Lightening the mood…

Yeah, life’s been crazy… what else is new?

In so many ways, it seems like we’ve been in Arizona forever, and in other’s it’s hard to believe it’s already been two months - heck, over two months…

In that time, I’ve started a new job, we’ve (mostly) unpacked the house, repainted the bedroom, torn down a wall, taken a jacuzzi outside, rebuilt the wall - and windows, and door - repaired drywall, plastered, primed and painted that room, shopped for a rug to cover the nasty stains on the linoleum (that isn’t getting replaced because our home repair budget doesn’t permit flooring just yet!), tried to stay on top of weeding the overgrown yard (who knew a desert scape could get overgrown?), tried to carve out the “usual” house keeping, grocery shopping, cooking, living, etc, all while getting used to a 45-hour work week (what the hell was I thinking when I took this job?), and oh so much more.

My writing - outside of work, that is - has fallen down the tubes to say the least!

My picture taking has followed it… And there are several pics sitting in my camera waiting to be downloaded and ’shopped.

But I had to share my weekend (and it’s only Wednesday! Wow, I’m finally getting to Sunday’s activities?)

You see, when we got this place, we knew right away that awful jacuzzi-in-the-family-room thing had to go. And go it did (look back for my home projects…) We also knew what we would put in its place…

A pool table.

And so - we investigated inexpensive tables. And The BF hated them. They didn’t “play” right.

And so - we investigate used tables.

And I hated them. Plus it seemed silly. By the time you bought the table, paid to have it moved, paid to have it refelted and rebumpered, plus bought new balls, cues, etc, you were almost to the price of a new table, but you had no warranty.

And so - we shopped. And we bought. In fact, we bought this table, custom done with burgundy felt. It’s a gorgeous piece in that room. (I need to take pics!)

But before we got that, I saved some money.

I found a furniture shop having a going out of business sale, they were selling their display rugs at dirt cheap prices. I found a beautiful area rug, 8×11, gorgeous, and typically priced at $550.

Wanna guess what I paid for that rug? Try $62. Yep. That’s it. Mind you, it doesn’t offset the price of that damn pool table, but I’ll save a buck (or a few hundred of them) when I can.

Oh yeah, I don’t even know how to play pool. The BF is teaching me.

Standing not silent - Yom HaShoah

“The civilized world stands revolted by a bloody pogrom against a defenseless people. Every instinct in us cries out in protest against the outrages which have taken place in Germany during the last five years and which sank to new depths in the organized frenzies of the last few days. . . . If you saw a gang of cowardly ruffians set upon a helpless man in a public street and proceed to beat him, you wouldn’t long remain silent. If you saw a fanatical mob pillage and burn a church or a synagogue you wouldn’t long remain silent. If you saw a brutal band drive helpless families from their own homes, you would speak out, and promptly.” ~Thomas E Dewey, November, 1938

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,760309,00.html

http://www.ushmm.org/remembrance/dor/years/detail.php?content=2008

April 27 – May 4 marks the Days of Remembrance, set aside by the US Congress as our nation’s annual commemoration of the Holocaust.

Friday, May 2 marks Yom HaShoah – Holocaust Memorial

This isn’t your typical “holiday” filled with commercialism and parties. This is a solemn day of remembrance, of mourning. Whether you have family who were lost in the Holocaust, family who survived the horrors, or have no familial connection at all, it’s a day to mourn those lost and to make a solemn promise of “never again.”

As the atrocities fade further and further into the past, as living survivors becomes more and more rare, it become ever more important to remember the systematic, bureaucratic, state-sponsored persecution and murder of approximately six million Jews by the Nazi regime and its collaborators.

When I was in school, we studied World War II and the Holocaust simultaneously. Many of my teachers were old enough that the scar was still fresh, the wound still bleeding, and the pain still very real. Years passed and I had children of my own; I was surprised when in their first World History classes, my children barely heard of the Holocaust, that this incredible atrocity was mentioned only in passing, then brushed aside as “covered.”

Actually, surprised is too bland a word. I was shocked, stunned into disbelief, and outraged. The curriculum gave more coverage to Cinco de Mayo, a cultural festival marking the anniversary of Mexican troupes defeating the French and commonly mistaken for Mexican Independence Day

(which it isn’t – that would be September 16).

They spent an entire week covering Cinco de Mayo, but all of 10 minutes on the Holocaust? Shall we discuss the conversation I had with the school regarding that particular curriculum choice?

Unfortunately, memories dim. Years pass and wounds turn into rapidly fading scars, soon to be forgotten.

Despite numerous survivors’ testimonies, despite the Nuremburg trials, despite evidence to the contrary, there are those who downplay the Holocaust. There are those who claim Auschwitz wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it was made out to be and the estimate of lives lost is overstated. There are those who claim the genocide never happened. Some even go so far as to claim the Holocaust is an elaborate hoax.

While today those attitudes may seem extreme, in just a few year’s time, it will become easier and easier to believe – with no living survivors to continue telling the tale, with schools no longer teaching on the Holocaust, who will there be to stand and speak up?

When there are no longer those who can say, “It happened” there will no longer be those to say, “and it will never happen again.”

My coffee pot is on the fritz - of coffee and compliments

My coffee pot is on the fritz.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate—actually, my coffee pot has a broken part and replacing the part is turning out to be troublesome. I like my coffee pot and have a deplorable history of finding less than stellar pots that make lousy coffee—hence my reluctance to simply toss the old and get a new.

But that’s not my point here.

My coffee pot is on the fritz, which is why I’ve found myself stopping at the local QT for my morning cuppa. I do not function without my java. It just doesn’t happen. And while I do love my pricey, frou-frou coffee drinks, they are neither budget nor body friendly so I reserve those for a once weekly treat and stick with the cheap stuff at the QT—which, by the way, happens to make a damn fine pot of mud.

At 6:30 in the morning, the place is already crowded— Phoenix is an early rising city it seems—but the clientele is all guys clad in denims, Dickies and other “hard work” attire. There are no business suits or “office casual” outfits to be found—except mine. To say I felt a little conspicuous the first time I went in there is an understatement. I got looks.

In a sea of work boots, my heels click loudly on the tile floors; surrounded by denim pants, my swirly skirts stand out. Oh yeah, that I’m usually the only female in the place makes a difference as well.

After a little over two weeks stopping at the QT (I told you I was having trouble finding the part), I’ve gotten quite used to experience, but there are still some things that surprise me.

~ I haven’t opened the QT door once, not one single solitary time. No sooner do I get anywhere near the darn thing than some helpful fellow holds it open for me—even if he has to go out of his way to do it. I smile and say “Thank you.”

~ The infallibly pleasant chorus of “good mornings” that has, since Day 1, greeted my arrival always makes me wonder—are these guys always this polite? Is Phoenix an unusually cordial city? I simply return the greeting. (by the way, single women take note – Phoenix has a very high ratio of single men to single women… Yep, the guys way outnumber the girls.)

~ The lack of unpleasant attention—though I’m no goddess, usually, a well-dressed woman entering a sea of rough-and-tumble men folk is greeted with everything from the quick sneak-peek to outright leers and worse. There has been none of that. And for that, I’m thankful.

I’ve been on this earth a few years now; and I’ve been in groups that were primarily men, and I can honestly say—this is not the norm I’m used to. I’m used to the litany of sexist jokes, the condescending attitudes, the “hey little lady” and “what can I do for you darlin’” greetings. Did I suddenly tumble into a Twilight Zone?

Then this morning it happened.

I hadn’t seen this guy in the QT before, but he was just like all the others—heavy work boots, worn Dickies, a t-shirt covered by an unbuttoned work shirt, calloused hands gripping an oversize coffee cup. He held the door for me on the way out. Then he spoke.

The usual “good morning” greeting exchange was followed by another comment, “You look lost.” He spoke just as I was opening my car door—parked right next to his.

I blinked. I was certain I’d misunderstood. Did he say I looked lost? I must have looked baffled when I replied, “ummm… no, I’m not lost, thank you.”

Because he laughed.

And said, “No, I said, ‘You look awesome.’” He was smiling, opening his own car door.

Oh.

Uh.

Yeah.

Remember, I’m no goddess. I tend to see myself as a reasonably attractive, somewhat overweight, late thirties woman who (admittedly) doesn’t really look my age—and I think that’s a fairly realistic assessment.

He was a reasonably attractive, average built man in probably his early forties.

“What’s your name?”

I finally realized he was flirting.

I smiled and I lied. Just a bit.

“R…. And thanks, but, I’m married.”

There was the lie. I’m not. But he didn’t know that. And though I have no ring on my finger or paper to say it, The BF and I may as well be married.

His smile didn’t fade a bit, “Oh. Well, you look fabulous! Your husband’s a lucky man. Have a great day!”

And with that, he got into his car.

Now, maybe women who are gorgeous and receive compliments all the time are used to this sort of thing. Maybe it doesn’t faze them a bit. But me, I have a three-fold reaction.

There’s the first part that gets a little ego boost from it all. Wow. Some total stranger just said I looked great. Cool. That part only comes when the compliment is pleasant (as this one was). Creepy ones don’t do it.

Then there’s the next part that thinks, “Why am I letting some man’s opinion shape me? Knock it off. How sexist. How…” Yeah. That little voice that can take a reasonable level of feminism to new and ridiculous heights. I acknowledge the validity of some parts of it and tell the rest to shut the hell up and butt out.

And finally, there’s that deep dark corner of the brain that has to speak its piece and be heard. It’s an evil part, rotten and nasty, festering with old wounds and hurts never healed.

“Why would some guy want you?” It hisses. “You’re nothing special. You’re no supermodel.”

Thoughts like that are like oil, they just get everywhere, spreading and laying on top of everything else.

“All he wanted was a quick one…” That nasty voice never stops. “You’re fat. You’re ugly. The only thing you have going for you is sex. And that’s all he wanted…”

Left unchecked, that nasty little voice can ruin every bit of ego boost, can turn a pleasant compliment into something evil and add bitterness to mix as well.

I stomp it like the snake it is, stand up a little straighter, smile a little wider and instead choose to listen to the positive side.

But why is that the bad stuff is so much easier to believe?

The art of the sell out…

Let’s face facts, not everyone can make a living out of their “dreams” - most have to settle for something a little less stellar.

Not everyone can be a successful writer, singer, actor, artist, whatever. Even if you have the talent, the breaks don’t always exist, opportunity doesn’t always knock, and sometimes, even when it does knock, you don’t answer - maybe you’re afraid of taking the leap, maybe the sacrifices would be too great, maybe a lot of things.

Some are idealistic (and they’re usually either very young, very inexperienced, or have no interest in anything other than “concrete” sciences and occupations). To these idealistic souls, it’s a cut and dry thing: If you have talent, then you can get the jobs and fulfill your dream. Fail to do so and it means you don’t have talent.

Well, bullpucky.

I’ve known plenty of incredibly talented individuals who were not “living their dreams” and the reasons had nothing to do with lack of talent.

Similarly, the cries of “selling out” are bandied anytime some reasonably talented person opts to leverage their talent into a more lucrative, but perhaps less artistically pure, occupation.

Again, bullpucky.

Folks gotta eat. The rent’s gotta get paid.

So the incredible musician who opts to do nameless, uncredited studio work is accused of selling out, just as are his brethren who choose to make a commercial recording, appealing to the many instead of the few.

The writer who pays the bills by writing ad copy is pimping herself; so is the author who elects to write a trashy best-seller rather than a more serious piece.

So, let me get this straight - According to these folks, unless you are suffering for your talent, using your talent in a non-commercial way, or at least, if you are using it commercially, you’re apologetic about it and make sure it’s social conscious, morally responsible, and critically acclaimed, but not widely received otherwise, you’re “selling out.” And these same folks will say that unless you are able to achieve that success, you haven’t the talent to begin with.

Wait a minute. That seems awfully contradictory now, doesn’t it?

Of course it does!

And such is the nature of  art.

Many genuine artists in their craft simply can’t afford to take the risk- they can’t give up the regular paycheck in order to devote more time to their craft, and rely on the sometimes (often) irregular pay of freelance work.

Most workers know from whence and when their next paycheck comes. They usually even have a good idea of how much it will be. No such luxury exists for the freelancer in any genre. Who knows when the next gig, assignment, etc will come? Unless you’re talented, lucky and ambitious enough to be earning royalties on some work (oh wait, royalties would mean a commercial work, that’s selling out remember?) you just don’t know how much is coming in and when.

Of course, the artistic type could always simply give up, since they haven’t gotten the breaks, they obviously haven’t the “right stuff” and should “not give up their day jobs.” Or they could do what many do - they take a commercially lucrative job in a related field and pursue their passion as a “hobby.”

Selling out? I don’t think so! It’s called “surviving.”

The post that wouldn’t die!

That loverly post where I carped about a book report has garnered yet another teacher’s input…

But this time, it’s not really bad. Though this teacher disagreed with much of what I said, she did so in a kind and intelligent manner, expressing her thoughts and feelings with grace, eloquence and passion.

For that, I applaud her!

And, her thoughts caused me to think things through some more. To make a long story short, I still think this particular assignment was idiotic–it’s mostly because of the way it was assigned and the lack of clear, understandable directions–however, I’m not inclined to think it’s a terrible idea in general.

Honestly, it’s teachers like this lady who make the difference.

And I’m thrilled she stopped by my little blog and took the time to comment.

Scroll down and look for Carolyn.