>Having these other homes to go to, from a Brooklyn brownstone to a lanai in Miami to a stately Atlanta mansion to a couple of shabby adjoining hotel rooms to a beach house in La Jolla, has brought me comfort when it felt like there was no comfort to be found. Losing myself in episodes of these shows, with my imaginary friends, on days when it felt like we’d always be isolated and never laugh together again, has felt like the hug we couldn’t actually share. Like the happy hour we couldn’t enjoy. Like examining the Trolley Problem on a perfectly sunny day. Like problem solving at Del Taco. Like a cheesecake at midnight. </span></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJZ-O-104zJMTSEwQURJ3NRLt4aM_PLDfktW_y1U9hyJ2fEJfdH1EPcOSkKDt7CbCObYtvdQH5thOD2YzInUhKWOPCk4XLei8fZ_QNY8HatuOkmJrtOsAs41m5RxQ9iLxAf0UWFoZZWU/s474/g+and+f.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJZ-O-104zJMTSEwQURJ3NRLt4aM_PLDfktW_y1U9hyJ2fEJfdH1EPcOSkKDt7CbCObYtvdQH5thOD2YzInUhKWOPCk4XLei8fZ_QNY8HatuOkmJrtOsAs41m5RxQ9iLxAf0UWFoZZWU/s320/g+and+f.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Retreating into these places with these people is an easy way to cope with what is truly un-cope-able. After a hard day at work or on a day when I’m feeling particularly lonely, I can put on the TV and visit my sitcom friends and escape into worlds where things are normal, friends can gather, and Debbie Reynolds, Chaka Khan, Della Reese, Gregory Hines, Burt Reynolds, Maya Rudolph, and Lisa Kudrow show up for a visit and hilarity ensues. I can escape into a world without COVID-19, and laugh at things like inviting Elvis impersonators to a wedding instead of guests, or waiting extra long so your Cher doll could find a “secure” seat at the restaurant, or your children tricking you into a retirement home, or pretending you’re married to get a suite and nice dinner at a resort. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fuRqYoJRIIS7Y0s34WZAbjOTD8-idb4dJPOarSe12znSsMq_cU6zvfkbBmjBgbulErK0mbZK0FMfg6Fmi225C4aM7mJDkM1RJnpIXhPWVkpQEGKYE6uTt5bl_JGXSME0kY5SM4-eBXk/s500/good+place.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fuRqYoJRIIS7Y0s34WZAbjOTD8-idb4dJPOarSe12znSsMq_cU6zvfkbBmjBgbulErK0mbZK0FMfg6Fmi225C4aM7mJDkM1RJnpIXhPWVkpQEGKYE6uTt5bl_JGXSME0kY5SM4-eBXk/s320/good+place.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can spend some time with my “friends” because I can’t spend time with my friends. These uncomplicated, lighthearted people who can have a hug and a laugh whenever they want have become my safe space when the group text just won’t fill the void. Sure, I know they’re not real. I know that I’m not an elegant Southern woman. I know I don’t run a hotel or an apothecary in a small Canadian town. I’m not the editor of a startup magazine for the hip urban professional. I’m not fighting for my soul in the afterlife. And, much to my chagrin, I don’t have a lanai. But each of these shows, these places, these people, are a gift that I can give myself in a very weird time when I can’t see my flesh and blood friends in real brick and mortar places. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnFauMdj42rwZD3XCHtPvnXjZmJunhyCdrhKJ9U_-JIFwKJ8vSHrYvNiciGb2KaEIotJbhJ6jrWzjq8XE_Ijy8TuPy9_p6x-D_qwLXio70S0sSrza5FYcHpNyLz1YFNR6EfqxeKM6obM/s397/sugarbaker.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnFauMdj42rwZD3XCHtPvnXjZmJunhyCdrhKJ9U_-JIFwKJ8vSHrYvNiciGb2KaEIotJbhJ6jrWzjq8XE_Ijy8TuPy9_p6x-D_qwLXio70S0sSrza5FYcHpNyLz1YFNR6EfqxeKM6obM/s320/sugarbaker.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re all learning to cope in real time. In weird time. In time where there really is no coping. Where nothing is okay. Where there simply isn’t enough midnight cheesecake to fix it. And, so, I hope you’ll forgive me for ending here...I’ve got a date with some friends in Miami. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJaTak69fElZWDyk1DOeudJJc_7XV0h1ySwqicttWFnaWu2JEPvF9uFW2ORdvgK7BUBd1p8_rVPByb1s-SYK3WGcf2N1gIakZRWjM6dD_crQxSy7s7kWqiwjS5yuzZC3osHjRC_m9HAQ/s220/golden+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="165" data-original-width="220" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJaTak69fElZWDyk1DOeudJJc_7XV0h1ySwqicttWFnaWu2JEPvF9uFW2ORdvgK7BUBd1p8_rVPByb1s-SYK3WGcf2N1gIakZRWjM6dD_crQxSy7s7kWqiwjS5yuzZC3osHjRC_m9HAQ/w320-h240/golden+girls.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-32710035443038658282020-12-22T14:26:00.000-08:002020-12-22T14:26:24.504-08:00The sweet smell of the season<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I<span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">t’s the most wonderful time of the year. That’s what they tell us. “They” being advertisers. It’s the Lexus to December to Remember and Toyotathon, when unexpected vehicles show up in snow covered driveways across America with big red bows on Christmas morning. It’s when you “tell her you love her all over again” with a hideous Pandora bracelet or other tacky bauble from Kay Jewelers. They really lay it on thick at Christmastime. And nobody lays it on thicker (or weirder) than the perfumers. In all my 45 years, I have yet to see a perfume commercial that makes sense. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ca20dbcf-7fff-d1cc-3d83-773ce9a518c6"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chanel has Keira Knightly sitting in her ballgown alone in a hotel room playing chess and, presumably heavily doused in Coco Mademoiselle “for the night”. There’s a lot to unpack here . . . does Keira live in a home where chess is forbidden? Is that why she must run away one night to play, alone it seems? And because it’s such a special occasion, she dresses up in her best dress and all the necklaces she owns? It still doesn’t explain the perfume -- I mean, sure, there are those times when we just want to smell good for ourselves. Or maybe, she’s trying to get all fresh-as-a-daisy smelling for the room service guy who knocks at the end? Or perhaps the knock at the end is Gary Kasparov for a late-night chess rendezvous and she wants to impress him, not only with her secret chess set, but also with her taste in French perfume . . .</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GjsWJj-8V-Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="GjsWJj-8V-Q"></iframe></div><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or what about the one where Chanel (again) sends Marian Cotillard to the moon? Marian runs around the (oddly glitter-covered) moon without any sort of space suit, dancing and floating with a dark stranger. Are we supposed to believe that No 5 protects her from smothering to death in zero gravity? And, while she’s not smothering to death, she’s also moved to ballroom dance in first regular gravity which then turns to floating as the dark stranger rubs her pulse points (perhaps that’s so he can get a better whiff Chanel No 5 on the moon)? But then, she’s back on earth . . . was it just a dream? Or a flash forward to her welcome-home-from-space party where she and the mysterious stranger stare longingly at the moon, only hints of perfume to remind them of their very special time dancing around in moon glitter . . . </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qeMqcApmS7g" width="320" youtube-src-id="qeMqcApmS7g"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Have you seen the one where Charlize Theron is in a seemingly-palatial bathhouse surrounded by a bunch of women lounging casually on the floor in sequined gowns? Naked Charlize emerges from the languid pool (which nobody else is using), totally naked and strutting as if she owns the place. (Maybe she does own the place; maybe that’s why nobody else is allowed in the Turkish bath with her; maybe that’s why she feels comfortable enough to strut in all her naked glory, because let’s be honest, who besides Charlize Theron would feel good enough about themselves to march around in front of a bunch of other people totally unabashed in their birthday suit?) The perfume doesn’t show up until the end, but perhaps the pool Charlize has been soaking in is full of Dior J’Adore? And the lounging women are overcome by the fumes and trying simply to hold their heads up while Charlize is immune because she’s otherworldly or something? They all emerge in their gowns at the end, golden and glistening and ready to take on the world with their perfume army . . .</span></p><div><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tCXTCtYEuRU" width="320" youtube-src-id="tCXTCtYEuRU"></iframe></div></span></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dior also gives Natalie Portman her own weird (and volatile) world where she fights with her boyfriend/partner/paramour, jumps of a pier in a dress, runs down street, drives a classic car on the beach, and does other things happily/angrily/defiantly/coquettishly while (probably) wearing the perfume. Or perhaps she’s having some sort of allergic reaction to the perfume which is causing her to act so erratically? This is all while Sia’s Chandelier plays in the background, yet strangely enough, of all the thing ole Nat does do, chandelier swinging isn’t one of them. But the very best part (and by that, I mean the absolute worst part) comes at the end when Natalie looks directly into the camera and slurs, “Anju? What wooju do for love?” It’s enough to make me want to jump off a pier in a ballgown . . . </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/h4s0llOpKrU" width="320" youtube-src-id="h4s0llOpKrU"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Without question, though, the best worst perfume commercial of all time is the Elizabeth Taylor classic for her signature White Diamonds scent. The commercial starts off real enough. Liz flits around the world, in the glare of the paparazzi. She sparkles in diamonds (probably from Richard Burton) as she demures for the camera. Then . . . plot twist! She walks in on a high stakes poker game and offers up her diamond earrings, which “have always brought me luck.” I never could figure out what she was doing with these squirrely looking poker players, and why she’d offer up her $3 million diamond earrings just for chance. Was she, like her sisters in other perfume commercials, high on the fumes, thus impairing her judgement? Was she tired of the earrings or so assured of their luck that she knew it was no gamble? I guess we’ll never know . . . </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vjVfu8-Wp6s" width="320" youtube-src-id="vjVfu8-Wp6s"></iframe></div><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, however you’re spending your holiday dollars this year, please do your homework and ensure that the perfume you purchase is such a fragrance that it inspires and moves and implores your behavior as a woman of power. A woman who doesn’t take no for an answer. A woman who sees the sky (or the moon) as the limit. A woman who feels comfortable naked. Or playing chess. Or driving a classic car. Or gambling with mountebanks in white linen shirts. Because that’s what perfume’s for, isn’t it?</span></p></span><br /></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-28963048371873172802020-12-09T07:57:00.003-08:002020-12-09T07:57:41.222-08:00Seasons grievings<p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Woof. This year. This whole goddamn year. As it draws to a close, I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve been through, all of us. Our collective trauma. And what we’ve lost. It’s been a lot. We’ve lost and grieved A LOT. Seriously, there’s more grief in here than even Elizabeth Kübler-Ross could have imagined.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5f9c0b28-7fff-8f21-0f32-dde0cb0fada8"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The year started off okay enough for me. I had my blackeyed peas, courtesy of a friend who is a wonderful Southern cook. As he always says, “Imagine how bad the year might’ve been if we didn’t have them,” and I’ve tried to take that to heart. Because, if 2020 is any indication, it seems that things really could always get worse. If I’m being honest, January and February weren’t half bad. We had a great trip to L.A. and San Francisco, which was a lot of fun. And then . . . the wheels fell off in March. And for that I am grieving. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In March, I was on travel for work -- a planning retreat with my department’s leadership team. We looked ahead to expanding our team, broadening our budget, and doing some really exciting things. Nine months later, half of the people in that room no longer work with me and everyone is doing more with less. Like so many others, it feels like it’s a constant state of crisis at work (and I’m well aware how fortunate I am to even be able to work...for that I am grateful). I am grieving for big plans and their potential unrealized. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The last time we saw our Palm Springs friends, we were celebrating my husband’s birthday in mid-March, right before the shutdowns. We agonized over whether or not we should even gather, and, still today, I don’t know if it was the right decision. But, I’m so incredibly glad we had one last chance to see the gang all together. We didn’t know then that it would be a long goodbye. We didn’t know it meant no visits from our far-flung friends from other places. We didn’t know the seemingly endless isolation to follow. I am grieving for the friends, our framily, who we don’t know when we’ll see. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’ve stayed connected to our community online, and by following the news. That’s how we’ve learned of the countless businesses -- some owned or run by friends, and many that were favorite places to be, both in Palm Springs and in D.C. -- that have shuttered forever. Our friends and family in the service industry have struggled to make ends meet, to get creative in how they sustain themselves and put their talents to work. I am grieving for the incredible gifts of so many that are waiting to be brought back to work, safely. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve watched incredible parents who have done everything they can to ensure that their kids are learning and whole through this incredibly unstable time. My friends and family who have kids have undertaken creative activities like birthday parades and dance parties and art projects and a lot of hiking; there are so many incredible ways that parents are showing up for their kids. And I’ve worried for the kids who don’t have those resources. For the kids whose parents are essential workers or who are in unstable homes, homes without internet or basic necessities, or not in homes at all. I am grieving for our kids and the lost year of their childhood that they can never get back. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My heart is broken because I don’t know when I will see my family again. I’m so proud of my parents and in-laws for staying home and safe and doing everything they can to protect their health (including indulging my protective instructions and worries). And it hurts to know that they, like so many, are doing that by themselves. I worry for the people who don’t have anyone to worry about them, to call and tell them they can’t go to the dentist or the grocery store because it would be too big of a risk, to nag them with love. I ache for the loneliness that I know has settled into the hearts of so many people. And I am hurting so much for the friends who have lost someone; a parent, grandparent, in-law, colleague, elder. I am grieving for lost time -- especially when time is getting shorter every day -- and for all of our separated and fractured families. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My husband is a social butterfly without his garden. His energy comes from his people, and right now, his only people is me. And I’m afraid I’m not much help a lot of the time. Because this perpetual state of grief is no way to live, and it certainly doesn’t do much for one’s personality (okay, my personality...it does NOTHING for MY personality). But every day, he tries. Every day, he makes me smile and feel better, whether he’s feeling better or not. His patience and resilience are immeasurable. And for that, I feel so grateful and want to be better. I’m grieving for our extroverts who are surviving the best way they know how, even when cooped up with a moody introvert, or worse, with no one at all. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And with the holidays upon as -- normally a time of togetherness and celebration, and for many, an already-difficult time -- I know there will be more to grieve. There will be more loneliness and sadness. There will be more loss. And while my tendency is to wallow, I will do my best to find the light. Because there is still light. And, I have to believe, more light to come. Because grief can’t last forever. A hint of it maybe, but not sustained, deep, perpetual grief. Our grief will have to dull as our joy seeps back in. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And our joy will seep back in. Even though I’m grieving unrealized potential, I’ve had the benefit of some unexpected opportunities. While I’m grieving the faces of friends I can’t see in person, I’m fortified by the depth of the long-distance connections that we have worked hard to sustain and make stronger. Despite my grieving over closed businesses, I’m celebrating the talents of my friends who’ve taken their creativity in new directions (online drag shows, anyone?) and given us light and distraction. Though I’m grieving for our kids, I’m full of pride for the ingenious and flexible and strong parents who are giving their all in the most extraordinary circumstances. Yes, I’m still grieving for loneliness and lost time with family, but I can look forward to the time when we can be together again and how much sweeter it will be, how much more grateful we’ll be for each other. And, while I’m grieving for the extroverts, I am so everlastingly grateful for MY extrovert who has made this misery bearable. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know this grief isn’t going away any time soon. At least not fully. And even when it does, it will come back unexpectedly, out of the blue, as grief is wont to do. But I also know there are those bright spots to be found. There is delight and triumph, even in the midst of so much pain. There is raucous laughter. There are flashes of brilliance. There is inspiration. Perseverance. Resilience. Hope. And, yes, there is fleeting joy.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Keep grieving. For this moment -- which is unlike anything else, where we have lost so much -- must be processed and understood. But do not forget to look for the joy. It will sneak up on you, perhaps like an extroverted butterfly, and remind you why you must go on. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.theseniorcarenetwork.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/holiday-loneliness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://www.theseniorcarenetwork.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/holiday-loneliness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p></span></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-80981969347686684892020-11-25T06:30:00.002-08:002020-11-25T06:30:02.307-08:00The worst Thanksgiving ever<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think we can all agree that 2020 is a colossal dumpster fire. There has been little fun or joy to be had. We’ve all been struggling to get by and find moments that are less dumpstery than usual -- to maybe find a fleeting dance with joy. But mostly, things just suck. With Thanksgiving this week, it promises to be another in a long list of major bummers. The CDC has told us that we need to stay home -- and staying home is really the only safe way to get through this holiday. My husband and I still haven’t figured out what, if anything, we’ll do to mark the day as any different from any of the others in the past nine months. Still, in the interest of perspective, I don’t think it will compare with The Worst Thanksgiving Ever. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-768576de-7fff-634c-e51e-79dd4c672202"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It may be hard to believe, but staying home alone and doing nothing is actually preferable to one particular Thanksgiving my family had in the mid-90s. I was away </span><a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/09/untethered.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">at college in Ohio</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, so travel was a necessity to see my family, regardless of the holiday. Someone (I honestly don’t know who is to blame for this harebrained idea) thought it would be a good idea for us to meet up with our family in Tennessee for a mini family reunion. This included my grandparents and dad’s siblings (and their families) who lived in Baltimore, as well as the extended Tennessee branch of my dad’s family. The plan was to meet in Nashville, then drive to Gatlinburg for a long weekend in the Smoky Mountains. Sounds idyllic, no? A weekend of Family Fun! I’ll bet you didn’t know that Nashville is nowhere near Gatlinburg, even though they are in the same (very long) state. We literally could have driven from Nashville to Alabama, Arkansas, or Kentucky faster than we’d get to Gatlinburg. Apparently, nobody in my family knew this either (and the ones who may have known didn’t care).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s probably a good sidebar to note here that years prior, we had done a family trip (same cast of characters) to Gatlinburg that had been all highjinx and hilarity and actual Family Fun! We rented adjoining condos at the top of a mountain and the views were gorgeous. Our Tennessee family took us to every possible place in the Smoky Mountains where a person could shop. There was a country ham that stunk up the entire condo block. There were games and giggles and tons of fun. There was an eternity spent in the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum, much to my mother’s chagrin. I think I even fed a bear a carrot. We had every reason to believe that this trip would be more of the same, and so off we embarked on a great family adventure.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I flew into Nashville and </span><a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2011/06/boldly-go-where-no-ham-has-gone-before.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cuz </span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(one of my dad’s cousins, natch) picked me up from the airport. He took me on a lovely driving tour of the city, pointing out landmarks and other things. We then met everyone (there were easily 25 of us) for dinner at Cracker Barrel (pronounced, in the vernacular, “Cracka Berl”) before spending the evening walking around the Opryland Hotel. This was the first in what would be a very bizarre series of events. At the time, Opryland must’ve been one of the biggest hotels in the world. I had certainly never seen anything like it in my life (to this day, I’m not sure I can compare it to anything I’ve ever seen). It even had a full forest inside the atrium, with a stream and footbridges. And, I don’t know if there was a pageant in town that night or what, but you have never seen so much big hair and so many ball gowns in your life. Everyone was dressed to promenade, and promenade they did. The only thing missing was Bert Parks. We were transfixed (and underdressed).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, we set out after breakfast (at -- you guessed it --Cracka Berl) and loaded up in a caravan of cars headed for Gatlinburg. It was at this point we learned that it was a distance of more than 200 miles across the entire state, in a whole other time zone! On Thanksgiving. On a normal day, it would take us four hours or so. On Thanksgiving, who knows...we were about to find out. (Incidentally, we could have all flown into Knoxville and driven an hour to Gatlinburg...but why make things easy? Where’s Family Fun in that!)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were no more than an hour down the road when at least one of my cousins got carsick. So, we pulled over. And waited. Fortunately, my dad had made the extremely wise decision to rent his own car for our family of four, in lieu of riding in the larger family van with the Baltimore relatives (hereafter, the Barf Mobile). This scenario played out several more times over the course of the neverending afternoon. Did I mention, Family Fun! We stopped, again, midday for lunch at...Cracka Berl, allowing more time for vomiting and leg stretching. It was around this point when my immediate family decided we were done with the caravan and we were just going to get there, hell or high water. We were definitely already in hell, high water TBD.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By then, it was starting to get dark, so we left the Barf Mobile and friends behind and hauled ass the last leg of the journey. Somehow, we managed to get up the mountain to the condos where we were staying around dinner time. Because we had given up on the caravan, we were ahead of everyone else. And, then it hit us. Because it was Thanksgiving, there weren’t any restaurants open in tiny little Gatlinburg (nor a Cracka Berl to be found). We didn’t have groceries, so there was to be no turkey dinner. Our last meal had been hours earlier. Nobody had thought about what we would have for Thanksgiving dinner. So we pulled out the phone book (‘member those?) and looked up pizza delivery. And that’s how we ended up eating lukewarm Dominos pizza for Thanksgiving dinner that year. More Family Fun!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hours later, our other family members showed up and realized they had no Thanksgiving dinner ahead of them, either. And that’s how they ended up eating Dominos pizza for Thanksgiving dinner that year. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sure, we were all together. But we were cranky, uncomfortable, bored, frustrated, and hungry for most of the day (and some of us were vomiting). Nobody ever wanted to see Cracka Berl again. There had been none of the promised Family Fun! Some might argue that, to some degree, that’s what every family experiences on Thanksgiving (and perhaps it is). But that ridiculous, endless, vomit-filled road trip was truly the worst Thanksgiving ever. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(To be fair, the rest of the weekend was at least marginally better than Thanksgiving day. I don’t think anyone threw up the rest of the time we were there. Though I have mostly blocked out the entire trip -- except for lunch at Ronnie Milsap’s restaurant in downtown Gatlinburg where a wedding was going on around us. Let’s just say, it did not go down in the historic register as one of the great family vacations of all time, and it was made worse because we didn’t even get to go to Dollywood, which was closed for the season.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This year, when I can’t be with my family or even my adopted “framily” and so many of us will be marking the day alone, I’ll be thinking back to that awful year and rejoice in the fact that I won’t be traveling for hours across the length of Tennessee only to have bad pizza for dinner. And so, from my (quarantined) house to your (hopefully, also quarantined) house, I want to wish you the most mundane and restorative Thanksgiving you can muster. I hope you find a moment or two of joy, however fleeting. I hope you eat something you love. I hope you don’t vomit. And most of all, I hope that we will all be in a better place than Cracka Berl, the Barf Mobile, Gatlinburg and -- merciful heavens -- 2020 next year. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ640iZrUgCULLvYScmCCHWLLvIP4Vn1soWKduEZeOcuhEn36JkS-Kzr-NxG3rtl4bVoBEq2armA7o9NFcpr5CS-FzQT0YtZ5wiJ4llLgFSmB285FWXfyh8JMR-QZ2jUCuYv4tAuVAZVU/s500/turkey.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ640iZrUgCULLvYScmCCHWLLvIP4Vn1soWKduEZeOcuhEn36JkS-Kzr-NxG3rtl4bVoBEq2armA7o9NFcpr5CS-FzQT0YtZ5wiJ4llLgFSmB285FWXfyh8JMR-QZ2jUCuYv4tAuVAZVU/s320/turkey.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p></span></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-29444438344501036252020-11-03T07:21:00.003-08:002020-11-03T07:22:56.218-08:00Reasons to believe<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I sit here on the precipice of the most important election of my life (and, I would argue, the life of the United States), I’m struggling to process my feelings. The past four years have been a slog. Policies of the current administration, whether by legislation or executive order, have negatively affected every member of my family. And, the rhetoric and divisiveness has rippled through our society and hurt our people and our democracy. The destruction of what we hold dear has been catastrophic. And, as of today, more than 231,000 people in the U.S. have perished as a result of a mismanaged pandemic. I have been angry and scared and grief stricken. It is entirely too much to bear. We are not better off. We are not great. But we can be.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-aa1fe183-7fff-4f03-a225-945bd9479707"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This Election Day, I still believe in this country. I believe in its people. And I believe that there is hope. I’ve seen it. Even amid all the ugly, there is still a reason to believe. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Voter turnout is soaring, even as voter suppression runs rampant. People are taking heroic measures to ensure that our fellow Americans are able to vote. In a democracy, it shouldn’t be hard to vote. For anyone. And yet, some in our democracy don’t want to count every vote. They don’t want the voices of all of our citizens to be heard. But, as those suppression efforts are at play, so are the efforts of advocates who are registering voters, helping formerly incarcerated people pay the poll tax in Florida, and making sure our election is protected. There are so many ways everyday people are showing up to protect the right to vote.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even in my non-swing state of California, my phone has been lit up nonstop with calls and text messages about issues and candidates. So many people are giving so much of themselves to preserve our democracy -- and to ensure that everyone can participate in it. That activism, that commitment, is helping me sleep (albeit fitfully) at night. It’s making me proud. And it’s giving me hope. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To see how deeply so many of my fellow Americans care about our country, and the people in it, is why I haven’t given up yet -- even when I feel most discouraged. I have no illusions about what lies ahead, regardless of the outcome of the election. We are still in the throes of a pandemic that threatens our existence. We are still wrestling with the country’s original sin of racism and hate. We have children in cages. Our most marginalized populations’ very right to exist is under attack. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, still, I believe in America. This election is her greatest test. No matter what the results of this election, our work does not stop. It cannot stop. The not knowing is scary. But, regardless of the outcome, we will keep working. To restore faith. To protect our most vulnerable. To rebuild. The work will look different, depending on who wins, but the fact remains that we are equal to it. I’ve seen it. And I believe in what we can do.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friends, I know you are exhausted. I know how hard we’ve fought. I appreciate it so much. And I’m proud to be fighting for our democracy alongside you. It’s not going to be easy. But we got this. I believe in us. I believe in U.S.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KgvIr_l74Us" width="320" youtube-src-id="KgvIr_l74Us"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p></span></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-49332075735318894432020-09-06T10:27:00.000-07:002020-09-06T10:27:54.753-07:00Untethered<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I<span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> really hated my college experience. Sure, the education was fine, but it was definitely not my scene. I went to a small, private, Lutheran (what?) school in the Midwest. The campus was beautiful and idyllic and that’s pretty much where the fun began and ended. I was a kid on financial aid among a bunch of other kids who paid full tuition and drove new cars. It was the 90s, so we all dressed like hobos, but most of those other kids’ hobo clothes were designer. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-24571d34-7fff-1f94-a6e2-163edd2e269f"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought it was a good idea to go to this school because they gave me a grant (hooray!), they had a field hockey team that I wanted to play on, and I was, at the time, laboring under the delusion that I was going to become a veterinarian and they had a good biology program. Flash forward: after semester one, I had quit the field hockey team because it was full of the nastiest bullies I’ve ever met (to this day!), flunked Biology 101 (the only class I ever failed, including Typing in high school which nearly sent me over the edge), and I could not stand being isolated in a small town with no museums. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, I stayed there the full four years. I made some friends, joined a sorority (also, what?), and sucked it up until graduation. But unlike other alumni, I do not look back on those years fondly at all. In fact, after incessant phone calls asking me to donate to the school, I finally told the person on the other end of the phone, “She’s dead,” when they asked to speak to me. Fortunately, they’ve never called again and I stopped getting the damned alumni magazine. If I had it to do my college experience all over again, I wouldn’t. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, I digress. Because I had given up on field hockey, I was required to take PE credits instead. If there’s one thing to be said about a rich kid school, they offer rich kid PE classes. Evidenced by the fact that, my junior year, I decided to take horseback riding (it might’ve even been called Equestrian something or other) for my PE credit. Our school wasn’t snotty enough (or big enough) to have our own stables, so we had to ride 45 minutes away in a rickety old athletic department van to the place where the horses were. (Can you believe these people had the nerve to charge an additional fee to take this class? Like, $25K a year wasn’t enough, we need an extra $175 so you can ride a horse. At least we didn't have to buy books, I guess.) Sometimes, on the way back from our lesson, we stopped at Dairy Queen, which was probably the best meal I had in my four years in Ohio (but that’s another story for another day and involves lasagne made with cottage cheese). </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As part of our equine education, we were also required to learn how to groom and tack the horses (I think this is what it was called, but don’t feel like googling to confirm). This consisted of brushing them and scraping crap out from under their hooves, as well as putting blankets and saddles and other stuff on the horse. Most of it smelled bad. It was all covered in dusty, brown dirt, and so was I after about six minutes. As a lifelong avid indoorswoman, I don’t know what made me think this was a good idea, but I suppose it was better than volleyball.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My horse was named Mica and he was an asshole. When it would come time for my lesson, and his grooming, he’d first turn away from me smugly as soon as he saw me coming. Then, as I was trying to brush him or whatever, he’d step on my foot. Every week, he stepped on my foot. 2,000 pounds of horse. On. My. Foot. Asshole. Then, when it was time to scrape the gunk from his hooves, he’d refuse to lift his foot. Four hooves, four times. I usually had to ask for help. I’m telling you, this horse was an asshole. Once, he was even successful in his attempts to bite me when I was trying to put the bit in his mouth. He liked biting. A lot.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These weren’t prime racing horses, of course. They were old, bored trail horses. And mine hated his job. The first part of the lesson, after we had gotten good and dirty from rubbing the horse and scooping actual crap out of its hooves, was ring riding. This is where we learned techniques, none of which I can remember. (There was one girl in the class who was an “accomplished equestrian,” which probably meant she had her own horse as a kid. She rode English style on a dainty little saddle. She wore a helmet and jodhpurs and shiny black boots like she was the literal Queen of England and basically got private lessons while the rest of us were riding Western style with clunky old saddles and ugly boots.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mica hated ring work, and so did I. This was the time during the lesson when they’d instruct us to use your left foot to make the horse go left or some shit. It was at this point when Mica would try to bite my foot, and the instructor would yell at me to control him better. Short of kicking him in the teeth (which I was not about to do), what the fuck did that mean? I weighed 100 pounds and Mica was the size of a Buick. How was I supposed to control him better? Thank god this course was just a credit and not a grade, because Mica was determined to make me look bad.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After an hour of slogging around the ring, we would go on a lovely, boring trail ride through the woods. Mica didn’t mind this much, since he could just lazily follow the horse in front of him on a route he had probably trod a thousand times before. Unless they tried to make us trot. Then Mica would hold up the whole line of other horses and go his own pace. One time they gave me a stick that I was supposed to use as a crop to see if it might help, but it never did much for Mica’s attitude. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The only time Mica was remotely cooperative was the day they had us ride bareback. It was a strange feeling, with no stirrups or saddle. But it was really free. Mica thought so, too. Turns out, he must’ve really not liked his saddle, because the day we rode without one, he was attentive, agile, and -- dare I say -- fun. On the trail ride, he trotted with zeal! He even “jumped” over a log in the path instead of stepping over it slowly, one foot at a time (as was his usual manner). But, he still stepped on my foot, and definitely tried to bite me when I removed his bridle that day. To be honest, I’m feeling pretty lucky that Mica never kicked me in the head. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s only now that I realize Mica and I were more alike than it seemed. Like him, I didn’t want to be saddled with the misery of the smalltown Midwest. I wanted to be free. I wanted to jump over logs and run away from the boring place that was keeping me tethered. I wanted to bite someone. Seriously, I really hated Ohio. </span></p></span></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-3179761066754633472020-08-26T09:07:00.001-07:002020-08-26T09:08:43.157-07:00Cutting up<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just when I think the quarantine has taken us to the far reaches of what we can do for ourselves, we reach another level. Back in March, sourdough starters and banana bread were all the rage. You could hardly go on Instagram or Facebook without seeing a lump of taupe-colored dough sitting in a glass bowl. Or a batch of brown bananas begging for their destiny. There were shortages of yeast and flour on par with the dearth of toilet paper we all feared. It even led one woman (I shit you not, her name is Caren White) to write a screed about how the rest of us baking were taking food out of her mouth. (Seriously, you can read an archived version of it </span><a href="https://archive.vn/ZXk7Q#selection-281.0-321.56" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</span></a><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and a later screed walking back her entitlement and trying to justify it </span><a href="https://medium.com/@carenawhite/i-will-not-be-silenced-4ad399f6d70d" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</span></a><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.)</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-e7d635dd-7fff-4dbe-d7e5-924d5b15ff63"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the quarantine progressed, enthusiastic and enterprising folks explored the miracle of dalgona coffee (which, I’m sorry, looks like diarrhea mixed with milk); the wonders of homemade bagels and English muffins; the agony and ecstasy of handmade pasta; the dangers of self-shucked oysters; and on and on. The boundaries of what people were willing to try at home was wonderful. As the weather improved, many, including those who were not necessarily culinarily inclined, turned to gardening, even on windowsills and crowded balconies, and urban farmers were born. Photos of sourdough lumps turned to ripening tomatoes or sprigs of basil. And more succulents than you’ve ever seen in your life. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were also those more crafty pursuits. I saw a lot of embroidery (I saw two erstwhile projects that had been started when now-adult children were born, and finished in pandemic revisitation) and sewing (masks galore!); there were pillows and knitting; I even saw several quilts. There was woodworking and painting, revisiting of friendly old hobbies, since we couldn’t visit our actual friends. And puzzles! Oh, the puzzles. Millions of puzzle pieces were sorted and sifted; edges were aligned, blue skies carefully crafted as hours stretched into infinity. We were willing to do anything to pass the endless hellscape of time before us. (I, on the other hand, took up having isolation happy hour in the sun in my building’s parking lot, as I’m neither inclined to bake nor am I the least bit crafty -- hey, we all have our gifts.)</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the weeks stretched into months, many of us, myself included, found that basic personal maintenance could wait no longer. Manicures and pedicures were done at home. Friends sourced the best hair color brands on Facebook. Roots were attacked with a vengeance. But, with salons closed, there was little help for the inevitable growth we were all facing. I know a lot of men who went the clippers route -- and survived. I know some folks who got their hair cut outdoors by enterprising stylists who are willing to make housecalls. And there were the lucky ones who managed to take advantage when salons started opening again. Here in California, our salons were open and in the blink of an eye, reclosed. I definitely missed my window. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, so it came to pass that, this week, I gave myself a coronacut. My hair has probably grown three or four inches since March, and was getting a little straggly. With all the video calls I’m stuck on, I ended up staring at myself more than I like. I began to obsess over my split ends. My stringy length. The unruly flyaways. During one chat with a coworker, she said (very confidently, I might add) that she’s been cutting her own hair the whole time. And, to be fair, it looks great. She pushed me -- “you can do it!” But could I? She told me her technique is to gather it all up into a high ponytail, then section it with a second ponytail holder, and then SNIP! “Watch a YouTube video!” she exclaimed. I thought about it. For weeks. All the while, my hair got longer. And heavier. And stringier. (Or it stayed mostly the same and it was me who got heavier and stringier and...whatever.)</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I watched a video. I sectioned my hair. I snipped. And boy do I have a LOT of hair. It was like trying to saw through rope. But I did it. And then, I fancied it by cutting into the blunt end of the ponytail to give it some texture (like I’m fucking Vidal Sassoon or some shit). Hair was everywhere! And I didn’t have one of those giant brooms like the salons have that scoop up all your hair in one swipe. I stood there, holding my mutilated ponytail in my hand, afraid to remove the band holding it up. What if I looked like that time Monica let Phoebe cut her hair on </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friends</span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and ended up looking like Dudley Moore? Or worse, what if my hair came to a triangular point in the back like one of those sister wives who has never cut her hair. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided to embrace it and, come what may, there wasn’t anything I could change, anyhow. I pulled it down and it actually looked halfway decent. It was still a little too long in the back and the sides had a lot of layers that were probably mostly uneven. But it was definitely lighter and less stringy. And, to be honest, it wasn’t the worst haircut I’d ever had (not even in the top five worst -- there was one haircut in about 1996 that made me look like a 45 year old soccer mom...I was 21; or the time when I decided I needed Mimi Wallace’s haircut from Pulp Fiction but ended up looking more like a Goth little Dutch Boy; or the definite mullet I had some time in college). I fluffed it up and showed my husband. “It’s not bad at all for your first try.” A ringing endorsement indeed. And I can happily report that the only thing pointed was my husband’s compliment...my hair falls mostly straight across the back. </span></span></p><div><span face="" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/glFtWk1R_14" width="320" youtube-src-id="glFtWk1R_14"></iframe></div><span face="" style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-144145722095345372020-08-23T11:53:00.004-07:002020-08-23T11:53:51.152-07:00Rising to the American Dream<p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week, the Democratic Party of the United States of America nominated a Black, Indian-American, woman as the Vice Presidential candidate. Kamala Harris, in that moment, stepped into a space unoccupied ever before by a woman like herself. The child of two immigrants, Kamala Harris leaned into the dreams of so many Americans in the moment that she accepted the nomination. For herself. For her parents. For Black people. For Indians. For Jamaicans. For immigrants. For women. For America. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-3ff95e81-7fff-7410-1da5-21f38e082cbc"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And still, as the American Dream has come to signify for any but the most privileged, the experience was a little broken. A little damaged. It wasn’t what any Vice Presidential nominee before her had had. Geraldine Ferraro and Sarah Palin spoke to filled auditoriums. Screaming crowds. Exalting allies. They had the benefit of functioning systems standing behind them. Instead, Kamala, like so many Black women, stepped into an imperfect situation. A broken experience. A situation she was expected to rise to. One she will be expected to fix. A moment that was made for her and still not worthy of her greatness. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is something that is so perfectly, beautifully American about Kamala Harris. My husband and I discussed this over dinner the other night. He is an immigrant, the child of immigrants, one of whom, like Kamala, is a Howard University graduate. For him, her nomination signaled the value that immigrants bring (have always brought) to the U.S. It was confirmation that immigrants have as much worth as anyone else. That the immigrant experience means as much as anyone else’s. It was validation. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me, Kamala’s nomination sent the message that strong, smart, tough women really are valuable. Sure, Hillary sent that message. But I saw how she was torn down. There is something a little different about Kamala. I identify with her just a little bit more. She is like me in a way that Hillary wasn’t. We both married a little older. Neither of us has kids. We made our careers our legacy. We don’t give a shit what others think about us. And her nomination sent the message that, even if we don’t follow the conventional path, we are worth something. That a career is just as worthy as a traditional family. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And that was just how we identified in our house. One American household where two of us, in very different, very personal ways identified with the Vice Presidential nominee. And we are just two ways. This is the incredible beauty of who Kamala Harris is. That so many Americans can identify with her, in so many diverse ways. I can only try to imagine the effect the nomination of a Black woman has on the Black community. I won’t even try to speculate -- but I can grasp its weight. Personally, I can only acknowledge what I felt, as a woman, seeing another woman I admire and respect -- one who has made similar choices to mine -- ascend to the role she achieved and deserved. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, still, as I watched Kamala’s acceptance speech, I felt a twinge of sadness. I felt sad that her mother wasn’t there to see this tremendous achievement. I felt sad that the room was empty. I felt sad that she couldn’t hear the cheers of her fellow Americans reverberate through the room as they had for every other vice presidential nominee before her. I felt sad that, because of the actions of the current Administration, she had been robbed of a moment she deserved. I felt sad that she couldn’t hear all of us who identified with her in one way or another with her in that moment. A moment she had earned. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And isn’t that indicative of the woman, the immigrant, the Black experience? Being robbed of what you have rightfully earned. Smiling through an inferior experience. Accepting what you’ve been given, even though you know you deserve better, more. Giving so much more, but getting a little bit less. Isn’t that exactly where we are, and where we have always been? Isn’t that what we have all gotten used to? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, I felt sad for all of the things of which Kamala had been robbed. What she deserved but didn’t get to have. But make no mistake, I did not, for one second feel sorry for her. There was not an ounce of pity in what I was feeling. Because, even though I identified with it, I felt resolute. I understood. I felt empowered. I felt ready. Because, Kamala, like so many of us, knows how to rise above. Knows how to make the best of the least that we are given. And she, like so many, has continued to come out on top. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am a privileged white woman. I know that, and I know that my sense of loss is only a fraction compared to my brothers and sisters in the Black and immigrant communities. And still I see when another of my sisters gets less. This week, Kamala got less. And yet, in the words of the immortal Maya Angleou, she rose. Because that is what we do, those of us who are used to less. That is what Kamala did. And my god, will I always admire, aspire to, and emulate that for the rest of my days. And still, like Kamala, will I rise.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46446/still-i-rise" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Still I Rise</span></span></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may write me down in history</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With your bitter, twisted lies,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may trod me in the very dirt</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But still, like dust, I'll rise.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Does my sassiness upset you?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why are you beset with gloom?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pumping in my living room.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just like moons and like suns,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With the certainty of tides,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just like hopes springing high,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Still I'll rise.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Did you want to see me broken?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bowed head and lowered eyes?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shoulders falling down like teardrops,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Weakened by my soulful cries?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Does my haughtiness offend you?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't you take it awful hard</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Diggin’ in my own backyard.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may shoot me with your words,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may cut me with your eyes,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may kill me with your hatefulness,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But still, like air, I’ll rise.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Does my sexiness upset you?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Does it come as a surprise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That I dance like I've got diamonds</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the meeting of my thighs?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Out of the huts of history’s shame</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Up from a past that’s rooted in pain</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Leaving behind nights of terror and fear</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am the dream and the hope of the slave.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 15pt; text-indent: -15pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I rise.</span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-50342644298643252262020-08-09T09:00:00.002-07:002020-08-09T11:08:03.676-07:00A formula to escape by<p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Escapism is important. I consider it a critical act of self care. Whether it’s through reading, surfing social media, or binge-watching something on Netflix, I think it’s necessary to get out of your head and into something else for a little while. For me, one of my favorite forms of escapism is the Dark Crime Drama. Most of the DCDs that I indulge in are usually British or European, and thanks to Netflix, I have more of these at my fingertips than I ever could have hoped for. There’s something about how these non-American dramas do mystery and suspense that I cannot get enough of. And, since I’ve been immersing myself in this genre for the past decade or so, I have made some observations that are never fail. If I may . . .</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8527a04a-7fff-e723-46f1-f59ba40d5a03"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The crime drama usually takes place in some picturesque small town. It could be in Wales or Poland or Finland or Sweden . . . it doesn’t really matter. But the skies are mostly grey, the fields are vibrant green, the gardens are lush, and the people are eccentric (there’s almost always an elderly person with some quirk that ends up being key to the story). These locales are always beautifully shot. The cinematography is its own character in the story, and that alone is reason to watch. Sometimes its exceedingly cold. Other times, it rains endlessly. Often, there’s a seaside with expansive dark beaches (sometimes a body will wash up, as is wont to happen in a crime story) and stunning shots of seabirds against an angry sky and crashing waves. There’s usually wind. There are charming old stone homes. There are modern buildings and houses made of glass and metal, a juxtaposition between the Old World and the new. You could watch on mute as a travelogue for whatever country the story happens to be set. This is part of what is alluring to me. But there’s more. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QuCHWAvX3VFjOJsxC0tuQEQNTWW9-3krGENxNBVN3aSeUxohnxR-d0GXubb76vZCS6Bnxoaa1gqQnskkDv8LV10RTNmP83WHJk1thHssaOfAAMI2W1ZEo8Yx27dOFnme3CPhqWyCh1E/s447/Hinterland.gif" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QuCHWAvX3VFjOJsxC0tuQEQNTWW9-3krGENxNBVN3aSeUxohnxR-d0GXubb76vZCS6Bnxoaa1gqQnskkDv8LV10RTNmP83WHJk1thHssaOfAAMI2W1ZEo8Yx27dOFnme3CPhqWyCh1E/s0/Hinterland.gif" /></span></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Usually, the story centers around what I call the Damaged Detective. He (and it’s pretty much always a he) has relocated to Small Town from Big City in order to escape his Demons. Those Demons usually include alcoholism (sometimes under control, sometimes not), divorce or death of a spouse, an internal investigation, a Tragic Crime he could not solve that haunts him endlessly and empowers his reckless behavior. He is always Just. He is always Righteous. And he is always Tortured. The Damaged Detective also almost always has a daughter. She’s usually adolescent and has a complicated relationship with her father, depending upon his reason for moving to the village. Sometimes she figures prominently in the show, sometimes she’s an erstwhile character who shows up as his Moral Compass (more on moral compasses later). Of course, the Damaged Detective is brilliant, despite his torture and recklessness. He’s also usually curmudgeonly and/or difficult, and definitely broody and slightly unemotional. This leads to conflict with his superiors (the police chief, the mayor, town officials, etc.) Don’t worry . . . there’s a solution for that. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSWmii7o5kk8Ks4Fl6IdS_in5BbD7BnWpTR01D3qdchiklVSU8FjSRrpsQbN5KarIClwWrxjC_hVw1WREExAOgkMB1cJFPmO5IAFK2r4OqgeY4DHtDztybCEb9bcxty7Nbg44m66o1nU/s500/Wallander.gif" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSWmii7o5kk8Ks4Fl6IdS_in5BbD7BnWpTR01D3qdchiklVSU8FjSRrpsQbN5KarIClwWrxjC_hVw1WREExAOgkMB1cJFPmO5IAFK2r4OqgeY4DHtDztybCEb9bcxty7Nbg44m66o1nU/s0/Wallander.gif" /></a></span></div></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Damaged Detective always has a Pragmatic Woman in a subordinate role, usually a town local, who is also on the police force, who ensures that his prickly ways don’t tick off the local folk too much. She is the Moral Compass, who keeps him in line when one or more of his vices or Demons cause him to act in a manner unbecoming. Most of the time, she was up for a promotion (the job the Damaged Detective has waltzed nicely into, completely oblivious to all the local feathers he’s ruffled), when the brass went over her head for an external hire (this is the part that drives me the craziest, and I’m sure you can understand why). Pragmatic Woman is usually a little homely, maybe even unkempt (because she’s dealing with young children, or a lazy husband/elderly and infirm parent, or some sort of personal turmoil that she never lets interfere with her work). She definitely harbors some resentment toward the Damaged Detective, but is also the Damaged Detective whisperer and is the only one who can make him see reason when he’s thrown some temper tantrum that has pissed off the mayor or the police chief or the entire local community. They eventually become a dynamic duo that love and hate each other, but have zero sexual tension, owing to his tortured brilliance and her commitment to good old fashioned detective work. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtlWsIh9LzTEm6ZlzsUqCesi35MchrjoBvSEAi3JKez9fhXzpxJ0RGgSEQk0z_a_p3YfJuXY0GeDjZfFIP4KJ9sZNg6atsSF8IxuZurgVx-CrfQeKaad77TjNEVIACAyfhEPTBBeDPlo/s500/Broadchurch.gif" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtlWsIh9LzTEm6ZlzsUqCesi35MchrjoBvSEAi3JKez9fhXzpxJ0RGgSEQk0z_a_p3YfJuXY0GeDjZfFIP4KJ9sZNg6atsSF8IxuZurgVx-CrfQeKaad77TjNEVIACAyfhEPTBBeDPlo/s0/Broadchurch.gif" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><br /></div></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">T<span>here’s also the Nondescript Friend character. S/he is the person who made the connection that brought the Damaged Detective to town. They usually know him from school or previous employment or through his (dead/divorced) wife. This friend is also a Moral Compass, who has a Healthy Relationship and Happy Children, who knows some of the reasons the Damaged Detective is the way he is, and has witnessed his previous unraveling. This friend pops up a couple of times in the series to warn the Damaged Detective and remind him that he’s no longer in [Stockholm, Krakow, London, Helsinki, Berlin…] anymore. S/he might also remind him that he has a daughter to think about, depending on how prominently the daughter figures into the storyline. </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The story is some horrific a crime that awakens a sleeping darkness within the deceptively quiet village. It’s the murder of either a very popular person (or a child), or it’s a crime that is reminiscent of one that happened (a decade, 25 years, an indeterminate period of time) in the past and a certain indicator that a killer, famous in local lore, has resurfaced. Or it’s a crime that is eerily similar to the botched case from whatever city the Damaged Detective has come from, and requires choppy flashback images of that crime scene spliced with the current crime scene. This also usually requires either the adolescent daughter or Nondescript Friend or sometimes the Pragmatic Woman to call him on his flashbacks, reminding him, again that this is not [Stockholm, Krakow, London, Helsinki, Berlin…]. Because of this, he just can’t seem to crack this impossible case, just like last time in [Stockholm, Krakow, London, Helsinki, Berlin…]! This usually leads to a scene where he has a confrontation with a Moral Compass, and usually devolves into the Damaged Detective having a) a late night angry drive/walk/run by the beach and/or in the rain, b) reckless sex with a local waitress/barmistress/hotel clerk/wife of secondary character, and/or c) drinking binge. The behavior and previous confrontation might be so bad that it leads to a suspension or his being removed from the case or told angrily to “go home and sleep it off!” That’s when you know the Damaged Detective is going to have a Revelation and solve the case. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://media.giphy.com/media/MB6qpXZa2NTDOgiduj/giphy.gif" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="480" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/MB6qpXZa2NTDOgiduj/giphy.gif" /></a></span></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The morning after the debaucherous behavior usually dawns sunny and full of hope. The Damaged Detective wakes up, rumpled and unshaven but with new resolve. Despite how awful he looks, his mind is clear. He’s up early looking at his notes/evidence/the crime scene. He rubs his unkempt head and that is the moment. The a-ha moment! Meanwhile, the frazzled Pragmatic Woman is making toast (there is always toast, FYI) and/or drinking coffee and/or hurrying her children off to school, when she gets a frantic phone call from the Damaged Detective telling her to meet him [at the station/crime scene/someone’s house]. She shoves the piece of toast in her mouth as she puts on her jacket and hurries out the door, toast protruding from her lips. (Some time between the a-ha and the toast, the Damaged Detective has cleaned himself up and shaved so that he’s put back together in time for the big reveal.) It’s at this point the music swells to a crescendo and the horrific twist is revealed (usually because of something the Pragmatic Woman has been saying all along, in case anyone was keeping score). The Damaged Detective has found his redemption in his small town revelation. He’s a hero, but still not quite beloved (by anyone but his daughter and maybe, begrudgingly, by the Pragmatic Woman). </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUiBPzx2qgR-0wbVH9Hu4WNj4hz_VQiVDVcGl8MsxL0ty9DB3ZMIn4o-vzxkqTYSzcrciIvnPXuZlGbURLePlvH7DQ87DMN39574No5L_5H5GkZfMZz67_KlJ7uA5R0hdH6t92M9OFVQ/s245/Tunnel.gif" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="138" data-original-width="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUiBPzx2qgR-0wbVH9Hu4WNj4hz_VQiVDVcGl8MsxL0ty9DB3ZMIn4o-vzxkqTYSzcrciIvnPXuZlGbURLePlvH7DQ87DMN39574No5L_5H5GkZfMZz67_KlJ7uA5R0hdH6t92M9OFVQ/s0/Tunnel.gif" /></a></span></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite how this formula plays out, again and again, country after country, toast after toast, I can’t tear myself away from the stories. It’s largely because, even though the characters are the same, the stories are incredibly compelling and usually pretty hard to guess the twist ending to the mystery. The stories, sure, and the incredible cinematography that allows me to escape from wherever I am. That alone is worth the price of my Netflix membership. </span></span></p>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-44214541538905487142020-08-05T09:00:00.001-07:002020-08-05T09:00:14.669-07:00Vicious cycle<span id="docs-internal-guid-7125058a-7fff-75d4-43f8-2fe0ce517bd8"><font face="inherit"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My nephew recently learned how to ride a bike. It took him all of eight minutes until he was riding like whatever the cycling equivalent of Tony Hawk is. It’s clear that he is a child prodigy and will be participating in the Tour de France by the age of ten. Which means he does not take after his mother or me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think I was 26 when I finally learned to ride a bike (I’m exaggerating, but only a little). It never really interested me, even though everyone else could do it. I was happy enough to swing on the swingset or read a book instead. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Apparently, my </span><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1W4FaoTndCZn24RvzmCuQmhBZCLkP5D6a7SEQmENmBxk" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ability to procrastinate</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> also extended to childhood milestones. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister also seemed equally disinterested. But one Christmas we both got bikes and it became clear that we could no longer avoid it and were going to have to figure this out. I was probably 10. Which is old for a kid in the 80s to learn to ride a bike. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I mean, Elliott had already flown around his town with ET in his bike basket by that age. I would never have been able to save an alien with my biking skills -- ET would’ve just laid all shriveled and dead by that river forever if he had landed at our house (and because I had no wherewithal to keep him in my bedroom, and my mom was home all day with us, she never would’ve been fooled anyway. Poor ET was doomed if he ended up in my backyard). </span></p></font><font face="inherit"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, I vaguely remember learning to ride a bike. I’m certain I did not enjoy the process (I’m also certain my father didn’t either). By the way, my bike was without a doubt the nerdiest bike a kid could have asked for. It was powder blue, had a flowered banana seat and long, tall handlebars so I could sit up like a Victorian riding one of those bikes with a giant front wheel. It perfectly suited me, so I rode it until I was in at least eighth grade, and I’ve never owned another bike since. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad used to take us to the elementary school playground to ride around because we lived in the middle of a hill and one false move could have us careening downhill into a parked car, mailbox, or tree. (Considering that this was in the days before helmets, this was probably a wise decision.) The school playground had a blacktop that was mostly flat, but it sat at the top of a small hill, an incline, really. Once I learned to ride, I rode in circles around that blacktop for hours. Meanwhile, my dad tried to teach my sister who was probably in second or third grade (is that normal bike riding age? I don’t know...but I do know I was a lost cause), how to ride. She’d outgrown her Christmas bike with the training wheels by that time and inherited a hand-me-down from neighbors. It had no brakes. (This seems like a good time to mention that my old-lady bike had foot brakes, not hand brakes. I don’t think I could hand brake now if you paid me. My sister’s bike had neither.) </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I mentioned, I rode one bike and one bike only, ever. I was probably outgrowing it and it would’ve been a nice thing for me to do to give my ridiculous Jan Brady bike to my sister so she could learn . . . but I didn’t. I liked my bike and I wasn’t going to share. That banana seat was too comfortable. Besides, I didn’t know how to ride a ten speed -- gears, what?! So . . . my sister learned to ride on a bike with no brakes. And that’s how she went flying down the incline from the elementary school playground into the only car in the parking lot (ours) and smashed her face and other things. Seriously, there were toothmarks on the tires of my dad’s car. (Did I forget to mention that my dad drove us to the playground to ride our bikes? Instead of, oh, I dunno, riding our bikes to the playground in the first place? The school was like a 5 minute walk, and we could’ve mostly avoided the hills . . .) So much for not riding in front of our house to avoid potential hills and obstacles. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I mentioned, nobody wore bike helmets in those days, not that it would’ve protected her face anyway. She got a fat lip and bled everywhere. We flew home in the yellow Ford Escort and then my dad took her to the emergency room. I felt incredibly guilty. If only I had shared my Brady Bunch bike. What if she died? From a bike injury that was all my fault? I’m not sure I’ve ever forgiven myself for this, to this day, even though, fortunately, she didn’t die. She came home, bruised and with an ice pack. I’m not sure she ever rode a bike again. Which is why it’s sort of a miracle that her kid learned to ride a bike in an afternoon. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But let’s be clear, I was no Lance Armstrong. Oh no. I mean, besides being driven in the car to ride my bike in circles on the playground, I didn’t do much else with it. Except for a few times over the summer when I’d ride around my grandparents’ neighborhood at the beach, where it was (big shock) also flat and I could ride my bike wherever I wanted without the threat of crashing into anything or having to face a hill of any kind. When we were at the beach, from time to time, I’d ride my bike over to the bay or the pool (both, a few minutes from my grandparents house), swing on the swings or go for a swim or fling a horseshoe crab into the water, and then ride home. It was maybe a three-minute ride. Still, I managed, on one of our beach trips, to have my own run-in, which included Swiss cheese and cost me days of summer flatland riding. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One afternoon, I was riding my bike around the neighborhood with my dad, and we were coming back to the house. I remember distinctly, I was wearing pink shorts, a striped top, and lavender “jellies,” the plastic shoes that were all the rage that summer with the under-eleven set. They had glitter and a slight heel. The cost $6.99 at Zayre, and I loved them more than anything. (I’m positive someone -- probably everyone -- told me to wear “real shoes” for bike riding, but I didn’t listen. It was jellies or nothing.) We rounded the corner and came up toward the house when I hit a piece of Swiss cheese that had, for some reason, been left in the street. I can still see it clearly to this day. It was a full slice. It had sat in the summer sun, oozing a little, but still held its holey shape and was definitely recognizable for what it was, when I hit it with my front tire. The bike skidded a little and my right foot slipped from the pedal. My jelly shoe flung off and my foot went between the spokes of my front tire, tearing it up (my foot, not the tire). </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At that moment, I fell like I had been hit by a sniper. In both slow motion and in the blink of an eye, I was in the grass in front of my grandparents’ nextdoor neighbors’ house, wailing as if I had actually been sniped. If it was a Kathryn Bigelow movie, the camera shot would’ve been first on the front tire of my bike, spinning as it lay on its side. Then cut to my jelly in the street with heat lines coming up from the asphalt. Followed by a cut to my face, twisted into an unrecognizable grimace, silhouetted against the sky and my grandfather’s American flag, which always flew when they were at the beach house. And, finally, cut to the slice of the skidded Swiss cheese, sweating oily in the sun. The soundtrack would have been that Doors song from Apocalypse Now . . . </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t really remember what happened next, maybe my dad carried me into the house? But I do remember that somewhere in the sequence of events I was asked what happened and pointing out the cheese. I seem to remember the difficulty all the adults had keeping a straight face when I said I slipped on cheese (I mean, in a full, wide road, with no cars on it, how do I manage to hit the one slice of cheese in the street? I probably would have laughed too, had I not been so indignant.) I also remember being told that if I had been wearing proper shoes… And I remember not riding my bike for the rest of our vacation. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, I didn’t hold a grudge against cheese or jellies or even my bike, which I happily rode on any flat space I could find, until I was a nearly teenager and way too old to be riding a kid’s bike. But that experience has always colored my feelings about bikes. And to this day, I’d rather do just about anything than ride a bike. But maybe, just maybe, my nephew will break the cycle (see what I did there..?) and come out on top. As long as he avoids hills and cheese. </span></p></font></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-89708511342534707402020-08-02T09:30:00.001-07:002020-08-02T09:30:01.386-07:00Killing Vicky<span id="docs-internal-guid-70472786-7fff-be56-e9ca-eb2b533f289e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Shenanigans. That’s the best word I can think of to describe the category of activity in which I most like to participate. Most of the time, I can’t help it. It just comes naturally, and I’m powerless against it. I would dare say, at least half the time, shenanigans happen to me instead of my making them happen. I’m fortunate to have married someone who is also pretty much always up for shenanigans. What’s more, over the course of my lifetime, I’ve managed to cultivate a circle of friends who can best be described as shenanigan-inclined. If you asked me how it came to be this way, I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I know is, when presented with a situation that could go down the straight and narrow or turn into something completely ridiculous, my friends almost always take the latter path. And there I am, sprinting along beside them.</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take for instance a particular visit to the beach with our friends Elizabeth and Chris (Chreeyas, affectionately). Most of the drive, my husband and I had talked up this seafood restaurant where we wanted to take them. “It’s old school, with a giant marlin on the wall.” “They bring you the martini and the ‘ice’ so you don’t miss a drop.” “The waitresses all call you ‘hon’.” By the time we crossed the Bay Bridge and had entered the </span><a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2010/09/dark-and-smelly-night.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">miles of cornfields</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on the way, our mouths were watering for the crab imperial and stuffed flounder we would enjoy. In fact, I think we drove straight to the restaurant, so much were we salivating. </span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Imagine our surprise when we got there and it had a new name, brighter lights, and was called Something Something Brew Pub*. Our beloved retro haunt had been sold after its previous owner died and his wife wanted nothing to do with it. (Isn’t that always what happens to those great old places? So often, families don’t want to run family businesses after the champion has moved on. So many fabulous haunts have shuttered, leaving nothing but nostalgia in their wakes.) Anyway, we decided to give it a shot and see if it was any good. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Our waitress came over and introduced herself and handed us menus. She left while we perused the offerings. One only needed to read “bacon jam” and “balsamic reduction” to know this wasn’t the food we were looking for. There weren’t any deep fried clam strips or oysters Rockafeller or cream of crab soup. None of us wanted crab cocktail with mango salsa. Or a pork chop with apple glacee. Everything was just a little too modern. We wanted old school Eastern Shore seafood. Sure, brew pubs were fine in the city, but we’d come craving nostalgia, and dammit, nostalgia we would have. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">We quickly identified a more desirable restaurant and plotted our escape. But we had to act fast. We didn’t want to insult our server. We were too polite to just walk out (though, in retrospect, I’m not sure why…). So we had to concoct a story. (Shenanigan!) </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">That’s when we decided to get “an emergency phone call”. It was decided that I would be the recipient of the call. I was talking to the Imaginary Caller when the server returned to the table. “What? Oh no.” [insert silence while waiting for Imaginary Caller to give Tragic Details.] My husband and friends looked at me in abject misery. “A car accident? Oh no! Is she okay?” [More silence.] Elizabeth was apoplectic, “Honey, not Vicky? Is she okay?” I shrugged, and stage-whispered, “I think we better go.” Our server was fully engaged. I stood up and started to walk out, still talking to the Imaginary Caller, “We’ll meet you at the hospital.” I could hear Elizabeth apologizing and saying there’d been an accident, and we had to leave. At that point, my eyes had begun to tear up. I’m not sure if it was Vicky’s fate or hysteria. My husband and Chreeyas followed us in Very Deep Concern.</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Once we got into the car, we all dissolved into giggles. “Who...is...Vicky?” someone gasp-asked through fits of laughter. I couldn’t speak through the gulps of air and the tears freely rolling down my face. None of us knew who Vicky was, but we had definitely killed her. All to get out of having arugula with goat cheese and a beet marmalade. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">After more fits of laughter, we decided on a seafood house that would at least be closer to what we were craving than where we had started the evening. We sat down, ready to pour one out for our homie, Vicky, when our waitress approached our table. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">“Hi, I’m Victoria, and I’ll be your server this evening.” </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">That was it. We all lost it. And poor Victoria had no idea what on earth had set us off. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">To this day, whenever any of us hears the name Vicky (or Victoria), it serves as a reminder of a ridiculous dinner that never was. Of our poor Imaginary Friend, dead on the side of the road. And the waitress who thought we were definitely already drunk before we’d had our first cocktail. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I wouldn’t trade my shenanigans for all the money in the world. Or my friends who indulge in them with me. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">*name changed (or forgotten) to protect the brand</font></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-15793347084667745362020-07-25T21:02:00.000-07:002020-07-26T10:38:27.724-07:00Wild hairs<span id="docs-internal-guid-5ca2ffe3-7fff-9548-33ea-56b5ed1003a6"><font face="inherit"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Middle age is a trip. In your head, you’re still a kid. But your body has decided to utterly betray you. (Well, mine has, anyway.) It’s a tale as old as time . . . you ache when you’ve done nothing but sneeze or roll over in bed the wrong way. (I know someone who actually cracked a rib coughing.) Skin sags or wrinkles or has a weird brown spot that wasn’t there yesterday, but is definitely there today, taunting you with the smugness of a liver spot. But the real betrayal, or at least the one that I am the most furious about, is the hair. Every hair on my body has decided to revolt against me, as if I haven’t conditioned and cared for it lovingly for years.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The hair on my head started taunting me years ago, as if some great foreshadow of what to expect at 40, when it would simply give up altogether. Grey hairs began to spring from my scalp when I was 19 years old. I callously plucked them (despite my mother’s promise that 10 new ones would grow in its place-- well, Mom, you were right about that, too!). I was not about to let this white menace boss me around. Oh no. I was going to take the hair by the tweezers and win the war that not one person alive or dead had yet won against grey hair. Ah, the sweet bloom (and naivete) of youth. And, so it was that I began dyeing my hair to cover the grey before I was even out of college. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In those days, it was a box of Miss Clairol and 30 minutes wash-and-go once every six to eight weeks. A few times a year, I’d splurge on a professional job with highlights and lowlights and whatever else they had to offer. Today, it’s the same damn box, and 2 hours of my life sitting, stinking, while the dye does its level best to fight resistant greys that refuse to turn brown. I’ve even gotten to the point where I have to use a toothbrush to get the glistening grey baby hairs around my hairline, because otherwise, I end up with a halo of white. It’s excruciating and infuriating and I hate every minute of it. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s usually about two weeks before the roots rear their ugly heads (man, those fuckers are ugly), and three to four weeks before I can steel my resolve to begin the process all over again. If I wait much longer than that, I can hardly stand to look at myself -- which I end up doing an awful lot of these days with the proliferation of video calls for work. (And, even when I’ve gone to have my hair professionally colored, it’s still that two-week window -- or less -- before I see the little white bastards popping up again.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suppose I shouldn’t complain, because I still have my hair. And it’s not half bad, when it’s been freshly colored. It’s shiny and brown, and pretty thick. But oh, those greys. They are a nuisance. I’ve considered giving up, giving in, and going grey. But every time I do, I let my hair grow out a little longer, my roots a little more prominent, and I look like an aging hippy or Frankie from <i>Grace and Frankie</i> and I realize I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. And so I make my date with Miss Clairol again . . .</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could live with the betrayal of the greys on my head if they weren’t migrating elsewhere, too. Like my eyebrows. Which are jet black. And have always been jet black. So it’s extra noticeable when a white hair reveals itself. Currently, there are three. One in each eyebrow, and one, smack in the middle, right between my eyes, like the ghost of Freda Kahlo, taunting me from beyond the grave. Like an angry unicorn that never lived up to its full potential. The worst part about this nuisance hair is that I never seem to notice it until it’s at least a quarter of an inch long. I know it’s coming. I watch for it. And suddenly, there it is, long and waving in the breeze, in the middle of my face, as if it’s always been there and I’m the fool who never noticed it before. I tweeze it out with a fury. And still it returns, with its sisters on the left and right, at capricious intervals just so I have to always deal with one of them and not all three at the same time. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, Freda Kahlo’s unicorn isn’t the worst of my hair woes. Because of course it gets worse. I am now showing the early stages of growing a goatee. It started with one black baby hair 15 or so years ago. It, like the unicorn, would pop up, fully formed every quarter or so . . . like my credit union bank statement. And I’d tweeze it and forget for another few months. No more. It’s got friends. Angry, rough, vengeful friends. The kind of friends who come from the bad part of town and carry switchblades. Friends who show up uninvited to the party and don’t even bring a bottle of wine. Friends who refuse to leave. Friends who have no manners. These hairs are the Sweathogs of friends. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These angry chin hair friends get dealt with on a daily basis. Because for every one I tweeze away with a curse and resignation, forty-two more spring up in its stead. And now, as if to make matters worse, some of those are turning grey, too. Because of course they are. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the beginning of the pandemic, when it was clear I wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile, I thought, “Hmm, maybe I’ll just let them grow. Maybe I’ll see if it’s as bad as I think it will be. I’ll be devil-may-care about it all and embrace my natural state.” And so I did. For about three weeks. At one point, my husband asked how long my experiment was going to go on. I could tell he wanted to dissuade me, but knew if he tried, I’d dig in my heels and keep going. One day, though, I took a selfie and -- oh god -- I could see the hairs in the picture, catching the sunlight and taunting me. Also, I began to worry that if I got the virus, I’d end up in the hospital with nobody to tweeze my chin (because, obviously there would be much bigger things to worry about) and weeks later, if I survived, I’d have a full fledged beard. It was a worry I did not need to cultivate alongside my usual existential dread. And my chin hairs did not need a several-week head start. That was it. It was over. The fun had been had (it was not fun, by the way), and it was time for my trusty tweezers to get down off the shelf. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All of this maintenance takes an awful lot of my time. Time where I could be writing the Great American Novel. Or training for a marathon. Or making a sourdough starter. But I’m not. I’m dyeing and tweezing and cursing. But trust me, it’s for your benefit as much as mine -- a wild grey-haired woman with a goatee isn’t pretty to look at. Besides, who am I kidding, ain’t no way I’m running a marathon, whether my hair behaves or not, and I don’t even like sourdough. </span></p></font></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-74620544403679381572020-07-22T06:30:00.001-07:002020-07-22T06:30:05.144-07:00Mask up!<span id="docs-internal-guid-81b2e361-7fff-b9b5-2c80-7a5e148293c0"><font face="inherit"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In these days of mask use as a method of public safety and self preservation*, I’ve been thinking about how sometimes personality is lost when you can’t show your face. Sure, you can “smize” and try to convey your emotions, but it’s definitely more challenging than in “the before times” when we walked around unfettered and freely smiling at each other. Still, despite its minor inconveniences (and because of its promise of preventing pestilence and disease), I’m fully, 100 percent in favor of mask use. But that’s not the point of this story. It’s just that masks and facial recognition got me thinking about the challenges of recognizing people under masks and sunglasses and other facial accoutrements. And that reminded me of a few of our early Palm Springs adventures at Halloween parties, and the slightly more fun kinds of masks.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you know how hard it is when you meet someone for the first time at a Halloween party? Then, you run into them later and they know you and you have nothing but a blank stare? Like you’re maybe in the early stages of memory loss and at the same time begin to wonder if you forgot to put on underwear that day or not? No? Just me? Fine. In that case, this is a true story from the trenches in Palm Springs, where Halloween is Serious Business (more on that in a minute).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we first moved here, </span><a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-friendliest-place-on-earth.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">as I’ve mentioned</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, we quickly met people and were invited to parties and included in various other merriment. One of the first big events that happened was Halloween, and, luckily, we were included. Being new in town and still trying to set up house, we didn’t throw ourselves into costumes the way we normally would. That first year, when we were invited to several parties, we half-assed it as best we could. One party, we showed up as Bunny (me, in rabbit ears) and Clyde (my husband wearing a “Hello My Name Is…” tag that said “Clyde”). It was a pun, and, frankly, the best we could muster, having </span><a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/07/moving-on.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">just moved</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> into permanent housing a few weeks prior. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">However, our lackadaisical approach didn’t mean that our friends (and their friends) took the same tack. Oh no, there were themes, masks, wigs, you name it. It was hysterical and festive and awfully confusing. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is what I mean by Serious Business. I don’t know if it’s the fact that there’s a large gay community here, and Halloween is considered a High Holy Day. Or that there are so many LA transplants, who have access to theatrical accoutrements. Or if people are just extra festive because Halloween is the best holiday ever. (Probably all of those, and more.) It doesn’t really matter the reason, because Palm Springs loves Halloween. And it loves over-the-top costumes. Nobody’s going to Party City and picking up the first bagged nun outfit they can find. Oh no! The planning for Halloween costumes starts weeks (months!) in advance (to be fair, the planning probably starts on November 1 for the Halloween a year hence), and is incredibly detail oriented. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Halloween night, in downtown Palm Springs, they close off Arenas Road, which is the one-block strip of gay bars where the magic happens. Everyone comes out in their finest of finery, there’s a bandstand and a costume contest, and folks are strutting their stuff. I remember in elementary school when we waited all day for the costume parade. Then, after lunch, we were allowed to put on our costumes and went out to the blacktop on the playground and paraded for our parents and everyone in the neighborhood to see. Palm Springs on Halloween is kind of like that, but shinier, sparklier, and more risque. That first year, we were in awe. There were unicorns, sailors, a headless wench, and the most accurate drag queen Endora from Bewitched that you ever did see. I’m telling you, it was like Agnes Morehead raised from the dead! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As someone who, herself, loves Halloween, these are my people. The commitment to not only costume, but character, speaks to me. I’m fully on board with the extra extraness of it all. But that first year, we were like the sad Midwest cousins who were caught unawares when we drove the Winnebago into town for a surprise weekend. And it didn’t really serve us well. Still, we played along as best we could and nobody judged us for it.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When you’re invited to a party by new friends, it’s great! You’re new! You’re included! This is your chance to get in with the cool kids! You are on your best behavior. You meet more new people and widen your circle. Unless everyone is in costume, many of which are covering their faces. It’s like going to a party with MI-6. Every goddamn person is in disguise, and despite their charming demeanor (which may or may not be commitment to character), you’re never again going to remember who they were. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At one party, we met a lovely couple. They were “the ladies who lunch” in marvelous drag, one in sequins and other in a fabulous chapeau. We had a wonderful conversation and a lot of laughs. And at the end of the night, I couldn’t begin to tell you who in the hell they were. At another party, we met a different couple who came as what can best be described as Walmart shoppers crossed with the cast of Deliverance crossed with some guy named Darryl who works at a gas station in rural Arkansas. They were as delightful as they were disgusting. And it was easily six months, and multiple meetings at other soirees, before I made the connection as to who on earth they were. Both couples are now very dear friends . . . but it certainly wasn’t because we knew who they were after that first meeting! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Had it not been for two things: our newness and our lack of disguises, we would have blended into the herd of people and never connected with them again (or at least not until much later). We were plain enough that we were memorable. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m ashamed to admit that this still happens. Each year, we’ve attended various Halloween parties and had wonderful conversations with all sorts of characters. I’m not great at remembering names on a good day, but I’m usually pretty good with faces. Unless they’re heavily made up, covered in a mask or -- better yet -- a gauzy veil, or disfigured by theatrical prosthetics. It’s not fair, really, but I’m not sure how much longer I can get away with feigning recognition. “Oh, it’s </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">! So good to see you again!” is only believable once or twice. Eventually, you have to learn people’s names (especially when they know yours, your occupation, and at least three of the different places you’ve lived in the short time you’ve been in town). </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I promise to do better. But maybe you could help me out by inviting us to a party where everyone comes as themselves? </span></p><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*PSA: Wearing a mask cuts your own risk of catching coronavirus by 65%, </span><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.ucdavis.edu/coronavirus/news/your-mask-cuts-own-risk-65-percent/" target="_blank">according to</a></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.ucdavis.edu/coronavirus/news/your-mask-cuts-own-risk-65-percent/" target="_blank"> </a>the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">chief of pediatric infectious diseases at UC Davis Children’s Hospital, so please do yourself and your fellow humans a favor and mask up!</span></font></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-18791554790519401822020-07-18T17:21:00.000-07:002020-07-19T09:45:20.363-07:00Moving on <span id="docs-internal-guid-c670cb7a-7fff-56e8-5491-a5165af2a3c0"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Three years. A moment. An eternity. That’s how long I’ve been gone. It’s how long I’ve been here. It’s when my life ended. It’s when it began. It was the saddest day I have ever lived through. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I knew, we knew, that leaving was the best and only way forward. But it was so hard. To leave everyone and everything behind. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">The unknown is always a little scary. A new place. A new home. A new life. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">When I was in high school, I used to daydream about moving away. Going to a school where nobody knew me. Where I could reinvent myself as someone different. Someone smarter, cooler, more fun than the same kids I had known all my life knew me to be. I’d fantasize about how the kids at my new school would see me as the mysterious new girl and I’d suddenly become popular and interesting. And then I’d stop daydreaming and head off to field hockey practice with the friends I’d had since middle school. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">It’s an entirely different experience to run away from home when you’re an adult. Leaving your family, lifelong friends, and your hometown. Instead of a fun new adventure, it feels debilitating. Terrifying. Heartbreaking. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">It’s very different making friends when you’re a grown up. You’re not in a classroom or dorm room or on a sports team with a whole group of people your age. People who are just as awkward and goofy and adolescent as you. You don’t automatically have things in common like the awful chemistry teacher or the hatred of 500M swims. No, when you’re an adult, you have to start over with people who are much more discerning than, “Oh, you like All My Children? I like All My Children! Let’s be best friends!” Oh, sure, there are Mean Girls and assholes when you’re a kid, but there’s so much density of other kids, you can find your group much more easily. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">As an adult, you have to navigate already-formed friend groups, and judgmental shrews, and people whose politics don’t align with yours. You have to have much more in common than an afternoon soap opera to find common ground and forge a friendship. And, when you move cross country, you also need to navigate a new place and new norms. Everything is different. Maybe even a little weird. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">The desert is definitely one of those weird places. First of all, everything looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss book. There are plants that you’ve never seen before. Lizards and roadrunners and the biggest flying roaches you’ve ever seen in your life. Even the rain smells different here; pungent, strong, kind of warmly sour. Of course, there was no rain when we landed in Palm Springs three years ago. It was 123 degrees. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">It’s a weird feeling to get off a plane, to be “home” and to know nobody. To have nobody expecting you. I’ve never felt quite so desperate as I did the day we stepped into the sun and heat and yawning loneliness of this new place. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">When we moved, we left everything behind. Literally. We got on the plane with the clothes on our backs, a few necessary prescriptions in my purse, our phones, and each other. We hadn’t yet rented anywhere, so we didn’t even have a home. We had a hotel room and the heat. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Sometimes, I still can’t believe we did it. I look back, three years later, and I remember not just the sadness and loneliness, but also the fear. I wondered how we would ever meet anyone. I was working from home (hotel room). We didn’t know a soul. And the average age in Palm Springs was 59 -- slightly more senior than ourselves. I had a lot of worries about the move. But I was most worried about meeting people. As it turned out, <a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-friendliest-place-on-earth.html" target="_blank">that was the easy part.</a> Finding somewhere to live has proved more challenging. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Over the years, we have spent a lot of time looking at places to live. And the one thing I’ve learned is that most people -- a vast majority -- do not keep the kind of house that I would like to live in. We have seen homes with dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, homes with unmade beds, homes with mold growing in the shower, homes that smelled of cat pee. We’ve seen homes that haven’t had so much as a washer in the faucet replaced since 1973. We even saw one apartment that can only be described as needing an exorcism. The carpet looked like it had once been that neutral shade of industrial beige, but it had become a shade which could only be described as mud (and that’s being kind). From the floor to about three feet off the ground, the walls were covered in black and red marker scribbles. Every wall. The bathrooms were saturated with a layer of nondescript black grime. And the agent who was showing it to us said, nonchalantly and without the least bit of shame, “Obviously, it needs to be painted.” Obviously. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We saw one house that would have made Ron Jeremy proud. It was incredibly dated, with all brass fixtures and large, outdated track lighting. It had Pepto Bismol pink carpet. Every room had mirrored walls. But the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">pièce de résistance</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> was the hot tub at the foot of the bed. I know you probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. It wasn’t a hot tub in the bathroom. No. It was to the right of the bed, right there in the bedroom -- surrounded by the Pepto carpet, with Pepto carpet-covered stairs leading into the tub. There were definitely porn videos shot there at some point.</span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">There was another house that had a jungle motif. Every room had a different animal print. Even the dishes in the cabinets were animal print. But the best part was the life-sized menagerie of stuffed animals. There were lions and tigers and bears...oh my! They were huge, and they were everywhere. Not real animals that had been taxidermied, but probably-very-expensive plush toys. There was also a fake palm tree. I don’t mean a potted palm like you’d find in a doctor’s office. No, this was an eight-foot-tall palm tree. If there had been a second one, you could’ve strung a hammock between them. It would’ve been like living in the jungle. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">But I think the most ridiculous house-hunting experience was the day we stumbled upon squatters. The realtor had taken us to several places already that day, and we were nearly finished. We pulled up to a cute little house. Our realtor was giving us the details as he accessed the lockbox to get the keys. He knocked on the door as he was opening it. And we walked into. . . a houseful of hungover kids in pajamas and various other stages of undress. The house smelled of hotdogs (which were still in a pan on the stove) and marijuana. Dirty dishes, towels, and clothes were strewn everywhere. We slowly backed out, sheepishly, as one of the young women languishing on the couch stirred and looked at us saying, “It’s okay, you can look around.” But we were pretty sure we’d seen enough. Needless to say, we didn’t rent that place (or any of the others detailed here). </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">We’ve moved around quite a bit since coming here. But we’ve been fortunate enough that, despite our challenges finding a dwelling, that feeling of fear and loneliness we once carried across the country as our only baggage has begun to dissipate. Sitting here, this day, three years later, I can remember that feeling of loss, but I’m no longer consumed by it. <a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/07/theres-no-place-like-home.html" target="_blank">I still have my longing for D.C.</a>, but as I look out my window at the weird plants and blue skies (from my air conditioned comfort, on this 110-degree day), I know this wasn’t just the right decision, but it was a good one. And I’m glad, in this particular moment, to be here. </font></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-64879169964340772222020-07-15T14:27:00.001-07:002020-07-15T14:27:51.126-07:00A personal problem<span id="docs-internal-guid-ec21e02d-7fff-41eb-793e-aa6474f62b56"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I have a problem. (To be honest, I probably have a lot of problems. But we’re going to talk about a specific one today.) I am a lifelong procrastinator. I have become so practiced in the art of procrastination, I could easily win an Olympic gold medal in it. Odes, missives, legends, and sonnets could be written to the practiced art of procrastination at which I have come to excel. My procrastination knows no bounds. It is among my super powers (shamefully). It’s definitely not something I should brag about, but, as you’ll quickly learn, I’ve embraced it in such a way that it seems to serve me well (and by that I mean, it is not serving me well).</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">There are times when I procrastinate to the point that it’s almost paralyzing. Mind you, I don’t think anyone else is aware of this paralysis. But I know it’s there. Over the years, I’ve learned to compensate for this paralyzing procrastination. If you asked people with whom I work, nobody would know that I sit and chew on a project until there is no flavor left in it, before I can make myself get started. They won’t be able to tell you that I have found myriad ways to fart around instead of doing what needed to be done. I have managed to take staring at a computer screen to a new level. And yet, I rarely (if ever) miss a deadline. I wouldn’t dare. Because, another neurosis that I have flirted with for years is perfectionism. You cannot even begin to imagine what it does to your head when you cannot make yourself start on a project that you know has to be perfect. Who created this monster (me!) and why do I continue to indulge her?!</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I recently had to prepare talking points for the CEO of my company. I spent a week, easily, worrying about writing the talking points, instead of writing them (these were answers to five questions </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that I myself had written!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">). The day before I had to prep my CEO on the talking points, I spent with a sick feeling in my stomach, unable to answer simple questions. (Did I mention that I was the one who came up with the questions in the first place?!) I wrote a sentence. Then I had a meeting. Then I looked at the sentence I had written skeptically. I deleted it. I wrote it again. I edited it twice. I still had not answered the question I had written. I stared at the screen. I added another sentence. Then it was time for lunch. Which I couldn’t really eat, because of how ridiculous I was being. </span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I have been this way since I was a child. I know what I have to do. I even know how to do it. I think through all the millions of ways to get it done. But what I cannot do is find a way to make myself get started. Until the moment when it has become so painful that I have lost hours. Days. A week of sleep. I have given myself nervous diarrhea. I have not eaten (or, alternately, I have overeaten) in the name of avoidance. But none of it has made me actually get the damn thing done. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I have a particularly vivid memory of a solar system project that I allowed to languish unattended for weeks. I think it was sixth grade, but maybe it was fifth...it doesn’t matter. It could be any project in any year of school (or life). I had to build a model solar system. I’m pretty sure it was due on a Monday. I’m also pretty sure we had been given something like three weeks to complete it. And I’m pretty sure that on Saturday afternoon, two days before it was due, I “remembered” and told my parents. A chorus of “goddamits” ensued along with a trip to the craft store, several rounds of hysterical crying (my own, not my parents...though they would’ve been fully justified, had they chosen to), and the rest of the weekend was spent building the damn thing. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">The worst part about the whole story is that it turned out really well and I got a good grade for it. My own procrastination, including anticipatory diarrhea, fits of hysteria, and parental torture, had paid off. So, when my mother said, at the end of the torturous weekend, “I hope you learned your lesson,” I most certainly had not. Thirty five years later, that holds true. This is how I have become conditioned to not just work under pressure (mostly of my own creation), but to excel at it. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another example -- and this one is even worse, so brace yourself -- was my senior thesis in college. Anyone who has ever done thesis work knows it’s (at least) a semester-long undertaking. You can imagine where this is going. It started off wrongly, because I was forced to take my thesis course in the fall, instead of the spring like everyone else, because I would be student teaching during the spring semester. This meant there was only one course option to choose: Modernism in Literature. Oh, the misery of the authors I was stuck reading for that course. Conrad, Joyce, Wolff, Mansfield . . . some of the most pretentious, mopey, horse’s ass writers who ever put pen to page (in my humble, literary opinion). I mean, when was the last time you heard someone say </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ulysses </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was their favorite book? You haven’t. Because it was an excruciatingly painful read. (I majored in literature and, as a result, took many literature courses, read hundreds of books, and I can say with certainty that the books I had to read in that course were truly the least enjoyable--nay, detestable--that I read not only in my college career, but in my entire life. Sadly, they wouldn’t let me write my thesis on </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">)</span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, I was in this awful course and had to choose an author around whom to focus my thesis. Somehow I landed on Katherine Mansfield and something about feminism, I think. I don’t really remember because I have blocked it out of my consciousness the way one does with a particularly traumatic experience. It didn’t help that the thesis process was designed to break someone like me. It requires advanced planning and doing things like developing a research list, writing notecards, doing an outline and abstract. It requires meeting multiple deadlines. I mean, why would anyone do such a thing when they can wait until the night before and take their haphazard notes and spin it into gold? But I played along, poorly, and did the pieces required of me. (I have a vague memory of spending time in the library with a stack of 3x5 cards the night before </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">those</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> were due…) And then . . . I waited until the night before and took my haphazard notes and spun it into gold (or at least gold plated metal). </span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I remember it quite well. It was a Thursday night. Must See TV was on (back when everyone watched Friends and Seinfeld and ER every week). So I did, too. Then I retired to the “study closet” in the sorority house, which was nothing more than a tiny room under the stairs that had a computer and an old dot matrix printer, to write my paper. I think I started around 11:00 (after ER ended). I sat there, clicking away (because the computer definitely had one of those old keyboards with the particularly resistant keys that made that satisfying “clonking” sound every time you touched them) until somewhere around 4:00 a.m. I just couldn’t stay awake any longer. So I took a disco nap, got up at 6ish, and got back to it. I finished the 20ish-page paper in plenty of time. That is to say, I had time to proofread it and print it out before class. I truly cannot remember what on earth it was about (other than something about Katherine Mansfield). But I got a B+ on it, and my professor even commented on how astutely I understood Mansfield’s motivations (what?!), so in the end it doesn’t really matter, does it? </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">My friends were astonished by the depth of my procrastination, as well as the grade I received as a reward. I think one of them had the audacity to say something like, “Can you imagine what grade you would’ve gotten if you hadn’t waited so long to do the paper?” At which I rolled my eyes and snorted. That is not how it works. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Back to the CEO talking points. After lunch, I stared at the computer screen some more, and then got down to business. I wrote the answers in 45 minutes. I read them, reread them, edited them, stared at them again. Had another meeting, and fretted that I didn’t really know what I was talking about. Finally, I put the finishing touches on them, pulled the trigger, and sent them over to the CEO, with plenty of time to spare before the end of the day (at least 8-10 minutes).</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">During the prep call the next morning, where I walked her through the questions (that I wrote) and the answers (that I also wrote), the CEO was full of praise. “This is so thorough. I’m so glad to have such great information. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Still, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, “I hope you learned your lesson…” and knew that I hadn’t. </font></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-64086253455021175902020-07-12T08:03:00.002-07:002020-07-12T19:41:38.581-07:00The friendliest place on earth<span id="docs-internal-guid-1d3923a3-7fff-7819-bb50-8abeaa662871"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">There’s always something going on in Palm Springs. (Okay, maybe not right now, in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, but most of the time, you can find some sort of shenanigans to get into.) Evidence the evening shortly after we moved here, three years ago. We were staying in a hotel for a few weeks while we looked for somewhere to live, and frequently found ourselves strolling around downtown in the afternoons and evenings looking for something to do. We didn’t know anyone besides each other, so we’d pick one of the restaurants or bars downtown, sit at the bar and chat up the bartender and whomever might be sitting there. We’ve since learned that this is how it goes here . . . pretty much everyone is up for a chat pretty much all of the time. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">One such day, we went into one of the local bars for a libation (fair warning, a lot of my stories start this way). We sat inside because, being August, it was 110 degrees out. While we were ordering our drinks, we noticed a group of people further inside the place playing bingo. In true Palm Springs fashion, the bingo players invited us to join their game, which we did. (Some might assert that the friendliest place on Earth is Disney World, but I’ll argue till my dying breath that it’s here in Palm Springs). </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Everyone loves bingo, and here it’s a frequent pastime, with lots of local charities employing it as a fundraiser. We played a couple of rounds while sipping our cocktails and enjoyed the good-natured ribbing the other players were giving each other. While we sat there and played, we learned that it was charity bingo for the local gay rodeo. Because of course there’s a gay rodeo in Palm Springs. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">During a break in the action, one of the players got up and served dessert. And because it’s the friendliest place on Earth, he shared some with us. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">This seems like a good point to digress for just a moment and tell you about the myriad places where we have had free (and frequently homemade) food here in the valley. People here are so generous of spirit (and kitchen) that you might show up at the local watering hole one night for a cocktail and karaoke and end up with a fully catered Filipino buffet (true story). Another time, we stumbled upon a memorial reception in a different bar and were offered a variety of sandwiches, even though we didn’t know the person being memorialized (nor the maker of the sandwiches). There’s one bar that offers a free fried chicken mixer every Wednesday evening. Several places host potluck meals on various holidays. And there’s a bar that offers doughnuts every Sunday morning for the day drinkers (they also had a bloody mary one day last summer--I think it was Memorial Day -- that came with a hotdog, chicken wing, and bacon, atop a skewer with the usual accoutrements of<a href="https://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2020/07/revelations-and-holy-trinity.html" target="_blank"> celery stalk</a> and olive...I think there might’ve been a pickle and a carrot in there somewhere, too). It’s not uncommon to go to happy hour and find pizza or cake or some other snack for a celebration, or just because the bar owner or bartenders or random bar patron felt like treating everyone that day. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Anyway, back to bingo. The dessert baker introduced himself, and encouraged us to come play again next week. We said we would and went on our way. The next Monday, again with nothing special to do, we decided a bingo night might be a nice diversion from our usual wandering, and went back for round two. Again, we sat at the bar and ordered our drinks and settled in to play. That’s when the dessert guy from the week before, Glen, came over and invited us to come sit at his table. And that’s how we met our surrogate family. We sat that night and every night for weeks with Glen, as well as Thommy, and Michael, who were as kind and gracious as anyone you might imagine from a feel-good sitcom (or Palm Springs). From there, we got invited to dinners and parties and fundraisers. I think we went to two or three Halloween parties that year. We were invited to march in the Pride parade (which had long been a D.C. dream of mine, unrealized). I was even treated to a surprise birthday dinner with the boys. We had been adopted. (Thommy, affectionately calls us “the kids” and refers to my husband as “little brother”.)</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">When we moved to Palm Springs, we knew not a soul besides each other. Within weeks, we had friends. By Thanksgiving, we were family. We owe it all to Glen, who, we’ve come to learn, is always happy to share his dessert and his table. </font></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-21445316685526417752020-07-08T07:21:00.000-07:002020-07-08T07:21:40.165-07:00Revelations and the Holy Trinity<span id="docs-internal-guid-04f78850-7fff-dcc5-8dd7-6edc60d8a4a6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I had a revelation the other day. It wasn’t a speaking-in-tongues or seeing-visions kind of revelation. I didn’t awake from a dream with sudden clarity about the state of the world and my place in it. I wasn’t moved to head to the local house of worship and confess my sins. And it definitely wasn’t a joyful Alvin Ailey-inspired dance kind of revelation. Still, something occurred to me that hadn’t before. At the age of 44, while eating a sad American-Chinese takeout from Panda Express (don’t judge me...it’s a worldwide pandemic and that’s as close as we could get to Chinese delivery around here), I realized that I really like celery. I might even love it. I told you...not earth shattering. Still, it’s something I hadn’t quite settled on until that day, eating substandard faux ethnic food and picking out chunks of celery as the “best part.” (I also know that it really says something about the food that the celery was the best part. . . or does it say something about me?)</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">As I sat there savoring the still-crunchy vegetable, I tried to think of where this love affair might’ve begun (yeah, now it’s a love affair), and couldn’t. I wasn’t much of a “bumps on a log” kid, reveling in peanut butter-slathered celery with a few raisins plopped on the top for . . . what? Aesthetics? Texture? I don’t know. (Because while I do have an affinity for celery, I have the exact opposite feeling about raisins.) Nothing about that thrilled me, and I’d much rather have had apple slices or even a carrot for my afterschool snack. No, that’s not where it started. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A plate of crudite isn’t the genesis of my celeriac love affair either. When presented with a plate of veggies and dip, I usually forsake the celery in favor of a cucumber or green pepper. Sure, I’ll nibble an errant stalk at a networking reception in favor of talking to some stuffed shirt. But, that’s not what makes my mouth water -- let’s be honest, in that case, I’m really just there for the dip. Oh, and the wine -- but that’s another story for another day. (Speaking of which, when I lived in D.C., there was a reception that I would regularly go to on Capitol Hill and they had jicama on their crudite platter. Now </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was a revelation! On those nights, you actually could find me camped beside the veggie platter -- still with my glass of wine -- jicama-ing to my heart’s delight. I digress . . .again.)</span></font></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I thought and thought, and realized, it wasn’t just that celery is good. I mean, it is good. Why else would they stick it in the world’s greatest drink (the bloody mary -- also another story for another day)? For funsies? No, it’s because it is perfect in every role it plays. Celery adds that certain something to dishes. It complements other flavors and ingredients so well (like vodka. And tomato juice). Yes, that was the real revelation . . . I think.</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">There used to be this great little Mexican place (maybe it’s still there) in Dupont Circle that had these amazing fajitas -- shrimp and beef and chicken all together with pieces of pork ribs. And right there, mixed in with the peppers and onions, were bias-cut strips of celery. Sizzled up all nicely with the juices from the meats and other vegetables, and whatever magic spices and residual flavors that lived on the ancient cast iron fajita pan, those pieces of celery were magic. Charred a little on the outside from the heat of the pan, and still just crunchy enough to add a different texture to the dish, they added something special to every bite. Maybe that’s the experience that did it. I used to root around in the dish just for those pieces of celery. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">“Do you want the last shrimp?” </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">“No, I’m content eating this chunk of celery I fished from under the steak and ribs and 14 carat gold-plated lobster tails at the bottom of the pan.”</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">What? You don’t know. You weren’t there. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><font face="inherit"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, before you look down your nose at the humble stalk, just remember that in Cajun cuisine celery (along with the lesser, but still delicious, components of onion and peppers) is part -- some may say the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Father</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (okay I, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> would say the Father) -- of the Holy Trinity. Centuries of Cajuns have been using celery as their GOD. It’s their GOD, do you hear me? (The French use the lesser mirepoix, and the Italians a soffritto, but they didn’t christen it as God, so I’ll go with the Cajuns, thankyouverymuch.) Your gumbo would just be a soup without </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">God</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in it. Jambalaya? Merely a dish of rice without the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Father</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Some may think it’s blasphemy, but I think it’s just wise food preparation. Just ask Paul Prudhomme. I’m sure he’d agree. </span></font></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-28206355826805506652020-07-05T12:39:00.001-07:002020-07-05T13:06:38.436-07:00There's no place like home<span id="docs-internal-guid-f704cbd2-7fff-3700-4c32-ce37e90ccb4d"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">t’s hard to know the moment your heart breaks for home. Mine feels a little bit broken all the time. There are moments when it’s just fractures, cracks even. And then there are the days when it feels like it’s shattered and will never be put back together. I miss my friends. I miss my family. And I miss my city. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">I love D.C. I love it like a family member. I love the potholed streets that never seem to be smooth. I love the dysfunctional local government, beholden to Congress, that pretends to assert itself even when it can’t. I love the awful drivers from Maryland and Virginia who clog the streets and don’t know how to make it around Dupont Circle. And, oh, how I love Dupont Circle. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">That marble fountain (that never seems to run properly -- it’s either overflowing, or trickling out of only three spouts, or dry as a bone) is the center of the universe to me. I’ve told my husband that when I die, I want my ashes scattered in Dupont Circle. “With all the rats and the dog pee?” Yes. I’ll become one with the empty Starbucks cups, discarded after a perfect sunny weekend. One with the cracked pavement. One with the grass. One with . . . the rats. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Before we moved, my office was located in One Dupont Circle. I had dreamed of working there for years. I didn’t even care what I did, I just wanted to sit in that building and look out the window at my favorite place. (Never mind that the window I had when I did work there looked out onto a sub-roof, and pipes and air conditioning units -- there’s something to be said for a dream realized, even if it’s slightly imperfect.)</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Now, here we are, 3,000 miles away in California. In an equally dysfunctional town, with an equally inept local government. There are no circles here, and nothing like Dupont Circle. But we do have a statue of Sonny Bono. He sits perched on the edge of his own fountain, his brass knees rubbed to a shine from years of asses sitting to pose for photos. Mayor emeritus, immortalized forever in tourist kitsch. I wonder if anyone’s ever wished to be scattered at Sonny’s feet, in between the plaza that holds a Mexican restaurant and a 50-style diner chain. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">When I think of what we have here, I’m grateful for the sun and the (mostly) temperate weather. I don’t think a day has gone by where I’ve missed the rain or humidity of my beloved D.C., but I miss the promise that the awful weather brings. And, still, my heart aches for home. For the smell of an August afternoon, the heat coming off the pavement and the herds of commuters walking toward the bowels of the Metro. For the four crisp and glorious days of Thanksgiving weekend, when the town empties out and the natives stick around. When you can get a reservation anywhere in town, find a seat at any bar, and everyone knows everyone else is “from here.” For the crippling snowstorms that shut down the entire city and its suburbs for days on end and the neighborhood snowball fights and day drinking that are ways to pass the time. And for those three, maybe four, glorious days in the spring when the humidity is low, the sun is out, and, like butterflies shedding their chrysalis, everyone loses their wool and boots, bare arms and legs are as far as the eyes can see, and patio restaurants fill with people enjoying what can only be described as perfection. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">That euphoria of the perfect day hasn’t worn off. My husband and I still marvel and take advantage of as many clear, sunny, low-humidity days as we can because for 40 years, we were conditioned to enjoy every fleeting moment. In Palm Springs, 250-ish days a year are like that. And the other 115 that aren’t are still pretty fantastic. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">And now we have friends here. Wonderful, glorious, hilarious, generous friends. All of them, starting over in this weird desert oasis town. A second (or third, or fourth) life, just like ours. I wonder if they miss their old homes, their old towns, the way that I long for mine. D.C.’s not gone, but I am. It’s kept on going without me. I’ve kept going without it, too, I suppose. I don’t know if we’d recognize each other now. I’ve got a permanent tan on my feet from wearing sandals year round. My hair’s a little longer, my middle a little softer. But my cold East Coast heart still beats inside. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Speaking of which, when we first moved here, the kindness of the people was really confusing. One time, we were standing in front of 7-11 waiting for an Uber, when an old lady and her dog pulled up. “Do you need a lift somewhere?” she asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Outside of small towns in the 50s and serial killer stories, I didn’t know people actually gave strangers a “lift” anymore. We declined politely, and I think she was even a little offended that her act of kindness was rebuffed.</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Another disconcerting thing (which was really just basic human kindness), was how inviting people are here. It quickly became the norm to have strangers strike up a conversation at the bar, and invite us to their home for dinner, or a party, or a swim. Always skeptical, I’d ask my husband if he thought we should go, because you never know when you’re going to end up in a bathtub full of ice sans kidneys. So far, we’ve retained our kidneys, and the only thing full of ice is my heart. But it’s begun to thaw a little. I might not get into strange old ladies’ cars, but we’ve been to a lot of cookouts and parties and dinners at strangers’ houses. We’ve made those strangers into friends. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">Our first Christmas, we’d been here not six months. We hadn’t made plans, but figured we’d eventually find something to do. One night, about a week before Christmas, we were sitting in one of our favorite bars having a drink and decompressing. In walked a magnificent drag queen, so I struck up a conversation. Shantey was also new in town, and -- get this -- had recently moved from D.C. I decided then and there that we would be soul mates. We chatted all evening and exchanged phone numbers. She invited us to Christmas dinner at her house -- because she and her partner always make a cassoulet and there’s more than enough to share. I laughed in the way that you do when bar-talk-invitations happen, and figured that was the end of it. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">The next morning, I had a text from Renato, Shantey’s non-drag alter ego, saying, “I wasn’t joking, you have to come for Christmas.” Cold East Coast heart and old fashioned anxiety kicked in, and I spent the next few days in a tizzy over whether we should go or not. I didn’t even know what Renato looked like out of drag! What would we wear? Who would be there? What kind of wine should we take? Would this be the time we really did lose a kidney? My ever-pragmatic husband thought it would be fine and said we had nothing to lose. (As usual, he was right.)</font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">That evening, we anxiously walked up to the door to ring the bell. Renato answered the door -- no wig, eyelashes, or sequins -- and honestly exclaimed how glad he was that we had come. He introduced us to his husband, Gordon, and the other two guests, Richard and Juan. As it turned out, we had all recently relocated to Palm Springs and were Christmas orphans. It was that night that a friendship was formed among us all. We ate an amazing cassoulet that Gordon prepared, drank more than anyone probably should, and laughed in that way that new friends do as they’re getting to know each other. Since then, Renato and Gordon have hosted us many times, including for every Christmas since we’ve lived here, and the circle of orphans has expanded to include more and more people transplanted to the desert. </font></span></p><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><font face="inherit">And just like that, my cold heart has begun to melt. Sure, it still comes out sometimes when we’re walking down a crowded sidewalk, and I’ll mutter to my husband, “Jesus Christ. Do these people really need to stop right in the middle of everything? It’s like they’ve never been in public before!” For the most part, I’ve come to accept that this is where we live now. Still, I do worry about my kidneys. You just can’t be too careful. But, at least when that eventuality occurs, you’ll know where to scatter me. </font></span></p><div><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-2782651974558249342020-07-02T20:25:00.005-07:002020-07-02T20:46:20.680-07:00COMING SOON<div style="text-align: center;">Watch this space. Or don't. That's your choice.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhTM31hw_N9RGR47EsIqVVt7VXyu3SWk_X3mbnQJmOS5S4eBbmPApgBMsl35lfMQXtKL07GHrYeSau89M_QQWJo_49T4OEqxMMpvDdtL6L-zAJtL2NKzgwvtoGD8eCkqW39ZwR1oUDVtxQu8TnqxOPZcGj1SfP63tMGRpg=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhTM31hw_N9RGR47EsIqVVt7VXyu3SWk_X3mbnQJmOS5S4eBbmPApgBMsl35lfMQXtKL07GHrYeSau89M_QQWJo_49T4OEqxMMpvDdtL6L-zAJtL2NKzgwvtoGD8eCkqW39ZwR1oUDVtxQu8TnqxOPZcGj1SfP63tMGRpg=s320" /></a></div></div>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-29702766827549503082015-11-25T10:30:00.001-08:002020-07-02T20:32:24.882-07:00Thankful for What?It's no secret that this has <a href="http://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2015/11/how-are-you.html" target="_blank">been a hard year</a> (<a href="http://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2015/10/you-dont-know-what-pain-is.html" target="_blank">hard few years</a>, to be clear). And WH and I have <a href="http://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2015/11/what-you-cant-see.html" target="_blank">been struggling</a>. It's easy to get lost in that struggle, to forget that there is sunshine, to wallow. As Thanksgiving and the holiday season approaches, it's a stark reminder of what we don't have. But that's a rabbit hole I'm trying very hard not to let myself fall down.<br />
<br />
I could easily think about how WH and I aren't able to be together. But instead, I'm thankful that we have each other. That we are in this thing together. That we bolster each other on those days that seem darkest. I'm thankful that we haven't lost each other even as we have lost so much else.<br />
<br />
I could let myself feel all alone. But instead, I'm thankful for family and friends who have given of themselves to make sure that we aren't alone. To make sure that we feel loved. These warriors in our army have given their time, their money, their tears, <i>their souls</i> to make sure that we feel supported.<br />
<br />
I could despair that we're not going to cook dinner together and sit around in our comfy pants after our Thanksgiving meal, dozing off in front of the TV. But instead, I'm thankful that our families will be together. Maybe it's not in the way we all wanted, but we will be together. Laughing, eating, loving, enjoying -- because we are suvivors.<br />
<br />
I could look back at this awful, awful year and wonder where has it gone. But instead, I'm thankful for the time we had this year to keep fighting. For the time ahead of us that will surely bring better days and relief and wellness. Time -- it's the greatest thing we have as we continue to fight.<br />
<br />
No, friends, I am not going to get lost in the quagmire that we've been slogging through. I'm going to hold my head up, power forward, and be thankful for the incredible gifts that we've been given this year. Because even through all of the loss and illness and struggle, we have been pretty damn lucky. And I know that there's more good to come.<br /><br />
<br />
<b><i>For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/mold-exposure-can-cause-serious-illness/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/beware-the-health-consequences-of-mold-exposure/" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://www.survivingmold.com/mold-symptoms/understanding-the-illness" target="_blank">here</a>, and watch video <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZeORlb31I4" target="_blank">here</a>. </i></b>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-49223575292267561952015-11-06T14:36:00.001-08:002015-11-06T14:37:09.112-08:00I am 40.Today I am 40. It's a milestone, to be sure. But it's one that's a little harder to face than previous ones (<a href="https://www.youcaring.com/sasan-pakravan-and-christina-gordon-450166" target="_blank">here's why</a>). Rather than wallow or feel sorry for myself, I'm going to practice self care in the form of self love. A friend on Twitter yesterday (when I was still 39) suggested that I mark the end of my 30s by giving myself 39 compliments. I didn't quite get around to it, but I've decided to kick off 40 with 40 compliments for instead. Here goes:<br />
<ol>
<li>I'm tough. </li>
<li>I've got a great head of hair.</li>
<li>Loyal, almost to a fault (but we're dealing in compliments here, not faults).</li>
<li>I have low blood pressure (which should not be underestimated as one ages).</li>
<li>No wrinkles! (Also should not be underestimated)</li>
<li>I will laugh with you and cry with you, because I really do care.</li>
<li>I'm a pretty damn good writer. </li>
<li>I make a mean chili, burrito, and chicken soup (but not all in the same pot).</li>
<li>My eyes (my best feature) are pretty.</li>
<li>I work hard.</li>
<li>I play harder.</li>
<li>I love big.</li>
<li>I will never forget your birthday. </li>
<li>I can bargain shop better than anyone (have I mentioned the $150 Manolos)?</li>
<li>I'm smart.</li>
<li>I'm a smart ass (a trait I value in others as much as in myself). </li>
<li>I'm great at planning things, especially parties.</li>
<li>I have good taste (subjective, to be sure, but it's my compliment, so I say I do).</li>
<li>I'm a connector...nothing is more fun than making sure great people know each other. </li>
<li>I can sew on a button (we're only halfway there, and this is getting hard).</li>
<li>Getting hard? That's what she said! I can make a TWSS joke with the best of 'em.</li>
<li>I have a great sense of humor (see above).</li>
<li>I have soft hands.</li>
<li>I'm up on current events. </li>
<li>I genuinely care about people and the world we live in.</li>
<li>I'm a fast typist. </li>
<li>I can name all the Supreme Court Justices and every member of the Brady Bunch without Googling it.</li>
<li>I'm pretty good with makeup (my own...sorry about your face).</li>
<li>I know all the words to American Pie.</li>
<li>I love giving gifts and will pick the perfect one just for you. </li>
<li>I am a champion napper.</li>
<li>I'm a wonderful auntie to all my littles.</li>
<li>I've got great manners. I always say please and thank you, and mean it.</li>
<li>I'm good at putting things in perspective. </li>
<li>I've got faults, and I'm willing to acknowledge and accept what they are. </li>
<li>I will always try to see both sides of the story, even if I only agree with one of them.</li>
<li>I'm a good swimmer (even though I hate the water).</li>
<li>I can see the beauty in simple things.</li>
<li>I'm the best friend I can be. I live for my friends. When I die, I want my tombstone to say, simply, "She was a good friend."</li>
<li>I know who I am, and I love her. </li>
</ol>
<div>
Compliment yourself. Whether you're 40 or 20 or 80 or anywhere in between. Don't wait for a milestone.</div>
WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-90603494327367257712015-08-21T15:30:00.000-07:002015-08-21T15:30:01.163-07:00A ShoeulogyLest you think that this has all been about perspective and growth and strength, I feel the need to share with you one of the most devastating (and, frankly, shallow) aspects in our journey to health through loss. I reached a point several years ago where I was utterly pleased with my wardrobe. I had cultivated and curated pieces that I loved and could intermingle with each other to wear again and again. It made me feel good and it gave me confidence.<br />
<br />
More than my wardrobe, though, was my shoe collection. I can only say, with a tear in my eye and not an ounce of irony, that my shoes were my babies. I had boots: suede, leather, snakeskin; red, black, brown, camel; high heel, low heel, mid heel; knee high, calf high, ankle booties. I had heels: patent, suede, fabric, leather; gold, black, brown, burgundy, red, nude; stiletto, wedge, chunky. I had sandals: strappy, flat, walking; leather, rope, cork, plastic. I even had a couple of pairs of sneakers and three or four pair of flats. Did I mention the boots?<br />
<br />
Learning, as we did, that we would have to lose everything in order to gain health was hard enough to bear, but when it became clear that "everything" included my shoes, it was just too much. I would dissolve into a puddle just thinking about it. And with that, let me provide you with a eulogy for my shoes, a shoeulogy, if you will. <br />
<br />
Goodbye, red snakeskin Manolo Blahniks. From the first moment I saw you on the rack in Filene's, I knew we were soulmates. From your $250 pricetag (which I talked the checkout lady down to $150) to your perfect stiletto heel to your absolutely uncomfortable leather sole, I loved you. You were with me at my rehearsal dinner, on a trip to Prague where I nearly broke your heel off (sorry about that...nobody told me there'd be cobblestones), and on days at work when I really needed to be sassy. You were the queen of my closet.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, nude pumps. You served dutifully for several years, smartly blending in with browns, blues, oranges, and even, on one occasion, sequins. You were up to whatever task I chose to draft you into: a business lunch; a summer wedding; dinner out on a Saturday night; brunch with the Girls. You were the pearl necklace of shoes -- elegant and suitable for nearly every occasion.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, black riding boots. From September through March, you were the go-to choice for comfort and ease. Whether it was a denim skirt or skinny cords, you knew just how to make any outfit look as if it had just emerged from a <i>Town & Country Magazine</i> shoot in the English countryside. Cheerio, old friend.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, red satin peeptoes. You carried me down the aisle on my wedding day, and danced the best night of my life away with me. You gave me a blister on my little toe, but I forgave you for it. And even if you didn't get out much after that night, your place on my shelf was one of honor.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, black leather high heel Prada booties. Like your cousin Manolos, we met in that aisle in Filene's, your name on the box issuing a siren call that could not be ignored. Though you probably didn't appreciate it, I told anyone who would listen that you only cost $150 (marked down from $795) because I knew your real worth. What I would give to stroke your Italian leather one last time . . .<br />
<br />
Goodbye, Stuart Weiztman lanyard cork wedges. You were without a doubt the most comfortable, sky-high shoes I've ever owned. You went with everthing: jeans, dresses, slacks. I could put you on in the morning, walk a couple of miles, and keep wearing you into the evening. A dutiful and practical shoe, you gave me height and confidence and comfort. I'm glad you're now living with some girl in Australia who totally gets you.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, J. Crew red snakeskin mid-calf almond toe heeled boots that were half a size too small, but fit if I wore stockings instead of socks and ignored that I couldn't feel my little toe. You were the best $35 bargain a gal could ask for. For more than 10 years, you marched yourself out when I really needed a kick (and had forgotten about that pesky little toe thing).<br />
<br />
Goodbye, Aquatalia knee-high suede high heeled dress boots, I think I'll miss you most of all. I coveted, nay stalked, you online for three years before I finally made you mine. You went with everything, kept me warm, and felt like you were made from the skin of a newborn. I loved everything about you and would've slept wearing you if I could. You made my life better just being in it, and it's a little darker out there now that you're gone.<br />
<br />
To all the other boots, flats, sneakers, heels, and sandals, you may not have been my favorites, but you served me well and loyally every step I took. May every step you take be one toward heaven.<br />
<br />
<b><i>For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/mold-exposure-can-cause-serious-illness/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/beware-the-health-consequences-of-mold-exposure/" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://www.survivingmold.com/mold-symptoms/understanding-the-illness" target="_blank">here</a>, and watch video <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZeORlb31I4" target="_blank">here</a>. </i></b>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-83607728610156960952015-08-19T15:30:00.000-07:002015-08-19T15:30:00.728-07:00On the Way to BetterI checked into the hotel with just the clothes on my back, my phone, and my wallet. Minutes earlier, I had walked out of our now-empty home for the last time, having purged the remaining bits of our life into the garbage. Just before I left, I snapped one last picture of our beautiful view of Thomas Circle and <a href="https://twitter.com/WashingTina/status/517475683074048000" target="_blank">tweeted</a>, "I don't live here anymore." It took my breath away how much it hurt. <br />
<br />
The woman at the hotel desk handed me a package with the clothes I would wear and a purse I was borrowing from my mother. They were the only possessions I had. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to my room.<br />
<br />
As I stripped off my clothes and put them into a garbage bag, I thought to myself, "How did I get here? How had I survived the past year? Would I survive what was coming next? What <i>was</i> coming next?" There I was, in nothing, with nothing, and I couldn't fathom how I was going to put my life back together. I didn't know if WH was ever going to get better. If we were ever going to be better.<br />
<br />
Standing in the shower, as I washed my hair (three times, with antifungal shampoo), I felt resolute. I was literally and metaphorically washing off all that had come before: the mold that had upended our lives; losing our home, our things; the months of searching for answers and doctors and treatments; the gutwrenching heartbreak of not living together, of not being able to comfort each other with even a hug, of suffering separately; the time we could never get back; the loss, so much loss. It all went down the drain as I stood there washing it away.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cdBXFeDd5zWpUbO-o15gxGu3du5mhUehrQinGzZ7tJWhp2BEpUNuO1bm_hL5bXn0wGDPtmbkxNja4fCJBlBrIaeonevfYc-aAipeLfkaTa3DDAvkGIQMFRvb81lv3V33t_CGy6-hZxs/s1600/hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cdBXFeDd5zWpUbO-o15gxGu3du5mhUehrQinGzZ7tJWhp2BEpUNuO1bm_hL5bXn0wGDPtmbkxNja4fCJBlBrIaeonevfYc-aAipeLfkaTa3DDAvkGIQMFRvb81lv3V33t_CGy6-hZxs/s320/hell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I went downstairs to the hotel's restaurant and ordered a glass of wine. I don't remember what it tasted like, or the two glasses that followed, but it was more sacramental than any communion wine I'd ever drunk. This was my rebirth. This was my new reality. <i>This was my new normal. </i>Starting over with nothing. Except that <a href="http://dcwashingtina.blogspot.com/2014/08/on-things-and-such.html" target="_blank">I didn't have nothing</a>. I simply didn't have stuff. And in that moment, even as I sat there alone with nothing to my name besides the clothes on my back, I knew that I would never truly have <i>nothing</i>. I had WH -- who was on his way to recovery. I had my parents who were giving me a home again. I had our family who were holding us up in whatever way they could. I had our wonderful, loving, and supportive friends who had been there through all of the hell and helped us keep going, who gave us strength we didn't know we had. I had what I needed, what really mattered. <br />
<br />
The hell wasn't quite over yet -- that kind of lingering burn doesn't go away in an instant and you bear the scars forever -- but eventually the burning stops and the scars fade, and you come out of it. And there we were, on our way out of it, on our way to better. . . <br />
<br />
<b><i>For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/mold-exposure-can-cause-serious-illness/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://doctorsprouse.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/beware-the-health-consequences-of-mold-exposure/" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://www.survivingmold.com/mold-symptoms/understanding-the-illness" target="_blank">here</a>, and watch video <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZeORlb31I4" target="_blank">here</a>. </i></b>WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-49863469145591718742015-08-19T08:37:00.002-07:002020-07-23T19:25:04.934-07:00On Social MediaI realize I've gone down a rabbit hole with my (sparse, yeah, yeah, ok, sparse) posts this year. It's not the high comedy some have come to expect from this blog (and yes, I use "high comedy" loosely....I'm not so arrogant as to think I'm Steven Colbert or similar). But sometimes one just feels the need to wax philosophical. Today is one of those days (it seems I increasingly have those days).<br />
<br />
I have reached a point where I have little patience for the "I don't get Twitter," "I'm not going to 'do' Facebook," "What do you mean you met your boyfriend ONLINE!?!?" school of thought. I am a deeply entrenched member of Generation X, and so are many of my friends. My parents are Boomers. But there is so much that we can learn from the online generation.<br />
<br />
I get such great enjoyment from my online life. I am on Facebook, Twitter, and obviously here on this blog. I have reconnected with friends from childhood. I have met friends of friends who share my beliefs. I have connected with people all over the world who enjoy politics, humor, nerdisms, food, and who knows what else. And it makes me happy.<br />
<br />
For someone who straddles the world of "real life" WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-421752855666391519.post-2074366859043195412015-08-19T08:37:00.001-07:002020-07-23T19:25:00.574-07:00Patience Is a VirtueThere are a few dying arts, one of which is customer service. Sure, we can all think of those times when we've received good customer service, but the reason they stand out is because most customer service is so bad, the good ones have to stand out. Nothing against call centers located somewhere in Asia . . . I know that the people who work there are trying their best . . . but are they really well equipped to deal with someone who is undeterred? The answer, my friends is no. Because I can guarantee that I am more determined and more patient and willing to call back as many times as it takes until I get my refund/service call/resolution. There is no way that there are enough "supervisors" to pretend to pacify before I get what I want.WashingTinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17987548913994006257noreply@blogger.com0