Home Sweet Town Houzistan

I am having a difficulty finding somewhere to write in my new digs. Certainly, it stands to reason that since I am as shiny as a new penny here, it will take me a while to find my spot. But there are other issues getting in the way, as well. Since our moving team decided what we needed at our temporary housing instead of sticking to my list, there have been unforeseen challenges to me working at home. For instance, a writer needs good lighting. I had listed the necessary lamps t be delivered to our temporary digs, but the movers decided to give me only one lamp, but supplemented me with a fondue pot and several Bundt pans. Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to take the gifting of the fondue pot for granted, but a little lighting beyond what could be mistaken for prison cell chic, would be nice. The next thing a writer needs is flat surfaces to write on, say like a desk, or a bench, or table for instance. I will admit to you we do have a few of these of things, but since we were gifted with several dozen boxes that were supposed to go to storage, which will now and forever more be referred to as The Big House, they are covered in layers and layers of stuff. Stuff, I might add, that was supposed to be trekked to The Big House. I am currently writing on a several stacked pillows, while leaning over all the electronics and cords. My comfort’s current consideration is the least of this. I am a bit of a control freak about the environment I write in. I have spoken to many writers and they face the same quandaries I do about the space where they write. For me I need peace, quiet, and clean. I have none of these here in Town Houzistan. My uber-cluttered environment has me feeling clogged and my back can only take so much before I steal away part of my makeshift desk to lie down on the floor, the only un-cluttered surface we have. There are also weird happenings here in Town Houzistan. Last week we had the emergency squad and police here to rescue either a boy or a man, I couldn’t tell, from the communal pool. It turned out to be an unfortunate near drowning incident. The weird part of that is no one seemed to know where he lived or who he was related to. Next we had neighbors who threw one helluva party on a Thursday night with so many people; they spilled onto the patio and the parking lot that was twenty yards away. Last night the fire department showed up to extinguish a grease fire in someone’s oven. The day before a police SUV sat in our parking lot for over an hour, and that is only what I saw. When I asked a neighbor if this place was always so busy, he responded, “No, this is unusual for here. It all just started a few weeks ago.” He asked how long I had lived here and I responded with a vague shrug, not wanting him to know we moved in a few weeks ago. I find myself not sure what to do. I want to be busy writing, creating, and furthering my process, but I feel weird and watch the internet and TV instead. In truth I really don’t feel guilty about my bad behavior, just odd. It takes time to figure who you are when you move to a new town. Just finding the Post Office can set me back a few hours. Having the internet to rely on has been a God send. Remind me to send Al Gore a big “Thank You” note. If not for the internet, settling into my new town would take infinitely longer, trust me; I’ve done the leg work on this one. I thought about writing in a café or a book store, Barnes and Noble has free WiFi, but yelling at the patrons to “Pipe down!” because I can’t concentrate and can’t afford to lose my train of thought might be problematic. I currently have a small space outside with a bistro table and chairs, covered in fresh rain drops. It’s under a large oak tree, in a quiet corner, isolated from the growing amount of police traffic. It’s a perfect place to write if it weren’t raining, or swarmed in mosquitoes. I have excuses for not writing and they are damn good ones. While I am not usually fluent in procrastination, this time, I am allowing it. Nay, I am practicing it. I know soon enough I will bore of my boredom and get back to work. In a short time I will be chomping at the bit to finish what I started, hushing those who dare speak to me whilst I am writing. That time is coming. But today, and tomorrow, probably, and maybe the next day, I am a bum. As my dialogue sits idly waiting for my return, my twitter account and facebook and other media escapes have been tended to as diligently as if they were a garden of rare roses. I have to go now. “When Harry Met Sally” is on and I have four new followers and pm on facebook, and I still haven’t checked my LinkedIn.

Dirty Little Assumptions

Stereotypes are set up as an easy way to judge someone without taking the time to actually know them. For example, there was a woman in second hand, dirty clothes, shopping in a discount store with 4 little kids running around her cart. The small boys were dirty, the little girls were wearing mismatched outfits and the cart was filled with snack crackers and juice boxes. An older woman disgusted by the sight and sound of them walked up and said, "Why on God's green earth would you have all these kids if you could not afford to feed them properly? You should be ashamed of yourself!" The woman was me, their father was deceased, the boys just got done with soccer practice, the girls dressed themselves, I was in my cleaning clothes, and the snacks were because it was my turn to buy for the team that week. She judged us by what she thought we were, not by any actual information. She was wrong. Be careful what you assume. It is almost always contrary to the facts. Another example of assuming and making judgments is years ago when my children were small they attended a private catholic school. It was parent night and there was a woman dressed to the nines in a black lace dress, with opaque black stockings and stiletto heels. She wore a long black fur coat and her hair was swept up and her makeup was done. She was single, and aloof. None of the other mothers would talk to her; she stood quietly to the side, never making eye contact. I overheard a mom call her a name. I don’t want to repeat the name, but let’s just say it referred to her being a prostitute. I noticed how the other women circled around their husbands and turned their backs purposely to the woman in black. Another woman behind me whispered to her husband how inappropriately dressed the woman in black was. While nothing was said directly to the woman, the message was loud and clear. This woman, who had clearly over dressed for the occasion was not welcome. There was an air that this woman had either purposefully or inadvertently offended the other moms. I asked a teacher I knew well if she could feel it. She answered that she could, but she felt the others were embarrassing themselves. While no one had asked the woman in black about herself, they only assumed things about her. Here again, the woman in black was me. I had a dinner date with a very handsome, successful man that evening at a nice restaurant downtown. It had been the first date I had in months, but it landed on a parent night. I had considered not going to the school because I knew I didn’t have time to change clothes, and the idea of showing up in heels was terrifying to me, because I had already faced that particular character assassination squad. My children asked me to go because they had art work to show, teachers to meet, things of pride to be displayed. So much to my chagrin, I dressed for my big date, and went first to the school. I had called my date to tell him I had to participate in this school obligation, and he offered to go with me. He had sons of his own, and understood why I had to show up for my kids. I declined because we hadn’t been dating too long and I didn’t want anyone assuming anything about the relationship. My dress was black lace, but it was not low cut, the hem was knee length and the sleeves were long. My now infamous dress was elegant. Ask my parents about it; I wore it one year to a New Year’s party with them. I was dressed like a grown woman going to a nice restaurant, but what if my hem was high, or my cleavage did show? Would it have seemed more appropriate for people to judge me? I got shamed for being the parental harlot, when in fact, all I was doing was going on a date as the Widow Foley. That’s the thing about facts, they tell the story for you, so there is very little to judge. OK, one more and this time I will tell you outright the woman was me. In 1992 I suffered a full arrest, leaving me with what the medical community referred to as a “cognitive deficit”. Here is what I mean: I could not read, write, drive or remember what my address was. I had trouble following conversations, and doing some pretty basic tasks. I remained with my “cognitive deficit” for awhile, months, actually. I had to re-learn things I had originally learned in Kindergarten. I was in such dire straits at times; I did not even know to be embarrassed by my condition. What I did know was that I had to explain my condition frequently to people so they would slow things down for me, so that I could fully understand. Well, that was until a nurse who had been administering immunizations to my children said this, “Oh dear God! How awful for your husband! He didn’t get his wife back? This must have devastated him!” I stood staring at this nurse as if she had just slapped me, my face growing a deep and painful red. Her first response was to tell me how bad my husband had it, seriously? My children, very young and impressionable at the time, listened to her say that to me and took it all in. Once we were in the car all their questions came flying at me like a spider monkey. “Yes, I am not the same anymore. I don’t know if I will ever be who I was. No, that wasn’t very nice of her to say. Yes, daddy is unhappy this happened. No, he did not say he doesn’t love me anymore. Yes, it’s true I don’t know what I used to. No, it doesn’t mean I am ‘retarded’”. My kids are smart. They saw and heard the judgment come flying out of the nurses’ mouth, and wanted to know what it all meant. While I could not justify to them why this person had decided to exclaim her opinion, what it did do was open a dialogue with my kids about what had happened at the hospital while I was there. In language they could understand I explained to them how my heart stopped beating, my lungs stopped breathing, and my body stopped working for minutes until the doctor could bring me back to life. “So you were dead?” the older kids asked. “Yes, in a way, I was gone for a few minutes, but they were able to bring me back, so I could be here for you.” In the back seat I heard a collective, “Wow.” Suddenly I was a cool mom, who had been like Lazarus and risen from the dead. My children were the real ones who had to deal with my cognitive deficit. They were the ones who had to remind me of things, be patient as I learned how to read again, write again, and find my way home. It was my children who witnessed my frustration at having to become someone new, different from who I once was. I’m incredibly grateful it was them, the little non-judgmental ones who loved me so very much, it did not matter who I was, just that I was. I am not one of these people, but all of them. I am not a worm who can be cut into pieces, living separate from the other parts. All of these scenarios belong to me as one person. Like every person I have ever met, I am complex, diverse, and ever expanding. To assume that I am merely one of these characters is to assume there is no depth to me, no possibility in me. All these stories taught me and my children, that people are not always what they appear to be. These instances taught us to be kinder, more compassionate to others, and always remember that we want the same courtesy extended to us. Go ahead and judge my kids out of hand, I dare you. My son the skate boarder will knock your socks off with his poetry. My oldest whose intellect is so fierce it’s scary, will melt your heart when holding a baby. My oldest boy who appears to be techno crazed and surly will make you fall down laughing at his silliness. My youngest child, a tiny waif, will tackle you to the ground and pummel you if you deserve it. They are not what one might assume. They are multi-faceted gems. There are times in life when we must make judgment calls. But there are more times than not when judgment should be reserved for when all the facts are in. I concede, not everyone is nice. It is not safe to trust everyone you meet. What I am hoping for is that we are able to stop ourselves from making snap judgments about situations and people where all the facts are not in. Just filling in the blanks to suit our own agendas is not good enough anymore. We should be evolved enough to give a situation the proper amount of time in order to garner all the facts. Assuming and making judgments about individuals is a dangerous thing. If you can do to it others, then just remember, it can then be done to you, and I would certainly hate to hear that.