Volumes could be filled with the things that puzzle me. Here are just a few.
Why is the nickname for Sylvester "Sly?" I mean, I understand not wanting to be "Syl," but this makes no sense to me.
Along those same lines, why is the nickname for William "Bill" or "Billy?" Will or Willie, I get. But Bill? Where'd the B come from?
Fashion; no matter how I look at it, it makes no sense. "These things weren't popular years ago, and they won't be popular years from now, but right now, you must have them!" I don't care if it's clothes or hair or home furnishings, this makes no sense. I understand the capitalism of it all, "Sell more stuff by creating false need, and making sure people replace things that aren't worn out," but I just cannot quite comprehend 1. why so many people go along with it, and 2. why so many people treat it as though it has any actual value.
Conviction by Consensus, the idea that, "Other people think this; therefore, I will think this." All the permutations of it, from fashion to mob mentality, just escape me. Again, intellectually, I can explain it. I understand the psychological and anthropological reasons, the fact that being part of a group makes survival easier and more likely. I understand that some people just do not trust their own judgement, but feel sure that majority opinion confers some kind of authority. After all, isn't that democracy in a nutshell - "We will do whatever the majority decides we should do."
Still, keep in mind that "majority" means "anything over half," so out of 100 people, 51 is a majority; that still leaves 49 dissenters, though, who are told that their idea has less value, just because there are fewer of them. I understand using this as a basis for a government, but not in using it to make decisions or form opinions about everyday life.
The older I get, the more I want to strike the phrase "most people" from anyone's vocabulary. "Most people like (blank)." "Most people will do (blank)." It's just infuriating. Have you sincerely polled all of the Earth's inhabitants? This is the adult version of a child's statement - "Everybody else (fill in the blank)." Unless you put some parameters on it - "most people who visit Rome for the first time," "most people who live in Chicago" - I just want to disregard whatever you have to say outright.
Even if you do designate your parameters, and your analysis is correct, why should that indicate any kind of desirability? Truly, why is something a good or bad idea just because a lot of people agree? Every single inventor, discoverer or pioneer did things that went against prevailing knowledge and opinion. Watching "The Imitation Game," I was struck by the fact that someone more likable and agreeable than Alan Turing would have caved to his peers. After all, these were honestly the best and brightest analysts available. They were smart, educated, informed and well intentioned. They told Turing that he was doing it wrong, wasting time, wasting money, costing lives, and he should just buckle down and do it like the others did. Yet, Turing was right. They were able to succeed only because he stubbornly refused to listen to majority opinion, and in doing so, he ended the war years earlier, and changed cryptography forever.
I understand, too, the desire to be like someone we admire, or to cultivate traits that seem desirable, but I just want to smack people who explain any part of their opinion or actions by saying, "Intelligent people think/do x." It makes me want to drip with sarcasm - "Do tell! Enlighten me! However do intelligent people think? I would so love a glimpse into that rarified world!" In actuality, folks, truly intelligent people form opinions and make decisions on their own, not as a group. And, they frequently disagree with one another.
Negativity, in almost any form, annoys me. I read a study that measured how readers rated the intelligence of review writers. Participants were given movie and book reviews written by the same person, expressing the same views, with just a few key words and phrases changed, to reflect either a positive, upbeat tone, or a negative one. By a huge margin, the participants said that the reviews using negative words were written by more intelligent writers. Anecdotally, I see this frequently. Be happy or positive about something, and people adjust their estimation of your IQ downward, but be rude, scathing and dissatisfied, and they'll think that you're a genius. It aggravates me.
Has no one noticed that any idiot can complain or find fault, and most of them do? It takes hard, relentless work to see the positive in any given situation. Many people are ill equipped, or simply don't expend the effort.
Ranch dressing; I'll eat it if there's nothing else available for my salad, but I don't really like it. I don't want it on my sliced veggies, my wings, my pizza, my chicken strips, or anything else. I'm always puzzled when I'm at a restaurant and they bring me copious amounts of ranch that I didn't order, or ask me if I want it when I haven't asked for it. It's not horrifying, but it's not amazing.
Fear of rodents and/or insects; I just can't quite imagine what harm people fear will befall them. Rodents are cute. Bugs can be lovely. Neither one frightens me. I do dislike the sensation of lots of little legs walking on me, but I also dislike having people stand too close to me or rub me too lightly, and that doesn't cause me to scream and run.
Fear of snakes; fear of venom makes sense, but fear of any snake? Why?
Extreme germaphobia; come on, trust your immune system. I was at a weekend event at a high school, and took an available opportunity to nap; the only place quiet enough was the school library, where I could nap on the floor. My son wrinkled his nose and said, "Oh, yeah, Mom, that's real sanitary." My response: "Our ancestors lived through the Middle Ages. I think I can handle a frequently cleaned library floor."
Driving fast; I am not an adrenaline junkie. I dislike the physical sensation of speed. I dislike knowing that speed increases danger. Things that are fender benders at 25 are fatal at 85. I'm generally not in a hurry, either. Impatience is just an exercise in misery.
I do not enjoy large (or steep) roller coasters, anything that drops from a height, or other adrenaline rush rides; see above.
High heels are of the devil, I'm sure. Not in a "you shameless hussy" kind of way, just in an "I'm not a masochist, I don't want to be in pain" way. I read where an actress was quoted as saying, "Who cares about comfort on the red carpet? It's about looking fabulous." She does indeed look more fabulous than I do, but I care about comfort. Call me a hedonist, but I can't imagine why anyone would choose to wear something that hurt.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Have Fun Stormin' the Castle
Everyone has something in particular that they like to do when they travel. Some people get excited about the food; some get excited about the shopping. I get excited about the photographs that I can take.
When we planned a trip that would take us to Europe for a week, people asked, "What do you want to see?" At first, I just said, "Whatever is there." Then I started thinking, and we started buying things like train tickets, and I amended my answer; "I want to see a castle."
I've grown up in the American West; we get all excited if something is 100 or 150 years old. Our entire nation is just over 200. When my niece spent a year abroad in France, she lived in an ordinary neighborhood in an ordinary town, and her home was over 400 years old, with stone walls. The thought made me swoon.
At our first stop, Madeira, there was no castle. The island was gorgeous, and I didn't miss the opportunity to see a castle.
Our second stop was Gibralter. I was excited about the rock, the monkeys, the view across the channel to Africa. But there, sitting on the hill, was a castle.
Technically, it's a medieval fortress. Still, on only my second day in Europe, I got to cross a "must do" off my list.
It became apparent that castles were not scarce the morning we arrived in Barcelona. This was the view from the deck of our ship:
Well, then!
This is Montjuic Castle, first built in 1640. We didn't go inside, but we did get a closer view.
We saw plenty of palace-like buildings in Paris. Even if we hadn't, who cares? It's Paris!
We hit the castle jackpot in Germany.
After looking, exhaustively, at flights to take us home, we'd discovered that the least expensive flight left on a Thursday from Frankfurt, so we arranged to arrive in Frankfurt on Tuesday night. That left all of Wednesday for an adventure. We were without a car (we'd arrived by train), so we looked into tour companies, and settled on a tour that would pick us up from, and deliver us back to, our hotel. We were scheduled to go down the Rhine in a tour boat, on a stretch of river that was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has the highest concentration of castles in Europe. We all charged our camera batteries in anticipation.
Unfortunately, the Rhine was flooding. It was the highest water level in over 300 years. Virtually all river traffic was halted.
This is a staircase that goes down to the waterfront sidewalk. The water levels were, if I recall, 15 to 20 feet above normal here.
Many of the docks were themselves underwater. Some peeked out, but you wouldn't want to dock there.
The tour company had a contingency plan. We would still get many of the usual elements of the tour - lunch at a cafe, a visit to a local monument, a ride down the mountainside in a chair lift reminiscent of a ski lift - but instead of sailing past numerous castles, we'd get to tour the grounds and interior of one.
It was an absolutely picture perfect example of a castle - suits of armor, a ballroom, towers... just gorgeous.
There's me and my husband.
Here's the view from across the river.
Isn't that storybook perfect?
What was more astonishing to me, though, were the number of other castles in the area, castles not included as part of the tour. They were just sitting there, a part of the normal scenery.
I mean, they're just everyday buildings. Here's another view from across the river, showing the next castle just a bend in the river away.
Do you see that? Here's a closer look.
They're within sight of each other, some of these castles. Holy cow! I mean, even if it was centuries ago, I could easily walk or ride between them!
So, we have a new plan on the back burner. Some day, we'll go back to Germany. We'll drive the Romantic Road, we'll float down the Rhine, and we'll photograph more castles.
It's a great plan.
When we planned a trip that would take us to Europe for a week, people asked, "What do you want to see?" At first, I just said, "Whatever is there." Then I started thinking, and we started buying things like train tickets, and I amended my answer; "I want to see a castle."
I've grown up in the American West; we get all excited if something is 100 or 150 years old. Our entire nation is just over 200. When my niece spent a year abroad in France, she lived in an ordinary neighborhood in an ordinary town, and her home was over 400 years old, with stone walls. The thought made me swoon.
At our first stop, Madeira, there was no castle. The island was gorgeous, and I didn't miss the opportunity to see a castle.
Our second stop was Gibralter. I was excited about the rock, the monkeys, the view across the channel to Africa. But there, sitting on the hill, was a castle.
See it? Don't worry, we got closer.
It became apparent that castles were not scarce the morning we arrived in Barcelona. This was the view from the deck of our ship:
Well, then!
This is Montjuic Castle, first built in 1640. We didn't go inside, but we did get a closer view.
We hit the castle jackpot in Germany.
After looking, exhaustively, at flights to take us home, we'd discovered that the least expensive flight left on a Thursday from Frankfurt, so we arranged to arrive in Frankfurt on Tuesday night. That left all of Wednesday for an adventure. We were without a car (we'd arrived by train), so we looked into tour companies, and settled on a tour that would pick us up from, and deliver us back to, our hotel. We were scheduled to go down the Rhine in a tour boat, on a stretch of river that was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has the highest concentration of castles in Europe. We all charged our camera batteries in anticipation.
Unfortunately, the Rhine was flooding. It was the highest water level in over 300 years. Virtually all river traffic was halted.
This is a staircase that goes down to the waterfront sidewalk. The water levels were, if I recall, 15 to 20 feet above normal here.
Many of the docks were themselves underwater. Some peeked out, but you wouldn't want to dock there.
The tour company had a contingency plan. We would still get many of the usual elements of the tour - lunch at a cafe, a visit to a local monument, a ride down the mountainside in a chair lift reminiscent of a ski lift - but instead of sailing past numerous castles, we'd get to tour the grounds and interior of one.
It was an absolutely picture perfect example of a castle - suits of armor, a ballroom, towers... just gorgeous.
There's me and my husband.
Here's the view from across the river.
Isn't that storybook perfect?
What was more astonishing to me, though, were the number of other castles in the area, castles not included as part of the tour. They were just sitting there, a part of the normal scenery.
I mean, they're just everyday buildings. Here's another view from across the river, showing the next castle just a bend in the river away.
Do you see that? Here's a closer look.
They're within sight of each other, some of these castles. Holy cow! I mean, even if it was centuries ago, I could easily walk or ride between them!
So, we have a new plan on the back burner. Some day, we'll go back to Germany. We'll drive the Romantic Road, we'll float down the Rhine, and we'll photograph more castles.
It's a great plan.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Mine! Mine!
Years ago, we had the good fortune to have our niece and nephew live with us. No one was happier than my own children, who considered the entire time to be an extended sleepover party.
One day, several neighbor children were over playing with the 9, 8, 7 and 4 year olds in our household. At one point, I had to announce, "OK, everybody who doesn't live here has to head home. My kids need to get ready for dinner."
My 7 year old, who never heard a statement with which she couldn't quibble, said, "Well, Jeremy and Sarah aren't really yours."
"Of course they are," I said. "They're my nephew and my niece."
This subject had apparently been a topic of discussion among the children, because my 9 year old nephew elbowed my 7 year old daughter in the ribs and said, "See? I told you."
I never claimed to be their parent, but that certainly didn't mean that they weren't mine.
I tend to use possessive words about kids in my Girl Scout troops, Cub Scout dens, theater classes, debate team - there's lots of kids that I'm unrelated to that I claim as "mine." Even years later, I'll refer to them that way. One of my Scouts is now serving a church mission, ten years after I was his leader, and I still call him "my Scout."
Sitting in the coach's lounge at a debate tournament a couple of years ago, I was called to the door by someone saying, "Your kid needs you."
"Which one?" I asked. I received a strange look in return.
"The only one that's - actually yours."
"You mean, the one that I actually gave birth to?"
"Yeah. That's the one."
Well, I had to ask. They're all "my kids."
Years ago, a friend's mother asked her, "Why do Sharon's children call you "Auntie'?" Her answer: "I don't know. I guess it's kind of her way of making the whole world part of one big family."
For the record, the world is indeed one big family. I admire cultures in which all elders are referred to as "Auntie" and "Uncle." I belong to a church in which we refer to each other, even people we've never met, as "Brother" or "Sister."
I also like to lay claim to those people that I want in my life.
There was a time when this friend with the puzzled mother was the person that I loved best in all the world. She made adolescence bearable; no small feat. I never imagined a reality in which she wasn't an aunt to my children.
Not too many years ago, I introduced another childhood best friend at the sandwich shop where we'd taken him for lunch. The ladies behind the counter know and recognize us, and this time we'd brought someone new with us. "This is my brother," I said. "Nice to meet you!" the ladies said. He lived within walking distance of the shop; I hoped that if he came back, they'd remember him (and treat him the way they treat us.)
When we sat down to eat, he said, "So, I'm your brother?"
"You know that. You always have been," I said. He first called me his sister when we were both still teens. My kids have called him "Uncle" since they could speak. That's more than half our lifetimes ago.
"Yeah," he said. "I know. I'm just surprised that you still claim me in public," and winked.
I was delighted to see how my adult son viewed some of these relationships. When I was a kid, there were people who told me that all childhood friends, including those from high school, would necessarily fall out of each other's lives. There was nothing permanent about them, I was assured. Now, of course, I've been out of high school for over 30 years, and most of my friends are still here, in my life. I don't even think that we're exceptions.
I was telling my youngest kids some story or other about something that happened in high school, describing how the adults at the school often underestimated the loyalty between the kids in the theater department. Prone to bickering among ourselves, we closed ranks around even the kids who annoyed us if we perceived a threat from outside of the group.
My son (a university psychology student) said, "I don't know why that surprised them. That's classic family behavior."
"That's the thing. They didn't see us as a family."
My son gave me a look, and said, "Mom. Two words: Uncle Tony."
My son has grown up in a reality in which a number of those theater friends are called "Aunt" and "Uncle." Even the ones without the formal titles hold a special place in the family. It was nice for me to know that my children had no question as to who could be our family.
My son does, though, rib me when I talk about my granddaughter. "You don't have a granddaughter," he'll say. This is only biologically true. I used to reply, "Ask her mother. She'll tell you." Now that the little princess in question is old enough to have her own opinions, I say, "Ask her. She'll tell you." (Sometimes I add, "Uncle Alex.")
I know that it's sometimes confusing for people. I might mention, for instance, my niece Linda, and leave people who know my family puzzled. "Is that Lynne's daughter, or June's?" The answer, which I always give when asked, is, "She's my friend Michelle's daughter. I've always been her aunt."
We recently discovered the perfect word for these "family by choice" relatives - they are bonus relatives. It's a fantastic description. It almost denotes receiving them as a gift, which they are.
Often, though, I only need the one word - "mine."
One day, several neighbor children were over playing with the 9, 8, 7 and 4 year olds in our household. At one point, I had to announce, "OK, everybody who doesn't live here has to head home. My kids need to get ready for dinner."
My 7 year old, who never heard a statement with which she couldn't quibble, said, "Well, Jeremy and Sarah aren't really yours."
"Of course they are," I said. "They're my nephew and my niece."
This subject had apparently been a topic of discussion among the children, because my 9 year old nephew elbowed my 7 year old daughter in the ribs and said, "See? I told you."
I never claimed to be their parent, but that certainly didn't mean that they weren't mine.
I tend to use possessive words about kids in my Girl Scout troops, Cub Scout dens, theater classes, debate team - there's lots of kids that I'm unrelated to that I claim as "mine." Even years later, I'll refer to them that way. One of my Scouts is now serving a church mission, ten years after I was his leader, and I still call him "my Scout."
Sitting in the coach's lounge at a debate tournament a couple of years ago, I was called to the door by someone saying, "Your kid needs you."
"Which one?" I asked. I received a strange look in return.
"The only one that's - actually yours."
"You mean, the one that I actually gave birth to?"
"Yeah. That's the one."
Well, I had to ask. They're all "my kids."
Years ago, a friend's mother asked her, "Why do Sharon's children call you "Auntie'?" Her answer: "I don't know. I guess it's kind of her way of making the whole world part of one big family."
For the record, the world is indeed one big family. I admire cultures in which all elders are referred to as "Auntie" and "Uncle." I belong to a church in which we refer to each other, even people we've never met, as "Brother" or "Sister."
I also like to lay claim to those people that I want in my life.
There was a time when this friend with the puzzled mother was the person that I loved best in all the world. She made adolescence bearable; no small feat. I never imagined a reality in which she wasn't an aunt to my children.
Not too many years ago, I introduced another childhood best friend at the sandwich shop where we'd taken him for lunch. The ladies behind the counter know and recognize us, and this time we'd brought someone new with us. "This is my brother," I said. "Nice to meet you!" the ladies said. He lived within walking distance of the shop; I hoped that if he came back, they'd remember him (and treat him the way they treat us.)
When we sat down to eat, he said, "So, I'm your brother?"
"You know that. You always have been," I said. He first called me his sister when we were both still teens. My kids have called him "Uncle" since they could speak. That's more than half our lifetimes ago.
"Yeah," he said. "I know. I'm just surprised that you still claim me in public," and winked.
I was delighted to see how my adult son viewed some of these relationships. When I was a kid, there were people who told me that all childhood friends, including those from high school, would necessarily fall out of each other's lives. There was nothing permanent about them, I was assured. Now, of course, I've been out of high school for over 30 years, and most of my friends are still here, in my life. I don't even think that we're exceptions.
I was telling my youngest kids some story or other about something that happened in high school, describing how the adults at the school often underestimated the loyalty between the kids in the theater department. Prone to bickering among ourselves, we closed ranks around even the kids who annoyed us if we perceived a threat from outside of the group.
My son (a university psychology student) said, "I don't know why that surprised them. That's classic family behavior."
"That's the thing. They didn't see us as a family."
My son gave me a look, and said, "Mom. Two words: Uncle Tony."
My son has grown up in a reality in which a number of those theater friends are called "Aunt" and "Uncle." Even the ones without the formal titles hold a special place in the family. It was nice for me to know that my children had no question as to who could be our family.
My son does, though, rib me when I talk about my granddaughter. "You don't have a granddaughter," he'll say. This is only biologically true. I used to reply, "Ask her mother. She'll tell you." Now that the little princess in question is old enough to have her own opinions, I say, "Ask her. She'll tell you." (Sometimes I add, "Uncle Alex.")
I know that it's sometimes confusing for people. I might mention, for instance, my niece Linda, and leave people who know my family puzzled. "Is that Lynne's daughter, or June's?" The answer, which I always give when asked, is, "She's my friend Michelle's daughter. I've always been her aunt."
We recently discovered the perfect word for these "family by choice" relatives - they are bonus relatives. It's a fantastic description. It almost denotes receiving them as a gift, which they are.
Often, though, I only need the one word - "mine."
Friday, March 13, 2015
Reading Your Labels
I love words. I love them the way a painter loves brushes, like a chef loves a sharp knife. They are what let us express history, culture, philosophy, love, loss, invention, innovation. They are the building blocks of ideas. I love well chosen, well expressed, well paired words.
I also think that we have too many of them - or maybe just a need to utilize them excessively.
I wasn't always a words person. As a kid, if I'd had the relentless scrutiny and screening that many kids nowadays have, I would have been diagnosed as having a language disorder or delay. I didn't say anything until I was 3. It was hard for me to tie a sound to an image. I thought - I often still think - in images. I'm lousy at those word association games. You know, the ones where you're supposed to say the first word that comes into your head when someone says another word. If you say "dog," I don't think, I don't know, "bark" or "cat" or any other word. I see, in my head, an image of a dog like you'd find in a child's primer - a dog of indeterminate breed and size. I'd have to think pretty hard to come up with anything else. If you say "house," I see a cartoon drawing of a house. Isn't that the point of words, to bring to mind the object or idea that they describe?
That doesn't mean that I was inarticulate. My first words were a phrase: "Good girl." I'd gone potty, and my adored big sister told me that I was a good girl. I was delighted, so I repeated it. I never did the "dada" thing; I went straight to sentences from there.
I was around three when my dad took me with him to the Block S, his morning hangout for coffee with his friends, one day. My mom was at work, and the big kids were at school, so I was with my retired dad until they got home. I was a quiet, serious, standoffish child, and I was not responding to his friends' attempts to interact with me. My dad leaned down and said, "Aren't you going to say hello?"
My response: "I do not know these gentlemen. Perhaps if I knew them, I would speak to them."
The men roared with laughter. My dad was delighted. I was ticked off. Did they think that I was a baby? Did they expect baby talk? Why was it so funny that I was capable of communicating? I seethed. The man working the counter offered me an ice cream cone, and my dad said that I could have it, even though it was before lunch. That was very unusual, and calmed me down a little bit, but I was still offended that they apparently expected baby talk.
When I was a child, behaviors like this were just considered personality traits. People would describe their own, or someone else's, behavior with descriptive sentences: "She's chatty." "He's slow to warm up." "She has a temper." "He's a daydreamer." Now, everyone has to diagnose, catalog and label things: "He's on the autism spectrum." "She has ADHD."
Mind you, I do not think that there's any character judgement implicit in any medical diagnosis, whether it affects your body or your brain. I don't think there's anything "wrong" or embarrassing about any of it. I'm just a description person. It's more helpful to me if you drop your child off for a play date and say, "He dislikes loud noises" than it is to give me a medical diagnosis. It's the same thing if you're, say, an adult turning down an invitation. "I don't like crowds" is completely sufficient. I don't need the name of a condition.
I seem to be in the minority with this. People are forever giving me armchair diagnoses for me and my family members. These have included autism, delayed development syndrome, aphasia, sensory processing disorder, social anxiety disorder, oppositional defiance disorder, anger management disorder, attachment disorder, and I'm sure, many that I have forgotten. I know that these are very real things, and again, that there is no shame in any of them. Still, I'd rather leave my medical diagnosing to my doctors. I'd also much rather focus on behaviors, personalities and needs, and I don't need a label to do that.
Other people seem to function better when handed labels, and I don't understand this.
When my youngest daughter was very small, as part of trying to figure out her digestive issues, our doctor suggested temporarily eliminating dairy from her diet. When we went out to pizza, we'd ask for a personal pizza for her, with her favorite toppings and no cheese. You'd have thought that we asked them to make her food standing on their heads and singing opera. They acted like it was a huge imposition. We also were sure to get at least one nasty remark, usually, "Why even bother eating it?" or, "It's not pizza without cheese." SO annoying.
I kept wanting to say, "It's quicker and easier. It saves the restaurant money. You get paid the same, regardless. Why do you care what I order?" But I didn't.
Instead, I started saying something inaccurate. I started saying, "My daughter is allergic to dairy. She'd like..." and then ordering. It was amazing. Suddenly, everyone was friendly and helpful and cheerful, sometimes in the extreme. They'd shower the child with attention, or assure me that they used all clean pans and gloves for her food. Why couldn't they do that without my giving them a label? Why couldn't they just assume that we had a perfectly good reason for our order, or that it shouldn't make any difference what the reason was?
I spent years telling people that reclining seats caused me pain - a backache and a numb or tingling left leg. So many people assured me that I was wrong. (I cannot get over how many times in my life someone has told me that I don't think or feel something. What is that bizarre behavior?) If I had the audacity to repeat myself, I'd either be told to lose weight (far and away the favorite), or I'd hear things like, "That's not even physically possible. They make chairs like that because they're designed around human anatomy." People actually got quite angry, sometimes. If I was stubborn enough to say, "I don't know what to tell you. I just know that it hurts," I'd get lectures and/or be labeled a hysteric and attention seeker.
Then came a diagnosis of scoliosis. Suddenly, people were very solicitous and wanted to know how they could make me comfortable. When I reminded someone that they'd previously insisted that it "was not physically possible" that reclining chairs caused me pain, I heard, "Well, it's not, if you're normal."
So - once a doctor gave me an explanation, it was possible to imagine that there might be a physical cause for something I'd said for my whole life. Why was it not possible to imagine that there was something very real, but unknown or undiagnosed, that caused the problem before then? And why was it not OK to just let me choose chairs that were comfortable to me without having to justify why I liked them and disliked others?
I haven't ever gotten an answer that I find reasonable to that and similar questions. Usually, it's some variation of, "People just want to know that there's an actual reason." That makes no sense to me. The reason exists, whether you or I know or understand it or not. And the fact that we were eliminating dairy from my daughter's diet, and the fact that reclining chairs hurt, were indeed "actual" reasons; but people found those reasons unacceptable. They wanted a label, a box, a filing system. They wanted to agree with and approve of the reason.
I'm sorry, that's just pushy and controlling. Knock that crap off.
I don't understand the way others choose to label themselves, either.
Sometimes, I'll have conversations with people in which I think that we're on the same page. They'll say, "I never felt like I fit in with the other kids." Me either. I still don't feel like I fit in. "I wanted to play different things than the other girls (or boys, if they're male) did." Me too. I was catching snakes and lizards and getting muddy. "I made friends easier with kids of the opposite gender." Me too. I understood the boys; the girls often baffled me. I still understand my male friends quicker and easier than I do my girlfriends. "I dressed differently than the other girls (or boys)." I still do; I spend most of my time in athletic shoes. I don't even own heels. I was one of the only women in a pantsuit at a wedding I recently attended (and I wore loafers with it). "I always identified with the characters of the opposite gender in cartoons and movies." Me too. Ask me who I consider my alter ego from favorite childhood shows, and it's Mickey Mouse, Bambi and Kermit the Frog. "I was never interested in photos of guys (or girls) in skimpy clothes." Me too. I hate scanty clothing on anyone, really, but I simply do not respond to Magic Mike, killer-6-pack-abs images of men. A girlfriend of mine recently posted a Facebook photo of naked male butts, with some kind of compliment on it. I don't find anybody's butt attractive. Butts are funny looking. "I wasn't interested in flirting with the opposite gender." Me either. I'm not entirely sure that I understand flirting, and I sure can't do it. "I'd see a really pretty girl, and daydream about getting to know her." Yeah, I was always awed by beautiful girls, too, because I am not one. If they were talented, too, they might as well be from another planet. It was dazzling.
Anyway, after several minutes of conversation like this, when I'm starting to think that the other person understands me, which is really cool because it's rare that I feel understood, they'll say, "That's how I always knew that I was gay." Um - what? That makes no sense to me. Because I'm not gay. That's like saying, "I always knew that I'd be an accountant because I wore these shoes and this hairstyle in elementary school." I mean, you can have whatever self identity you have for whatever reasons make sense to you, but to me, the logic doesn't track. It's like saying, "Bob is a boy. Bob has brown hair. Conclusion: boys have brown hair." It might be true sometimes, and people will point to those times to say, "See, I was right," but what about the times it isn't true? Those can't all be anomalies. I think that the human experience is much more wide and varied than we like to think it is. We try to subdivide and categorize and label, instead of just saying, "Human beings come in an astonishing amount of variety."
We're fairly obsessed with "normal." "Well, most people who (fill in the blank) are (fill in the label)," people tell me over and over. It's not even possible to ask most people, given the sheer number of humans on the planet! Plus, what's "normal" varies wildly with region, age and time frame. For instance, in general, having lived in rural communities and city environments, I can tell you that what's considered "normal" or desirable in a woman in rural areas - loves to hunt, fish and drink beer - is considered "butch" and probably lesbian in cities. A man who's slim, impeccably dressed (with buffed nails) and a knowledge of cooking is considered "normal" and desirable in urban environments, but extremely effeminate and suspect in rural ones. Neither one is right or wrong, I think - the problem is in our insistence on categorizing and making people fit into boxes. ("Normal" is next to irrelevant to me.)
For instance, when I was younger, the word "gay" was pretty much all encompassing. It meant someone who had sexual relations with a person of the same gender. Then, society felt the need to have a word for men who fit that description, and another for women who did. I found that kind of odd; there's no separate word for men who have relationships with the opposite gender and women who have relationships with the opposite gender, but OK. A few years went by, and there were new terms to describe people based on their sexual orientation. Now, there's much talk that the widely used term of LGBT, which encompasses several of those descriptions, is too limiting. We need more letters that stand for more orientations. Apparently, we need a Q; in the past, "queer" was a not very nice slang term for a homosexual person, but today it apparently means something else. I recently watched two lovely, well intentioned teens arguing over what the proposed A stood for. "It's for Asexual. Some people don't want to have sex at all." "No, it's not! It's for Ally! It's for straight people who are on the side of people who aren't straight! You can't take our letter from us!"
I'm in favor of stopping the usage of all the words that categorize people according to their sexual relationships. Isn't "human" enough? Do we need to know anything else? I'm not talking about shame. I don't think we need to be ashamed. I just think that private lives need to be private.
Recently, someone told me that they were "pansexual." Another friend referred to themselves as "cisgender." I had no idea what either of those terms meant. (I've since found out, but I have no idea why someone would announce it, especially to casual friends. I don't tell people that I'm heterosexual, or monogamous, or religious, or a parent, or any other thing that I am, and of which I am decidedly not ashamed, when I meet them. I let them find that stuff out by context and conversation, when it's relevant or important, instead of saying, "You must know this when you meet me, so you'll understand me.") Someone else said that they were "gender queer." I think I know what that one means, but I don't know why we need it. I'm not sure why I need to know this, either, unless I'm your partner, doctor or clergy. I mean, I don't really want any term that means what I am, except "human." I don't want to discuss my sex life with anyone besides my husband, and, in rarer instances, my doctor or clergy. I don't even want to discuss whether I'm "gender conforming" or "non gender conforming." I do not want more labels and more little boxes, especially when they don't tell me what's important for me to know to converse with you. Do you like music? Art? Sports? Solitude? Adrenaline releasing activities? Quiet? Noise? Puppies? I want to know about you, not about your sex life. And really, although I'm aware that others disagree, that's all those orientation words mean to me, because they focus on one aspect of your life.
I said that to someone, and they said, "No, it's about so much more than that." (I'm not sure how, since it refers to a very narrow band of behavior.) I also heard, "But isn't your sexuality at the very core of how you define yourself?" Nope. My self identity was formed years before I knew that there was such a thing as sexuality. The core of who I am barely touches my sex life.
I know that, to some people, labels mean understanding and inclusion. It means that others will know something important about you, and hopefully that they will accept you, or at least know how to relate to you.
I disagree. I'm tired of titles, labels, diagnoses, little boxes that keep people confined. Trying to keep them straight exhausts me. When you want me to know about you, describe your perfect day, or your favorite memory, or your hopes or fears or plans. Ask me about what I like to do, what I dislike, what I hope and remember and dream. Then, maybe, we'll understand each other a little better.
And I won't be left wondering what, exactly, your label means. Or what you expect me to do about it.
I also think that we have too many of them - or maybe just a need to utilize them excessively.
I wasn't always a words person. As a kid, if I'd had the relentless scrutiny and screening that many kids nowadays have, I would have been diagnosed as having a language disorder or delay. I didn't say anything until I was 3. It was hard for me to tie a sound to an image. I thought - I often still think - in images. I'm lousy at those word association games. You know, the ones where you're supposed to say the first word that comes into your head when someone says another word. If you say "dog," I don't think, I don't know, "bark" or "cat" or any other word. I see, in my head, an image of a dog like you'd find in a child's primer - a dog of indeterminate breed and size. I'd have to think pretty hard to come up with anything else. If you say "house," I see a cartoon drawing of a house. Isn't that the point of words, to bring to mind the object or idea that they describe?
That doesn't mean that I was inarticulate. My first words were a phrase: "Good girl." I'd gone potty, and my adored big sister told me that I was a good girl. I was delighted, so I repeated it. I never did the "dada" thing; I went straight to sentences from there.
I was around three when my dad took me with him to the Block S, his morning hangout for coffee with his friends, one day. My mom was at work, and the big kids were at school, so I was with my retired dad until they got home. I was a quiet, serious, standoffish child, and I was not responding to his friends' attempts to interact with me. My dad leaned down and said, "Aren't you going to say hello?"
My response: "I do not know these gentlemen. Perhaps if I knew them, I would speak to them."
The men roared with laughter. My dad was delighted. I was ticked off. Did they think that I was a baby? Did they expect baby talk? Why was it so funny that I was capable of communicating? I seethed. The man working the counter offered me an ice cream cone, and my dad said that I could have it, even though it was before lunch. That was very unusual, and calmed me down a little bit, but I was still offended that they apparently expected baby talk.
When I was a child, behaviors like this were just considered personality traits. People would describe their own, or someone else's, behavior with descriptive sentences: "She's chatty." "He's slow to warm up." "She has a temper." "He's a daydreamer." Now, everyone has to diagnose, catalog and label things: "He's on the autism spectrum." "She has ADHD."
Mind you, I do not think that there's any character judgement implicit in any medical diagnosis, whether it affects your body or your brain. I don't think there's anything "wrong" or embarrassing about any of it. I'm just a description person. It's more helpful to me if you drop your child off for a play date and say, "He dislikes loud noises" than it is to give me a medical diagnosis. It's the same thing if you're, say, an adult turning down an invitation. "I don't like crowds" is completely sufficient. I don't need the name of a condition.
I seem to be in the minority with this. People are forever giving me armchair diagnoses for me and my family members. These have included autism, delayed development syndrome, aphasia, sensory processing disorder, social anxiety disorder, oppositional defiance disorder, anger management disorder, attachment disorder, and I'm sure, many that I have forgotten. I know that these are very real things, and again, that there is no shame in any of them. Still, I'd rather leave my medical diagnosing to my doctors. I'd also much rather focus on behaviors, personalities and needs, and I don't need a label to do that.
Other people seem to function better when handed labels, and I don't understand this.
When my youngest daughter was very small, as part of trying to figure out her digestive issues, our doctor suggested temporarily eliminating dairy from her diet. When we went out to pizza, we'd ask for a personal pizza for her, with her favorite toppings and no cheese. You'd have thought that we asked them to make her food standing on their heads and singing opera. They acted like it was a huge imposition. We also were sure to get at least one nasty remark, usually, "Why even bother eating it?" or, "It's not pizza without cheese." SO annoying.
I kept wanting to say, "It's quicker and easier. It saves the restaurant money. You get paid the same, regardless. Why do you care what I order?" But I didn't.
Instead, I started saying something inaccurate. I started saying, "My daughter is allergic to dairy. She'd like..." and then ordering. It was amazing. Suddenly, everyone was friendly and helpful and cheerful, sometimes in the extreme. They'd shower the child with attention, or assure me that they used all clean pans and gloves for her food. Why couldn't they do that without my giving them a label? Why couldn't they just assume that we had a perfectly good reason for our order, or that it shouldn't make any difference what the reason was?
I spent years telling people that reclining seats caused me pain - a backache and a numb or tingling left leg. So many people assured me that I was wrong. (I cannot get over how many times in my life someone has told me that I don't think or feel something. What is that bizarre behavior?) If I had the audacity to repeat myself, I'd either be told to lose weight (far and away the favorite), or I'd hear things like, "That's not even physically possible. They make chairs like that because they're designed around human anatomy." People actually got quite angry, sometimes. If I was stubborn enough to say, "I don't know what to tell you. I just know that it hurts," I'd get lectures and/or be labeled a hysteric and attention seeker.
Then came a diagnosis of scoliosis. Suddenly, people were very solicitous and wanted to know how they could make me comfortable. When I reminded someone that they'd previously insisted that it "was not physically possible" that reclining chairs caused me pain, I heard, "Well, it's not, if you're normal."
So - once a doctor gave me an explanation, it was possible to imagine that there might be a physical cause for something I'd said for my whole life. Why was it not possible to imagine that there was something very real, but unknown or undiagnosed, that caused the problem before then? And why was it not OK to just let me choose chairs that were comfortable to me without having to justify why I liked them and disliked others?
I haven't ever gotten an answer that I find reasonable to that and similar questions. Usually, it's some variation of, "People just want to know that there's an actual reason." That makes no sense to me. The reason exists, whether you or I know or understand it or not. And the fact that we were eliminating dairy from my daughter's diet, and the fact that reclining chairs hurt, were indeed "actual" reasons; but people found those reasons unacceptable. They wanted a label, a box, a filing system. They wanted to agree with and approve of the reason.
I'm sorry, that's just pushy and controlling. Knock that crap off.
I don't understand the way others choose to label themselves, either.
Sometimes, I'll have conversations with people in which I think that we're on the same page. They'll say, "I never felt like I fit in with the other kids." Me either. I still don't feel like I fit in. "I wanted to play different things than the other girls (or boys, if they're male) did." Me too. I was catching snakes and lizards and getting muddy. "I made friends easier with kids of the opposite gender." Me too. I understood the boys; the girls often baffled me. I still understand my male friends quicker and easier than I do my girlfriends. "I dressed differently than the other girls (or boys)." I still do; I spend most of my time in athletic shoes. I don't even own heels. I was one of the only women in a pantsuit at a wedding I recently attended (and I wore loafers with it). "I always identified with the characters of the opposite gender in cartoons and movies." Me too. Ask me who I consider my alter ego from favorite childhood shows, and it's Mickey Mouse, Bambi and Kermit the Frog. "I was never interested in photos of guys (or girls) in skimpy clothes." Me too. I hate scanty clothing on anyone, really, but I simply do not respond to Magic Mike, killer-6-pack-abs images of men. A girlfriend of mine recently posted a Facebook photo of naked male butts, with some kind of compliment on it. I don't find anybody's butt attractive. Butts are funny looking. "I wasn't interested in flirting with the opposite gender." Me either. I'm not entirely sure that I understand flirting, and I sure can't do it. "I'd see a really pretty girl, and daydream about getting to know her." Yeah, I was always awed by beautiful girls, too, because I am not one. If they were talented, too, they might as well be from another planet. It was dazzling.
Anyway, after several minutes of conversation like this, when I'm starting to think that the other person understands me, which is really cool because it's rare that I feel understood, they'll say, "That's how I always knew that I was gay." Um - what? That makes no sense to me. Because I'm not gay. That's like saying, "I always knew that I'd be an accountant because I wore these shoes and this hairstyle in elementary school." I mean, you can have whatever self identity you have for whatever reasons make sense to you, but to me, the logic doesn't track. It's like saying, "Bob is a boy. Bob has brown hair. Conclusion: boys have brown hair." It might be true sometimes, and people will point to those times to say, "See, I was right," but what about the times it isn't true? Those can't all be anomalies. I think that the human experience is much more wide and varied than we like to think it is. We try to subdivide and categorize and label, instead of just saying, "Human beings come in an astonishing amount of variety."
We're fairly obsessed with "normal." "Well, most people who (fill in the blank) are (fill in the label)," people tell me over and over. It's not even possible to ask most people, given the sheer number of humans on the planet! Plus, what's "normal" varies wildly with region, age and time frame. For instance, in general, having lived in rural communities and city environments, I can tell you that what's considered "normal" or desirable in a woman in rural areas - loves to hunt, fish and drink beer - is considered "butch" and probably lesbian in cities. A man who's slim, impeccably dressed (with buffed nails) and a knowledge of cooking is considered "normal" and desirable in urban environments, but extremely effeminate and suspect in rural ones. Neither one is right or wrong, I think - the problem is in our insistence on categorizing and making people fit into boxes. ("Normal" is next to irrelevant to me.)
For instance, when I was younger, the word "gay" was pretty much all encompassing. It meant someone who had sexual relations with a person of the same gender. Then, society felt the need to have a word for men who fit that description, and another for women who did. I found that kind of odd; there's no separate word for men who have relationships with the opposite gender and women who have relationships with the opposite gender, but OK. A few years went by, and there were new terms to describe people based on their sexual orientation. Now, there's much talk that the widely used term of LGBT, which encompasses several of those descriptions, is too limiting. We need more letters that stand for more orientations. Apparently, we need a Q; in the past, "queer" was a not very nice slang term for a homosexual person, but today it apparently means something else. I recently watched two lovely, well intentioned teens arguing over what the proposed A stood for. "It's for Asexual. Some people don't want to have sex at all." "No, it's not! It's for Ally! It's for straight people who are on the side of people who aren't straight! You can't take our letter from us!"
I'm in favor of stopping the usage of all the words that categorize people according to their sexual relationships. Isn't "human" enough? Do we need to know anything else? I'm not talking about shame. I don't think we need to be ashamed. I just think that private lives need to be private.
Recently, someone told me that they were "pansexual." Another friend referred to themselves as "cisgender." I had no idea what either of those terms meant. (I've since found out, but I have no idea why someone would announce it, especially to casual friends. I don't tell people that I'm heterosexual, or monogamous, or religious, or a parent, or any other thing that I am, and of which I am decidedly not ashamed, when I meet them. I let them find that stuff out by context and conversation, when it's relevant or important, instead of saying, "You must know this when you meet me, so you'll understand me.") Someone else said that they were "gender queer." I think I know what that one means, but I don't know why we need it. I'm not sure why I need to know this, either, unless I'm your partner, doctor or clergy. I mean, I don't really want any term that means what I am, except "human." I don't want to discuss my sex life with anyone besides my husband, and, in rarer instances, my doctor or clergy. I don't even want to discuss whether I'm "gender conforming" or "non gender conforming." I do not want more labels and more little boxes, especially when they don't tell me what's important for me to know to converse with you. Do you like music? Art? Sports? Solitude? Adrenaline releasing activities? Quiet? Noise? Puppies? I want to know about you, not about your sex life. And really, although I'm aware that others disagree, that's all those orientation words mean to me, because they focus on one aspect of your life.
I said that to someone, and they said, "No, it's about so much more than that." (I'm not sure how, since it refers to a very narrow band of behavior.) I also heard, "But isn't your sexuality at the very core of how you define yourself?" Nope. My self identity was formed years before I knew that there was such a thing as sexuality. The core of who I am barely touches my sex life.
I know that, to some people, labels mean understanding and inclusion. It means that others will know something important about you, and hopefully that they will accept you, or at least know how to relate to you.
I disagree. I'm tired of titles, labels, diagnoses, little boxes that keep people confined. Trying to keep them straight exhausts me. When you want me to know about you, describe your perfect day, or your favorite memory, or your hopes or fears or plans. Ask me about what I like to do, what I dislike, what I hope and remember and dream. Then, maybe, we'll understand each other a little better.
And I won't be left wondering what, exactly, your label means. Or what you expect me to do about it.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Not My Style
Twenty one years ago, we bought a "fixer-upper" house. We're still fixing.
The good news is that it's starting to show. We spent years with a house full of kids, and I'd rather send them to camp and take them on vacation than get new flooring. Now that the "baby" is halfway through high school, though, we have a bit more time and money to put into the house.
I've spent a lot of time in home improvement stores, furniture stores, thrift stores and between the pages of decorating magazines. There's always good ideas to be found, but there's also those things that, no matter how many times I see them or who recommends them, I just don't like.
Don't take offense if you like every one of these things. I'm not saying that you're wrong. I don't think there is a "wrong" except in matters of morality. And, I'm very clear that I'm the one out of step. Nevertheless, none of these things gets me excited in any way.
1. Throw Pillows
I know; I can tell you all the reasons that they "warm up a room," how easy it is to "switch out your look," why people like piles of them on their couches, beds, floors - I just don't like throw pillows. They're uncomfortable; the first thing I do when I'm on a piece of furniture that has them is take them off. They just don't serve any purpose for me. The family room set I own now came with co-ordinating pillows, and the only time I've ever used them is when I'm sleeping on the couch; they're big enough to be used for my head. Otherwise, I toss them on the floor.
I remember learning how to make throw pillows as a kid. I enthusiastically made a bunch of them - and gave them away. I liked making them, I liked how they looked - I just didn't want them.
And don't get me started on cost! Good gravy! I once said something very unpleasant out loud when I saw a $245 tag on an 8x8 pillow.
2. Carpet or Rugs
This is more an aversion to their upkeep than to their look. I hate vacuums. HATE them. They are roaring monsters marring the peace of my home. Plus, they usually kick up enough allergens to make me deeply miserable, even the expensive ones with HEPA filters. And carpet needs vacuumed all the time. You can barely breathe on a carpet or rug without needing to clean it. Yuck! From an allergy and asthma sufferer's viewpoint, there is no way to get all the irritants out of carpet, even shampooing it. More yuck.
My dislike of carpet probably solidified in my last house. It was a darling house with a great layout - except for one thing. The living room and dining room were combined (a "great room"), and carpeted. I had two toddlers when we moved in. There is NO WAY to keep carpeted dining room floors consistently clean with toddlers. Even ordinary foods like crackers were a nightmare. Don't get me started on yogurt. Yes, I tried plastic mats. Have you ever met a small child who keeps their mess on the mat?
When we bought our current house, we almost immediately started ripping out the carpets. There was no way in the world that I wanted over two thousand square feet of carpet.
People thought we were crazy. After we put vinyl floors in our children's bedrooms, they really thought it. My niece reported to her mother, in puzzlement, "They put kitchen floors in the bedrooms." We got lots of questions as to why. We heard lots of, "Won't it be loud?" After many years and accidents involving diapers, vomit, smashed fish tanks and spilled nail polish remover, I am happier than ever that we put in the vinyl. On carpet, it would have been a nightmare. On vinyl, we used paper towels and were done. The worst was actually the polish remover, which ate a few tiles. We took those out and put in new tiles - done.
I also heard lots of, "But you're laying down rugs, right?" No. I did not rip out carpet to put in rugs. "Won't it be cold?" and "Don't you want softness underfoot?" puzzled me. No and no.
We have vinyl, laminate and wood. Eventually, all the hated carpet will be gone. Hallelujah.
3. Candles
I like the theory of candles. I like making candles; when I was a kid, my mom bought several candle molds and big slabs of wax, and we made lots of candles. We kept some, and we gave a lot as gifts. I love the look of candles. I like having them for emergencies. I just don't like burning them.
My friend Linda explained this succinctly: "Of course. You're a parent. All you see is an open flame."
That sounds nice, of course, but I didn't burn them when I was a kid. When I was in my teens, my brother worked for a while at a candle factory. That Christmas, we all got candles. Mine was gorgeous; it had seashells embedded in it, and a scent with a name like "Windswept Seashore." When my brother came to visit about four years later, it was still on my shelf. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.
My sister gave me taper candles and candlesticks for my first Thanksgiving with my husband. She was terribly disappointed to hear that I put them on the table, but didn't light them. "You were supposed to have a candlelight dinner!" she said.
My son just found an Advent candle, with 24 marks on it, that someone gave me as a gift years ago. I've had it so long that the side of it that faced the window has faded to a very pale pink from its original cardinal red. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.
I like the look of it when I go to people's houses and they have masses of lit candles for a party. I would just never do it myself.
Maybe it's the fact that lovely candles end up as misshapen lumps after you burn them. Maybe it is the open flame. I don't know. I think they're great; I just don't burn them.
4. Artificial Scents
My youngest has never met an artificial scent that she doesn't like. Perfume, air freshener, incense, potpourri - she loves it all. She would live in a constant cloud of it if she could. When I told her over-scented self that no one should be able to smell her perfume unless they were hugging her, she said, "What would the point of that be?"
Even when I enjoy a scent - those cinnamon scented pinecones at Christmas, for instance - I don't want to live with it. It's too much. It's like having a favorite song playing 24 hours a day. Pretty soon, it's not your favorite any more.
"Mix it up!" "Get one of those fresheners that changes scent every two hours!" "Get the lighter, more natural scents." "You'll love this product!" I've heard it all. I do not want products with scent in my house. I don't like them.
I'm not crazed about it - I don't ban scented soap, cleaning products or my daughter's perfume - but I don't seek them out. I'm just not interested.
5. "Stylish" Anything
I cannot stand articles or individuals who tell me about the value of being stylish or "keeping it fresh" or "updating your look." If it is in style today, it will soon be out of style. I am not going to constantly replace my stuff because what's popular has changed.
Besides, why in the world would I decorate with someone else's taste? I do not understand what I call Conviction By Consensus - "Other people think this; therefore, I think this." It just looks like Groupthink to me, and I don't "get" it.
Of course, I was once told that it was "self centered" of me to make decorating and food decisions based on the idea that "I like it." To choose something merely because I enjoyed it was viewed as a very bad thing. "It's like you're saying that you're better than everyone else."
Um - NO. I'm saying that I'm living my own life - decorating my own house, eating my own food, and, while we're at it, choosing my own clothes, entertainment, etc. You are living yours. Do you ask me to choose your furniture? Your clothes? Do you ask me to decide on your meals? Movies? Anything? No? Then why in the world should I put what others think about that paint, sofa, book, meal or hairstyle over my own taste? I choose to have things, people, events in my life if they make me happy, not if they make you happy. You get to choose for you.
Just by chance, it appears that I've chosen trendy kitchen cabinets for my kitchen remodel. They're white, which the magazines tell me is in fashion. People with lovely hardwood cabinets are being urged to paint them white in the interest of updating and brightening their homes. I like white cabinets - I like white anything - but I also like wood.
The magazines also tell me, repeatedly, that clear acrylic chairs are perfect in a kitchen. They "visually open up the space" by not being bulky or heavy looking. This is true. Still, I hate them. I am not fond of anything sleek or futuristic looking. I generally do not like shiny, either.
The magazines also tell me that mismatched chairs, dishes or silverware are charming. I am fine with that; I don't mind matching, but I don't need it either. Those same publications, though, tell me that the fact that my refrigerator (white), dishwasher (stainless steel) and stove (black) do not match is tacky and makes things look disjointed. So, mismatched chairs = OK, mismatched appliances = bad? Sigh. I can't get into that mindset.
This is why I don't shop with other people.
Don't worry, I'm not thinking terrible things about you if you have throw pillows on your acrylic chairs in your white cabineted, carpeted, scented room. I probably admire a great deal about your rooms. And your clothes. And food.
Just please, don't get bent out of shape if we do things differently.
The good news is that it's starting to show. We spent years with a house full of kids, and I'd rather send them to camp and take them on vacation than get new flooring. Now that the "baby" is halfway through high school, though, we have a bit more time and money to put into the house.
I've spent a lot of time in home improvement stores, furniture stores, thrift stores and between the pages of decorating magazines. There's always good ideas to be found, but there's also those things that, no matter how many times I see them or who recommends them, I just don't like.
Don't take offense if you like every one of these things. I'm not saying that you're wrong. I don't think there is a "wrong" except in matters of morality. And, I'm very clear that I'm the one out of step. Nevertheless, none of these things gets me excited in any way.
1. Throw Pillows
I know; I can tell you all the reasons that they "warm up a room," how easy it is to "switch out your look," why people like piles of them on their couches, beds, floors - I just don't like throw pillows. They're uncomfortable; the first thing I do when I'm on a piece of furniture that has them is take them off. They just don't serve any purpose for me. The family room set I own now came with co-ordinating pillows, and the only time I've ever used them is when I'm sleeping on the couch; they're big enough to be used for my head. Otherwise, I toss them on the floor.
I remember learning how to make throw pillows as a kid. I enthusiastically made a bunch of them - and gave them away. I liked making them, I liked how they looked - I just didn't want them.
And don't get me started on cost! Good gravy! I once said something very unpleasant out loud when I saw a $245 tag on an 8x8 pillow.
2. Carpet or Rugs
This is more an aversion to their upkeep than to their look. I hate vacuums. HATE them. They are roaring monsters marring the peace of my home. Plus, they usually kick up enough allergens to make me deeply miserable, even the expensive ones with HEPA filters. And carpet needs vacuumed all the time. You can barely breathe on a carpet or rug without needing to clean it. Yuck! From an allergy and asthma sufferer's viewpoint, there is no way to get all the irritants out of carpet, even shampooing it. More yuck.
My dislike of carpet probably solidified in my last house. It was a darling house with a great layout - except for one thing. The living room and dining room were combined (a "great room"), and carpeted. I had two toddlers when we moved in. There is NO WAY to keep carpeted dining room floors consistently clean with toddlers. Even ordinary foods like crackers were a nightmare. Don't get me started on yogurt. Yes, I tried plastic mats. Have you ever met a small child who keeps their mess on the mat?
When we bought our current house, we almost immediately started ripping out the carpets. There was no way in the world that I wanted over two thousand square feet of carpet.
People thought we were crazy. After we put vinyl floors in our children's bedrooms, they really thought it. My niece reported to her mother, in puzzlement, "They put kitchen floors in the bedrooms." We got lots of questions as to why. We heard lots of, "Won't it be loud?" After many years and accidents involving diapers, vomit, smashed fish tanks and spilled nail polish remover, I am happier than ever that we put in the vinyl. On carpet, it would have been a nightmare. On vinyl, we used paper towels and were done. The worst was actually the polish remover, which ate a few tiles. We took those out and put in new tiles - done.
I also heard lots of, "But you're laying down rugs, right?" No. I did not rip out carpet to put in rugs. "Won't it be cold?" and "Don't you want softness underfoot?" puzzled me. No and no.
We have vinyl, laminate and wood. Eventually, all the hated carpet will be gone. Hallelujah.
3. Candles
I like the theory of candles. I like making candles; when I was a kid, my mom bought several candle molds and big slabs of wax, and we made lots of candles. We kept some, and we gave a lot as gifts. I love the look of candles. I like having them for emergencies. I just don't like burning them.
My friend Linda explained this succinctly: "Of course. You're a parent. All you see is an open flame."
That sounds nice, of course, but I didn't burn them when I was a kid. When I was in my teens, my brother worked for a while at a candle factory. That Christmas, we all got candles. Mine was gorgeous; it had seashells embedded in it, and a scent with a name like "Windswept Seashore." When my brother came to visit about four years later, it was still on my shelf. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.
My sister gave me taper candles and candlesticks for my first Thanksgiving with my husband. She was terribly disappointed to hear that I put them on the table, but didn't light them. "You were supposed to have a candlelight dinner!" she said.
My son just found an Advent candle, with 24 marks on it, that someone gave me as a gift years ago. I've had it so long that the side of it that faced the window has faded to a very pale pink from its original cardinal red. "You're supposed to burn it!" he said.
I like the look of it when I go to people's houses and they have masses of lit candles for a party. I would just never do it myself.
Maybe it's the fact that lovely candles end up as misshapen lumps after you burn them. Maybe it is the open flame. I don't know. I think they're great; I just don't burn them.
4. Artificial Scents
My youngest has never met an artificial scent that she doesn't like. Perfume, air freshener, incense, potpourri - she loves it all. She would live in a constant cloud of it if she could. When I told her over-scented self that no one should be able to smell her perfume unless they were hugging her, she said, "What would the point of that be?"
Even when I enjoy a scent - those cinnamon scented pinecones at Christmas, for instance - I don't want to live with it. It's too much. It's like having a favorite song playing 24 hours a day. Pretty soon, it's not your favorite any more.
"Mix it up!" "Get one of those fresheners that changes scent every two hours!" "Get the lighter, more natural scents." "You'll love this product!" I've heard it all. I do not want products with scent in my house. I don't like them.
I'm not crazed about it - I don't ban scented soap, cleaning products or my daughter's perfume - but I don't seek them out. I'm just not interested.
5. "Stylish" Anything
I cannot stand articles or individuals who tell me about the value of being stylish or "keeping it fresh" or "updating your look." If it is in style today, it will soon be out of style. I am not going to constantly replace my stuff because what's popular has changed.
Besides, why in the world would I decorate with someone else's taste? I do not understand what I call Conviction By Consensus - "Other people think this; therefore, I think this." It just looks like Groupthink to me, and I don't "get" it.
Of course, I was once told that it was "self centered" of me to make decorating and food decisions based on the idea that "I like it." To choose something merely because I enjoyed it was viewed as a very bad thing. "It's like you're saying that you're better than everyone else."
Um - NO. I'm saying that I'm living my own life - decorating my own house, eating my own food, and, while we're at it, choosing my own clothes, entertainment, etc. You are living yours. Do you ask me to choose your furniture? Your clothes? Do you ask me to decide on your meals? Movies? Anything? No? Then why in the world should I put what others think about that paint, sofa, book, meal or hairstyle over my own taste? I choose to have things, people, events in my life if they make me happy, not if they make you happy. You get to choose for you.
Just by chance, it appears that I've chosen trendy kitchen cabinets for my kitchen remodel. They're white, which the magazines tell me is in fashion. People with lovely hardwood cabinets are being urged to paint them white in the interest of updating and brightening their homes. I like white cabinets - I like white anything - but I also like wood.
The magazines also tell me, repeatedly, that clear acrylic chairs are perfect in a kitchen. They "visually open up the space" by not being bulky or heavy looking. This is true. Still, I hate them. I am not fond of anything sleek or futuristic looking. I generally do not like shiny, either.
The magazines also tell me that mismatched chairs, dishes or silverware are charming. I am fine with that; I don't mind matching, but I don't need it either. Those same publications, though, tell me that the fact that my refrigerator (white), dishwasher (stainless steel) and stove (black) do not match is tacky and makes things look disjointed. So, mismatched chairs = OK, mismatched appliances = bad? Sigh. I can't get into that mindset.
This is why I don't shop with other people.
Don't worry, I'm not thinking terrible things about you if you have throw pillows on your acrylic chairs in your white cabineted, carpeted, scented room. I probably admire a great deal about your rooms. And your clothes. And food.
Just please, don't get bent out of shape if we do things differently.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Polynesian Dancers
Years ago, after I attended the wedding reception for the son of a Tongan friend, I told my oldest daughters, "You should marry someone from a really cool culture; none of this boring, white bread American stuff." They stared at me as if I was crazy. At 13 and 14, they had no interest in discussing weddings.
If you have no Polynesian friends, you're missing out. No one throws parties like Polynesians.
At the recent reception for our friends from our church congregation, the bride's sister, cousins and friends prepared dances as gifts to the couple. It was just gorgeous.
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My kids can marry whoever they want; but, I know who I'm hiring if I'm ever asked to plan a party.
All photos: copyright The Reflection Works Photography
Dancers: Poly Nui Girls
If you have no Polynesian friends, you're missing out. No one throws parties like Polynesians.
At the recent reception for our friends from our church congregation, the bride's sister, cousins and friends prepared dances as gifts to the couple. It was just gorgeous.
-All photos: copyright The Reflection Works Photography
Dancers: Poly Nui Girls
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