Hubs is walking towards the door, about to embark on his day.
“Don’t forget your lunch.” I call out to him as I hand him a wonderfully awful processed frozen entrée.
“Oh yeah, thanks babe.” He said, taking the box from me.
I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt. Does this boxed lunch show him how much I really love him? Will he know, when he eats this, that someone loves him and wants him to be happy? Or will he be empty and thirsty when he finishes, sodium-ridden and blue?
“Maybe you should have a ho-ho. You know, for the road.”
And the moment I said it I knew it wasn’t me speaking, but my father. My father who handed me a package of little Debbie Swiss cake rolls and tapped my head before I was allowed to leave to play. The man who taught me the joy of carbohydrates combined with sugar. The very man who passed this morale down to me: You feed those you love, and you feed them well. You keep them happy.
Hubs is diabetic, so I rarely encourage him to eat sugar. He is also a great judge of human interaction.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Yeah, ok, I’ll have a ho-ho, “for the road”…” He smiled at me as he left.
I wonder now if, when he turned his head to close the door, he saw my father staring back at him—a Greek man with useless eyes, wearing a cut off t-shirt, his feet dirty and undressed, waving goodbye… with love.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
It smells like breast milk in here
My office smells like breast milk. One of the advisors is pumping regularly, as she just recently produced offspring. On her way in today she talked about the feeling of dropping her child off at daycare, saying, "It feels so weird to pay someone for a job you want to be doing."
I can imagine it does.
It started me thinking about the new wave of women who have chosen to stay with their children over their career.
Another coworker discussed this today: "I would be a stay at home mom paying off students loans."
It seems that the career these women really want is far from corporate. I should clarify right now that these are women who made every attempt to build a strong career. They have masters degrees and strong resumes, they learned how to run with the "big dogs", how to dominate the corporate ladder one rung at a time. So, it baffles me that they yearn to walk away from all of that and focus solely on raising children.
More baffling is that these women completely understand their shared sentiment. they speak of "doing what really matters" and "doing what you have to to make ends meet so I can be with her/him."
It makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that I have no desire to do these things. Sure, I know that family is what really matters. and I cherish the time I get with my husband and our canine child. But in the end, I think that if you make the time with your child quality, then it can be the same as spending every waking moment with them. I mean...Right?
And I want to give my child things.. trips to other cities, the experience of new and unique foods and cultures, clothes, shelter.. and I am not sure we can provide all those things on one income. And I am not sure I could give my child my personal best if I was constantly worried about how to pay for the water heater or how late the electric bill is. Not to mention the idea that a strong marriage is (at least partially) dependent on financial stability, and fighting parents don't equal happy children.
Somehow though, these women seem more than willing to take a risk to make it work. And I completely believe that they can. I just don't know that I am of the same daring, morally centered breed.
I can imagine it does.
It started me thinking about the new wave of women who have chosen to stay with their children over their career.
Another coworker discussed this today: "I would be a stay at home mom paying off students loans."
It seems that the career these women really want is far from corporate. I should clarify right now that these are women who made every attempt to build a strong career. They have masters degrees and strong resumes, they learned how to run with the "big dogs", how to dominate the corporate ladder one rung at a time. So, it baffles me that they yearn to walk away from all of that and focus solely on raising children.
More baffling is that these women completely understand their shared sentiment. they speak of "doing what really matters" and "doing what you have to to make ends meet so I can be with her/him."
It makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that I have no desire to do these things. Sure, I know that family is what really matters. and I cherish the time I get with my husband and our canine child. But in the end, I think that if you make the time with your child quality, then it can be the same as spending every waking moment with them. I mean...Right?
And I want to give my child things.. trips to other cities, the experience of new and unique foods and cultures, clothes, shelter.. and I am not sure we can provide all those things on one income. And I am not sure I could give my child my personal best if I was constantly worried about how to pay for the water heater or how late the electric bill is. Not to mention the idea that a strong marriage is (at least partially) dependent on financial stability, and fighting parents don't equal happy children.
Somehow though, these women seem more than willing to take a risk to make it work. And I completely believe that they can. I just don't know that I am of the same daring, morally centered breed.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I's get to eat bad stuff
So, in about an hour and a half I get to go out to lunch. I am more than a little excited.
Recently, hubs and I have put ourselves on a very responsible (notice I did not say suffocating, insane, delirious or straining-- although I really wanted to) budget.
We no longer go out to eat, unless it is out of our allowance. Each of us get the same amount allowance, every two weeks, and we are free to do what we want with this money. That being said, our favorite thing to do with our money is hoard it, clutching it close to our chests and whispering "my precious...".
So we don't go out to eat. When we do use our allowances to go out to eat we feel guilty and upset. It so was not worth the money.
You may wonder why we are so strict with ourselves. It is not because we enjoy torment or we need to save to pay off debt. We really don't have debt. Instead, it is because we used to go out to eat excessively. I am talking 600, maybe even 700 dollars a month. On food. 700 dollars to sit at a table and receive poor service and cold food.
So we cut ourselves off. And now we get to go out to eat on someone else's dime. And it is going to be fabulous. Thank the heavens for parents...
om om om om.....
Recently, hubs and I have put ourselves on a very responsible (notice I did not say suffocating, insane, delirious or straining-- although I really wanted to) budget.
We no longer go out to eat, unless it is out of our allowance. Each of us get the same amount allowance, every two weeks, and we are free to do what we want with this money. That being said, our favorite thing to do with our money is hoard it, clutching it close to our chests and whispering "my precious...".
So we don't go out to eat. When we do use our allowances to go out to eat we feel guilty and upset. It so was not worth the money.
You may wonder why we are so strict with ourselves. It is not because we enjoy torment or we need to save to pay off debt. We really don't have debt. Instead, it is because we used to go out to eat excessively. I am talking 600, maybe even 700 dollars a month. On food. 700 dollars to sit at a table and receive poor service and cold food.
So we cut ourselves off. And now we get to go out to eat on someone else's dime. And it is going to be fabulous. Thank the heavens for parents...
om om om om.....
Friday, August 21, 2009
How Low Can You Go?
My husband is diabetic.
My husband has diabetes.
My husband is sick.
I think hubs and I both like to pretend like having diabetes is no big deal. We have, unfortunately, done everything humanly possible to act like it doesn’t really matter. And in doing so, we have only made it worse.
When Art was first diagnosed, we went along with the game. Art tested, took meds, fought the sickness that the meds brought on. And then one day I think he decided he could just outrun it. And I, at a tender age of 22, decided that was a great idea. Diabetes affects obese people and Wilfred Brimley—people who can’t outrun it, right?
And so there we were for two years, wallowing in our denial—happy and oblivious. And when Art had no energy or drive to do anything but work and eat and sometimes read, I stayed under the cover of my denial and didn’t lend a hand (something I was castrated for later, by numerous doctors).
Last year, Art started suffering the true effects of unchecked diabetes. He slept constantly; he looked sick, he felt awful. One day he came home and checked his sugar to find it had reached 600. He couldn’t get off the couch. The true effect of our denial sank in then, and I cursed myself for not noticing sooner. My hubs is no sloth—but as a slave to an untreated disease, that is what he had become.
We went to the doctor. And then to another. They checked his feet, his kidneys, his eyes. The damage we had done was not irreversible. He was going to keep all those things—as long as we never tapped the drug of denial again. As long as we signed up for the fight—for a battle that would never end as long as he lived.
Hubs has been amazing about watching his sugar. He takes his meds even though he hates them. Medication is against what he fundamentally stands for but I guess, then again, so is death. He finds it within himself to put a shot in his stomach three times a day, and take six medications.
And with this medication comes another scare. Before, our only worry was that his sugar would go too high, that he would sleep a Saturday away or feel sick. Now, we have to worry about it dropping. I was in a movie Sunday when it dropped below 70—to a whopping 55. I didn’t receive his call, but I did get the heartbreaking voicemail an hour or so later, as I stood in the lobby of the theater. He couldn’t find his glucose-- no doubt too disoriented and panicked to think straight. And I wasn’t there. And I didn’t check my phone.
Last night we went to the book store—our favorite outing. We were sitting on a bench in front of the magazines when his sugar dropped.
“We have to go.” He told me.
He booked it for the door, and I noticed he was walking in a sort of subtle zig-zag fashion. His balance was off. I had things to pay for so I ran to the shorter line at the café and hastily ordered a coffee because I couldn’t pay for my things there if I wasn’t a starbucks customer. When I made it back to the car, he was in the passenger seat which gave me a scare; he almost always drives and finding the driver seat empty was heart stopping. He had taken his glucose and was doing better. He drank my entire force purchased coffee in three sips—he hates coffee—and then apologized for the event. I was just glad I was there.
My husband has diabetes. He is sick. and I signed up for the fight to keep him well.
My husband has diabetes.
My husband is sick.
I think hubs and I both like to pretend like having diabetes is no big deal. We have, unfortunately, done everything humanly possible to act like it doesn’t really matter. And in doing so, we have only made it worse.
When Art was first diagnosed, we went along with the game. Art tested, took meds, fought the sickness that the meds brought on. And then one day I think he decided he could just outrun it. And I, at a tender age of 22, decided that was a great idea. Diabetes affects obese people and Wilfred Brimley—people who can’t outrun it, right?
And so there we were for two years, wallowing in our denial—happy and oblivious. And when Art had no energy or drive to do anything but work and eat and sometimes read, I stayed under the cover of my denial and didn’t lend a hand (something I was castrated for later, by numerous doctors).
Last year, Art started suffering the true effects of unchecked diabetes. He slept constantly; he looked sick, he felt awful. One day he came home and checked his sugar to find it had reached 600. He couldn’t get off the couch. The true effect of our denial sank in then, and I cursed myself for not noticing sooner. My hubs is no sloth—but as a slave to an untreated disease, that is what he had become.
We went to the doctor. And then to another. They checked his feet, his kidneys, his eyes. The damage we had done was not irreversible. He was going to keep all those things—as long as we never tapped the drug of denial again. As long as we signed up for the fight—for a battle that would never end as long as he lived.
Hubs has been amazing about watching his sugar. He takes his meds even though he hates them. Medication is against what he fundamentally stands for but I guess, then again, so is death. He finds it within himself to put a shot in his stomach three times a day, and take six medications.
And with this medication comes another scare. Before, our only worry was that his sugar would go too high, that he would sleep a Saturday away or feel sick. Now, we have to worry about it dropping. I was in a movie Sunday when it dropped below 70—to a whopping 55. I didn’t receive his call, but I did get the heartbreaking voicemail an hour or so later, as I stood in the lobby of the theater. He couldn’t find his glucose-- no doubt too disoriented and panicked to think straight. And I wasn’t there. And I didn’t check my phone.
Last night we went to the book store—our favorite outing. We were sitting on a bench in front of the magazines when his sugar dropped.
“We have to go.” He told me.
He booked it for the door, and I noticed he was walking in a sort of subtle zig-zag fashion. His balance was off. I had things to pay for so I ran to the shorter line at the café and hastily ordered a coffee because I couldn’t pay for my things there if I wasn’t a starbucks customer. When I made it back to the car, he was in the passenger seat which gave me a scare; he almost always drives and finding the driver seat empty was heart stopping. He had taken his glucose and was doing better. He drank my entire force purchased coffee in three sips—he hates coffee—and then apologized for the event. I was just glad I was there.
My husband has diabetes. He is sick. and I signed up for the fight to keep him well.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The wild and crazy adventures of Mom and Me: Getting a Secret Clearance
Growing up in Dayton, Ohio has given me the unique experience of living next to a base for twenty five years. In this time, I have become accustomed to buzz cuts, military police and republicans. As a child, we lived in a less affluent neighborhood next to base housing. I remember a classmate crying hysterically as his father had left that day to fight in the Gulf war. Later, we lived in one of the more affluent areas of Dayton and I remember a classmate crying hysterically, as her mother worked at the Pentagon at the time of the 9/11 attacks. Needless to say, living next to a base affects an entire community, at every demographic level; because when you live in a military area, there are constant reminders of the government and war. You can’t turn around without seeing camouflage.
And then there is the second part to this scenario. Working as a civilllian for the air force base has entirely more to do with who you know (or do, for that matter) than it does your skill set. And for this reason, base families breed more base workers and highly qualified people in the technology field simply… well, work somewhere else or leave the area. The result is astonishing.
And this brings me to Mom and Me’s Most Fabulous Adventure: Getting a Top Secret Clearance. My mom has no interest in changing professions and really, I don’t either. However, anyone that has lived in Dayton longer than, maybe a millosecond or two, knows that a top secret clearance can take you from joe-schmoe McDonalds worker to tie-adorned professional. So, when we received an email from a local, non-profit company that offers classes in conjunction with local colleges through which you can receive said top secret clearance, we trotted on over and took a little peek. And what a peek it was.
The operation was run professionally and was quite impressive but I am not here to promote it. I am here to tell you about the man next to me who asked inappropriate questions and the woman next to my mom who wore booty shorts to the event.
We walked into the twenty person attended event and took our seats, booty short woman who did not bring a pen or paper tour to our right and Mr. Desperation to our left. The session began. The CEO of this thing is huge, tough, and has the rhetoric of a God. I watched him and tried not to drool from sheer awe at his word choice, his tone, his choice of inflection at the end of statements. And then he mentioned the process of getting top secret clearance. And the questions began.
The man next to me shot his hand up as if it was a race.
“so, um, you mean if we have financial trouble we can’t get clearance? What if, like, it wasn’t your fault and your ex-wife had a shopping addiction?”
Uncomfortable silence followed this, of course, but superhero that he was, Rhetoric Man retorted with grace and respectful chiding.
And then the presenter continued. The man raised his hand again.
“What if like, all your neighbors are new and don’t really like you and the investigators question them?”
Mom and looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The smell of booty- short -woman’s old gum wafted towards us and I noticed how nice my mom’s mascara looked.
Another man raised his hand, toward the front of the room. He was wearing dress shoes with work out socks. “What if you have some suspicious activity from the past, but it was ten years ago?” oh boy.
I pictured a person attending a medical seminar and standing up, lifting his shirt and asking, “What do you think about this? Does this look cancerous?”
I stifled a laugh.
The event concluded, and I stood with my mom as she waited to network with rhetoric God. A man wearing pants from the early nineties milled his way over to us.
“uh… hi….Did you work--like teach-- at Wright State? Math or something?” He asked my mom while diverting his eyes to the floor, the table, the clock and occasionally, at her.
Smooth as she is, she told him that she did and asked him about his life. I watched inquisitively. I used to attend class with her and help hand out papers. I was six. How did he recognize her from 19 years ago? The woman next to me, perm free and without red lipstick did not resemble the math TA he would have known. Stalker, I thought and squinted my eyes. Luckily, he was watching the floor and shifting nervously and did not notice.
I left then, taking mom’s phone to make dinner plans out in the privacy of the lobby which faced the front doors. I should mention that all around this building are notices: You can be searched without warrant. You are under surveillance. Big Brother is watching.
As I ended my phone conversation, I saw a man manically trying to open the door to the building. The doors were locked and it was raining. He had a wind breaker on and one of those cop/ horse rider hats. I watched him awkwardly search his person for his phone and punch in numbers. Frustrated, he pushed his phone back in his pocket and pressed his face to the tinted glass, using his hands to shade his eyes as if he were using binoculars. And then, he pointed at me. And then at the door handle. When I didn’t move, he lifted his windbreaker which had a security/cop/authoritarian logo on it and he shook it at me. I wondered if this was a test, to see if I was meant to be a part of our country’s intelligence. As I watched the man flop about outside the door, I decided to let him in, knowing that the numerous cameras would document my innocence and kindness. By letting him in, I subsequently locked myself out but was able to view the show in full detail as he tried to open a locked closet that he thought was a stairwell and started listing off names, asking me if I knew the people. He looked hurried.
Finally, he left. Mom appeared and looked at me through the glass as if to ask, “What the hell have you been doing?” I just shook my head.
We decided over dinner that we were meant to have security clearance and we will begin taking classes—but I will save that little gem for another day….
And then there is the second part to this scenario. Working as a civilllian for the air force base has entirely more to do with who you know (or do, for that matter) than it does your skill set. And for this reason, base families breed more base workers and highly qualified people in the technology field simply… well, work somewhere else or leave the area. The result is astonishing.
And this brings me to Mom and Me’s Most Fabulous Adventure: Getting a Top Secret Clearance. My mom has no interest in changing professions and really, I don’t either. However, anyone that has lived in Dayton longer than, maybe a millosecond or two, knows that a top secret clearance can take you from joe-schmoe McDonalds worker to tie-adorned professional. So, when we received an email from a local, non-profit company that offers classes in conjunction with local colleges through which you can receive said top secret clearance, we trotted on over and took a little peek. And what a peek it was.
The operation was run professionally and was quite impressive but I am not here to promote it. I am here to tell you about the man next to me who asked inappropriate questions and the woman next to my mom who wore booty shorts to the event.
We walked into the twenty person attended event and took our seats, booty short woman who did not bring a pen or paper tour to our right and Mr. Desperation to our left. The session began. The CEO of this thing is huge, tough, and has the rhetoric of a God. I watched him and tried not to drool from sheer awe at his word choice, his tone, his choice of inflection at the end of statements. And then he mentioned the process of getting top secret clearance. And the questions began.
The man next to me shot his hand up as if it was a race.
“so, um, you mean if we have financial trouble we can’t get clearance? What if, like, it wasn’t your fault and your ex-wife had a shopping addiction?”
Uncomfortable silence followed this, of course, but superhero that he was, Rhetoric Man retorted with grace and respectful chiding.
And then the presenter continued. The man raised his hand again.
“What if like, all your neighbors are new and don’t really like you and the investigators question them?”
Mom and looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The smell of booty- short -woman’s old gum wafted towards us and I noticed how nice my mom’s mascara looked.
Another man raised his hand, toward the front of the room. He was wearing dress shoes with work out socks. “What if you have some suspicious activity from the past, but it was ten years ago?” oh boy.
I pictured a person attending a medical seminar and standing up, lifting his shirt and asking, “What do you think about this? Does this look cancerous?”
I stifled a laugh.
The event concluded, and I stood with my mom as she waited to network with rhetoric God. A man wearing pants from the early nineties milled his way over to us.
“uh… hi….Did you work--like teach-- at Wright State? Math or something?” He asked my mom while diverting his eyes to the floor, the table, the clock and occasionally, at her.
Smooth as she is, she told him that she did and asked him about his life. I watched inquisitively. I used to attend class with her and help hand out papers. I was six. How did he recognize her from 19 years ago? The woman next to me, perm free and without red lipstick did not resemble the math TA he would have known. Stalker, I thought and squinted my eyes. Luckily, he was watching the floor and shifting nervously and did not notice.
I left then, taking mom’s phone to make dinner plans out in the privacy of the lobby which faced the front doors. I should mention that all around this building are notices: You can be searched without warrant. You are under surveillance. Big Brother is watching.
As I ended my phone conversation, I saw a man manically trying to open the door to the building. The doors were locked and it was raining. He had a wind breaker on and one of those cop/ horse rider hats. I watched him awkwardly search his person for his phone and punch in numbers. Frustrated, he pushed his phone back in his pocket and pressed his face to the tinted glass, using his hands to shade his eyes as if he were using binoculars. And then, he pointed at me. And then at the door handle. When I didn’t move, he lifted his windbreaker which had a security/cop/authoritarian logo on it and he shook it at me. I wondered if this was a test, to see if I was meant to be a part of our country’s intelligence. As I watched the man flop about outside the door, I decided to let him in, knowing that the numerous cameras would document my innocence and kindness. By letting him in, I subsequently locked myself out but was able to view the show in full detail as he tried to open a locked closet that he thought was a stairwell and started listing off names, asking me if I knew the people. He looked hurried.
Finally, he left. Mom appeared and looked at me through the glass as if to ask, “What the hell have you been doing?” I just shook my head.
We decided over dinner that we were meant to have security clearance and we will begin taking classes—but I will save that little gem for another day….
Monday, August 17, 2009
Life
So, I was pretty sure my life would go like this:
1. Go to and complete college
2. Save the world
3. Make lots of money
4. Buy a house
5. Have some babies
6. Travel the world
7. Die (preferably before Art because I can’t bear thinking about life without him)
Here is how my life has gone (so far):
1. Start college
2. Fail out
3. Mosey around Ohio
4. Go back to College
5. Get married
6. Complete College
7. Change career direction
8. Change Masters degree direction
9. Get a job I am far too qualified for but I actually kinda love
I no longer believe I will save the world, although I am quite sure I can change it-- at least for a few people-- and this brings me joy. I am not going to make boats of money. The minute I chose English over an MBA I decided that. I don’t want to buy a house right now, or make babies, and I would rather travel the country than the world. So who the hell am I and where do I go? The path is so long and winding that I can’t see the end. Do I stay with the state? Do I change offices? Do I teach English or try to get into editing or do I stay in higher ed and be an advisor? Do we have kids? Do we stay in Dayton? Do we quit our jobs and bounce from nudist colony to nudist colony, the hottest 500 couple anyone has seen?
And I guess the answer is who the hell knows. And I guess, because I have no other choice, I’ll take it.
1. Go to and complete college
2. Save the world
3. Make lots of money
4. Buy a house
5. Have some babies
6. Travel the world
7. Die (preferably before Art because I can’t bear thinking about life without him)
Here is how my life has gone (so far):
1. Start college
2. Fail out
3. Mosey around Ohio
4. Go back to College
5. Get married
6. Complete College
7. Change career direction
8. Change Masters degree direction
9. Get a job I am far too qualified for but I actually kinda love
I no longer believe I will save the world, although I am quite sure I can change it-- at least for a few people-- and this brings me joy. I am not going to make boats of money. The minute I chose English over an MBA I decided that. I don’t want to buy a house right now, or make babies, and I would rather travel the country than the world. So who the hell am I and where do I go? The path is so long and winding that I can’t see the end. Do I stay with the state? Do I change offices? Do I teach English or try to get into editing or do I stay in higher ed and be an advisor? Do we have kids? Do we stay in Dayton? Do we quit our jobs and bounce from nudist colony to nudist colony, the hottest 500 couple anyone has seen?
And I guess the answer is who the hell knows. And I guess, because I have no other choice, I’ll take it.
Prawns and Prejudice
Art and I went to see District 9 this past Friday. We went with a whole slew of sci fi nerds—two of which are our close friends and the others are friends of said friends who happen to have power over the vocational world hubs has interest in. Going to a really amazing movie with people sci fi experts is a gift of an experience, one that I hope to receive many more times.
The only difference between sci fi geeks and literary buffs is medium. And really, the difference between the media of choice is slim: movies and video games are most certainly forms of art the same way literature is. So, there are more commonalities than differences. And so, I was geeked to stand outside the theater after the credits and talk about the story line, the plot, the characters and the theme.
Hubs has a former business partner who also attended this event. The man just recently decided that speaking directly to me and blessing me with eye contact was a worthy pursuit, so sitting next to him over burritos was actually rather painless. Hubs and I are at a loss as to what catalyzed the change of heart, but, notorious for my unabashed enthusiasm for other humans, I take what I can get.
Before the movie this frenemy hybrid mentioned that he hoped the movie was not too political, that he was not in the mood for a movie laden with political statement and thought provoking sentiment.
Normally, I would accept this comment with compassion. There are days when I just can’t stomach Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Schindler’s List. Genocide and injustice happens of course, and I pride myself on being aware of it but some days, I just want to sit on the couch, almost drooling, watching reality television.
The issue with this particular statement is that this slouching, sometimes wicked man calls himself a Christian. And a strong one at that. He stands at the right hand of God, with his family, waiting for the end of time when he can jump on Christ’s tailcoat and run out of town. And if this is what he stands for, well, I thank him for standing for something. I only wonder how a child of God can overlook the suffering of millions of his brethren while he sits high on a hill, blessed as he is to be born into a free country. He doesn’t want to be exposed to the subtle undertow of emotion this movie so sharply weaves into action and humor? We should all be so lucky. But we aren’t. and who is he to walk ahead, eyes shut tight, following the guiding light of ignorance?
After the movie I was so excited to talk about the political undertow. “Don’t look too much into it” he warned from the shadow of my husband’s strong, squared shoulder. And maybe he is right. The prawns in this movie may not have been an example of what has happened to millions of refugees and displaced persons, forced to live in slums and watch their children killed or worse, victims of addiction, violence and hunger. Of course, this movie may have been made simply to entertain or even, it may be propaganda for treating anyone different from us as scum, as sub-human. I doubt it though.
I am not saying that I don’t respect his political affiliation. I don’t care if you love guns, if Sarah Palin is your savior, if you want abortion to be illegalized. Hell, I am glad you have a thought in your head. But if you are going to turn a blind eye to the state of any of “God’s children”, then you are not worthy of my time.
Maybe at Christmas I will remind him, over dinner, not to “look too much into” Christ on the cross.
The only difference between sci fi geeks and literary buffs is medium. And really, the difference between the media of choice is slim: movies and video games are most certainly forms of art the same way literature is. So, there are more commonalities than differences. And so, I was geeked to stand outside the theater after the credits and talk about the story line, the plot, the characters and the theme.
Hubs has a former business partner who also attended this event. The man just recently decided that speaking directly to me and blessing me with eye contact was a worthy pursuit, so sitting next to him over burritos was actually rather painless. Hubs and I are at a loss as to what catalyzed the change of heart, but, notorious for my unabashed enthusiasm for other humans, I take what I can get.
Before the movie this frenemy hybrid mentioned that he hoped the movie was not too political, that he was not in the mood for a movie laden with political statement and thought provoking sentiment.
Normally, I would accept this comment with compassion. There are days when I just can’t stomach Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Schindler’s List. Genocide and injustice happens of course, and I pride myself on being aware of it but some days, I just want to sit on the couch, almost drooling, watching reality television.
The issue with this particular statement is that this slouching, sometimes wicked man calls himself a Christian. And a strong one at that. He stands at the right hand of God, with his family, waiting for the end of time when he can jump on Christ’s tailcoat and run out of town. And if this is what he stands for, well, I thank him for standing for something. I only wonder how a child of God can overlook the suffering of millions of his brethren while he sits high on a hill, blessed as he is to be born into a free country. He doesn’t want to be exposed to the subtle undertow of emotion this movie so sharply weaves into action and humor? We should all be so lucky. But we aren’t. and who is he to walk ahead, eyes shut tight, following the guiding light of ignorance?
After the movie I was so excited to talk about the political undertow. “Don’t look too much into it” he warned from the shadow of my husband’s strong, squared shoulder. And maybe he is right. The prawns in this movie may not have been an example of what has happened to millions of refugees and displaced persons, forced to live in slums and watch their children killed or worse, victims of addiction, violence and hunger. Of course, this movie may have been made simply to entertain or even, it may be propaganda for treating anyone different from us as scum, as sub-human. I doubt it though.
I am not saying that I don’t respect his political affiliation. I don’t care if you love guns, if Sarah Palin is your savior, if you want abortion to be illegalized. Hell, I am glad you have a thought in your head. But if you are going to turn a blind eye to the state of any of “God’s children”, then you are not worthy of my time.
Maybe at Christmas I will remind him, over dinner, not to “look too much into” Christ on the cross.
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