Daniel and the Fear Factory

I've been thinking about fear lately.  It's kind of scary.

For one, it's an election year, which means that the fear factory is working overtime delivering gallons and gallons of fresh fear to the nation's doorsteps each day.   Thanks to your elected representatives (or those aspiring to be), it turns out there is a LOT to be afraid of all around you.  Just because you didn't see all those glowing, beady eyes when you looked out into the night doesn't mean they weren't there.  With a little help, you'll see that gay people want to get married, the government wants to ensure that every American has access to health care, and menacing environmental types want you to stop guzzling gasoline like lemonade on a hot day just because some stupid ice cap somewhere is fixin' to melt.

Fuck the ice caps if they can't take a joke, am I right?

On top of that, it's been conclusively proven that your President is an Islamic, socialist from Kenya AND Van Halen recently canceled the last 30 dates of their tour.  Talk about the signs of the apocalypse.

And even if you somehow managed to run that gauntlet of fear and emerge on the other side, you might find yourself shopping at Costco one day and encounter this:

Something big must be about to go down if they're hawking giant buckets with 203 food servings and a 20-year shelf life.  Fire and water filtration are also included.  I hear it's the "ultimate 4-person, 72-hour kit!" In fact, I bet it's "[m]ore than just food storage . . . it's delicious peace of mind."  So, when those healthy, married, gay fuckers come and storm Shreveport on the icebergs they rode down from the North Pole (and up the Red River -- it could happen), you'll be able to wait them out until VH gets the tour back together and you can show everybody that guys with big hair and tight pants are what America's really all about.




(And I'm no dude, but I thought you were supposed to pick a side -- left or right.  Looks like Eddie's slicing that python right down the middle.)

*****

Since we have so many fears, it's helpful to index and categorize them.  Give them long names and Greek origins: phobias.  There's even a website called phobialist.com where you can find them all, though personally I like realfears.com better because it's searchable and they have a fun button labeled, "Get another random fear!"

We deem some fears rational and some irrational, though I maintain that fear of snakes is just being smart.

Here's a couple for you: fear of laughter is called geliophobia and fear of bad comedy routines is called Tosh.ophobia.  Which brings me, ever so deftly, up to the topic that I have been inching steadily towards since the beginning.  Yes.  I'm going to go there.  The Daniel Tosh rape "joke" melee.

If you don't know about the Daniel Tosh rape "joke" debacle, then that just means that you are a stable and intelligent human being who has better things to do than waste time watching the virtual bullets and daggers fly on Twitter.  Luckily for you, I, apparently, don't meet those criteria and I happen to like a good Twitter kerfuffle, so I'll catch you up on the plot before we proceed any further.

First, there's a comedian named Daniel Tosh.  He has a television show called Tosh.O.  That's not really all that important, except that most people who might decide to go to a comedy club would probably have heard of Mr. Tosh.  In this story, a real person and her friend did decide to go to a comedy club (The Laugh Factory in L.A.) and Mr. Tosh was on the bill, though they had no idea who he was or what to expect from him.  I'll let our comedy patron take-up the story from here in her own words from her blog:

So Tosh then starts making some very generalizing, declarative statements about rape jokes always being funny, how can a rape joke not be funny, rape is hilarious, etc. I don’t know why he was so repetitive about it but I felt provoked because I, for one, DON’T find them funny and never have. So I didnt appreciate Daniel Tosh (or anyone!) telling me I should find them funny. So I yelled out, “Actually, rape jokes are never funny!”

I did it because, even though being “disruptive” is against my nature, I felt that sitting there and saying nothing, or leaving quietly, would have been against my values as a person and as a woman. I don’t sit there while someone tells me how I should feel about something as profound and damaging as rape. 
 

After I called out to him, Tosh paused for a moment. Then, he says, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that girl got raped by like, 5 guys right now? Like right now? What if a bunch of guys just raped her…” and I, completely stunned and finding it hard to process what was happening but knowing i needed to get out of there, immediately nudged my friend, who was also completely stunned, and we high-tailed it out of there. It was humiliating, of course, especially as the audience guffawed in response to Tosh, their eyes following us as we made our way out of there. I didn’t hear the rest of what he said about me.

_____

And cue Twitter explosion.  Because after her Tumblr post went viral, it became controversial.  Huge names in comedy like Patton Oswalt and Louis C.K. came out in Mr. Tosh's defense.  Why?  Because a comedian's right to free speech is sacred and should never be challenged.   They must be allowed to make "jokes" about any subject.  Heckling, apparently, is a capital offense.  (I must have missed that in law school.)

The early quips and snarks then spawned deeper analysis of  "What is a rape joke anyway?"  and tutelage about "How to make a rape joke."  CNN even got into the game with a home page (for a few hours, anyway) opinion piece under the headline, "When rape jokes aren't funny."

Tosh eventually tweeted an apology as follows: "All the out of context misquotes aside, I'd like to sincerely apologize."  He then added, "The point i was making before I was heckled is there are awful things in the world but you can still make jokes about them. #deadbabies"

So the debate became about whether rape jokes are funny or whether rape is an appropriate topic for comedy. 

But here's the part that I don't get: why did everyone assume that what was said was best characterized as a "joke?"  If you ask me, the problem with the Tosh incident is that it wasn't a joke.  It was a threat.  Mr. Tosh wasn't joking about rape in an abstract or absurd way, he was on the edge of inciting an act against a specific woman present in the audience.  He "joked" that she should be raped.  Isn't that exactly like a thug with a gun "joking" that he's going to blow your head off?  Is the threat diminished because the threatener and his defenders label it a "joke"?  Don't we all recognize the archetypal bully who, when caught bullying, claims he was "only joking"?

joke:

1.  something said or done to provoke laughter or cause amusement, as a witticism, a short and amusing anecdote, or a prankish act: He tells very funny jokes.  She played a joke on him.

2.  something that is amusing or ridiculous, especially because of being ludicrously inadequate or a sham; a thing, situation, or person laughed at rather than taken seriously; farce: Their pretense of generosity is a joke.  An officer with no ability to command is a joke.

3.   a matter that need not be taken very seriously; trifling matter: The loss was no joke.

4.  something that does not present the expected challenge; something very easy: The test was a joke for the whole class.

threat:

1.  a declaration of an intention or determination to inflict punishment, injury, etc., in retaliation for, or conditionally upon, some action or course; menace: He confessed under the threat of imprisonment.

2.  an indication or warning of probable trouble: The threat of a storm was in the air.

3.  a person or thing that threatens.

I bet most women, even just reading the written account in the post (which, by the way, neither Tosh nor anyone else credibly contested), can imagine how that woman felt and why she left.  Because what she felt wasn't just the absence of humor or the offending of sensibilities.  It wasn't just a difference in politics or a lack of insight.  It wasn't even disappointment in the product her entertainment dollars had purchased.  What she felt was fear.  The man with a microphone on stage at the front of the room with everyone's attention and the power of celebrity stated that it would be "funny if that girl got raped, by like, 5 guys right now.  Like right now."

So, Tosh-defender-guys and apparently hugely ignorant stand-up comics, let's play a little game.  It's called Being Female.  There are lots of different ways to play this game, but the part of the game we're going to focus on here is called "not getting raped."  It goes like this.  Every time you park your car, you think about whether it is in a "safe" area.  Every time you walk alone to or from [anywhere] you think about whether you are in a visible area or whether you could get attacked.  When you travel for work or find yourself alone in your own home or go jogging on less traveled trails, you are vigilant against rapists.  You don't go to bars by yourself or walk home by yourself or basically ever have a day in your adult life when some thought of self-defense doesn't cross your mind.  You have likely taken self-defense classes and know how to hold your car keys between your fingers for maximum infliction of damage, how to slam the butt of you hand upwards into an attackers nose in order to break it and how to jam the heel of your shoes (even and especially high-heeled shoes) into the top of the arch of an attacker's foot in order to break that body part and escape.  Friends will forward you alerts about recent attacks in parking garages or other nearby areas and urban legends will persist about attackers hiding in the back seat of your car or in your closet or under your bed.  Home security companies will prey on your fear and indisputable vulnerability and run ads showing masked men breaking into your home in broad daylight.

And we're not done yet.  Guys will pull up in their cars next to you if you are driving alone and show you what they are hanging on to in their lap.

You will have friends who have been raped. 

You will have friends who have been groped and harassed.  And threatened.  Just this week, a female attorney whom I know very well received a call on her cell phone while at work at 10:00 a.m.   She answered it and encountered a strange male voice yelling and shouting at her to "stop calling" and repeatedly screaming that he would "rip her tits off" if she called him again.  To repeat, this happened just days ago, in a professional office building in downtown Minneapolis in the middle of regular business hours.   Perhaps the caller was "just joking," but fear is what she experienced.  Threatened was how she felt.  What should she do?  Get rid of her phone?  Call the police?  Was she safe leaving the office?  Did the man know her or was it a wrong number?  (The number registered as too many digits for a conventional phone number, so it seems it was deliberately cloaked and re-routed.)   Had she been specifically targeted somehow or was her number just randomly selected for this hilarious prank?  (And give some thought to the possibility that it was a wrong number and the threat was real, but some other woman was meant to receive it.)

And we're still not done yet.  Your boyfriend, brother, husband, father, and male co-workers and acquaintances will offer to walk you home or insist that you not leave the office, court house or restaurant by yourself.  Why?  Well, because, you're female and you could get attacked anywhere at anytime.  Indeed, the most fear-inducing piece of all is the oft-cited statistic that 1 in 5 women will be raped or sexually assaulted. 

When rape is everywhere, it's not at all clear that it won't find you at The Laugh Factory and follow you home.

To be sure, men incur threats of violence as well.  The risk of being mugged and robbed is not a phantom one, and yet, well, let's conduct a poll.  First, we'll clearly define our choices: 

(a) mugging/assault and battery: likely to involve getting punched and bloodied in the head and face, possibly involving a broken nose or teeth, as well as punching or kicking in the abdomen, including broken ribs; may also include getting kicked or kneed in the groin; numerous bruises and lacerations will result; may incur the pointing of a gun or knife at your body; finally, your wallet, watch and other valuables on your person will be forcibly removed and taken.

(b) rape:  likely to incur being beaten about the head and choked; likely to include forcible ripping or removal of clothing; will include violent sexual penetration (vaginal and/or anal) by a penis or other object that results in tearing and bleeding; numerous bruises and lacerations will result; may involve penetration by more than one assailant;  may involve ejaculate by more than one assailant in or on your person; afterwards, the victim may report the attack to police and be subjected to physical examination and the collection of forensic evidence (hair, bite marks, semen); will later need to be tested for exposure to STDs and pregnancy; may involve abortion or pregnancy and the carrying of a child to term.  Finally, you will feel shame and endure social stigma for the rest of your life.

O.k. You get to chose between (a) and (b).  You have to pick one or the other.  All those in favor of (a), raise your hands.  . . .  Keep them up.  . . .  40, 41, 42 . . .  O.k.  Thanks.

All those in favor of (b), raise your hands. . . . .  . . . 

Again, all those in favor of (b), raise your hands . . . . . .

Anyone?

Anyone?

Tosh?

And I have to think that if 1 in 5 men were getting mugged and beaten, well someone would have to do something about that, don't you think?  I mean, that's like, 20%!



*****

So, what do we do with Mr. Tosh.  Hang him by his testicles in the town square?  I don't think that's necessary.  And actually, I fault him less than those who, with time for thoughtful analysis and deliberation, threw their weight on the side of "comic's rights."  Because Mr. Tosh was in the heat of the moment.  He was surprised and perhaps flustered or irritated.  He lashed-out without time to think through (one hopes) the implications of what he was doing and saying.  He may have been rightfully irritated by a heckler, but a better response would have been to go into 10 minutes of actual rape jokes that are actually funny and thereby prove his point. (And such a thing is possible.  I offer this that I came up with all by myself:  "Every morning I find my boyfriend in the kitchen with his penis in the box of Wheaties.  I think he's a cereal rapist.")  Instead, he threatened and bullied and intimidated.  He invoked the subtext of fear and violence that, for women, is always just a heartbeat away.  He used his power -- both the inherent, societally conferred power of being male and the situationally conferred power of the comedian's microphone -- to make sure that woman was shut-up and put in her place. 

He made a mistake. 

And who among us hasn't done or said something ignorant or stupid or ill-considered in the moment that we later regretted?  (My hand is up on this one.)

But his defenders?  They had time to review the setting and the circumstances.  To reflect on what was said and how it was experienced.  And they missed it.  They missed the distinction between the subject of rape and the threat of rape.  "He's a comedian.  He was just joking," the analysis goes.  And once you've decided that this was just a "joke", well, then too bad for you, audience woman, if you can't take it.  It's your fault, not his.  Next time be more careful about where you go and what you do and who you talk to.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it. 

It's interesting to play that out.  So, let's assume that instead of leaving, our audience member and her friend stay and stick it out for the remainder of the show.  Maybe Tosh circles back around a few times to get another jab in and remind everyone that there is a particular woman still in the audience that would generate great laughter and entertainment value if she were to be gang-raped right then and there; because, after all, he's a comedian and rape is hilarious.  Finally, the show ends.  The woman and her friend retreat to a nearby bar and commiserate about what an asshole Tosh is and how scary that was and how hard it was to stay for the rest of the show.  What they don't know, is that some guys are in the bar who were also at the show.  They know who the woman is, but she, of course, has no idea who everyone else in attendance was. 

The next day the story breaks about how a woman was gang-raped in a car not far from The Laugh Factory.  Apparently, the story goes, she was at a show and there was some back and forth about rape jokes and the suggestion that gang-raping her would be funny.  Her friend was beaten, but not raped, while a bunch of drunk guys raped the woman just to see how hilarious it would be.

And what's the reaction to that story?  She should have left the show!  Why did she stay after that clear threat?  She must have been looking for trouble to stick around and wait to get raped!!  How stupid can you be!!!  

No one is going to claim that it was "just a joke" with the benefit of hindsight.  No one will think that the woman shouldn't have expected anything to happen to her and that it was perfectly reasonable for her to stay for the duration and then go to a bar afterwards.  No.  It will fall on her shoulders to have sorted through the risk and identified it properly.  She, after all, is the one who got herself raped.

*****

It's easy to get hysterical.  And I've gone further than I would like to in making the case that it is a horribly scary world out there and women need to really be careful.   And perpetually afraid.  Because, in my experience, fear is an emotion easily manipulated and, therefore, not to be trusted.  It's used to rush important facts and details past your more careful filters of reasoned analysis. It is the engine that drives bigotry and discrimination and hatred. It allows you to be preyed upon and taken advantage of.  Or marginalized.  Worst of all, the more you give in to it, and the tighter and tighter you draw your self-imposed circle of "safety" the more you have just installed yourself in a prison of your own making.

But women's fear of rape and violence is not unfounded or imagined.  While I consciously try to identify and push back on fear as much as possible, I have to admit that this one is with me all the time.  In fact, women are so accustomed to the "what I should do to not get raped" thought process that it's nearly automatic. Reflexive.  We just build it into our daily existence like any other part of the routine. I'm not sure most men really get that.

Adam Carolla complains that women aren't funny.  Leaving that assertion aside for the moment (and let's acknowledge, please, what a Herculean effort is required for me to do that), let's consider what it takes to become a successful stand-up comic and why I'm bringing Mr. Carolla into this at all.  I'm guessing it takes a lot of long, late nights at obscure clubs all across the country.  Driving around in an old car or van.  Maybe sleeping in the car if times are tight.  Taking gigs in dicey areas for little pay and lots of hassle.  When you're not on stage doing comedy, you're probably working as a waiter or bartender trying to earn enough money to pay the rent in the cheap part of town.  I'd suggest that the same is true for young bands trying to break-out and make it. Touring, gigging, traveling and sleeping wherever you can find some peace and quiet.  (I did read Bob Mould's autobiography, after all, so I'm practically an expert on this subject.)

Now imagine that your 18 year-old daughter tells you she wants to be a comic.  Or tour with her band.  What's your reaction?  Great!!  Definitely go do that.  I can't think of any reason to worry or be concerned or try to dissuade you from doing that.  Because the world is a pretty low-risk place for 18 year-old girls wandering around late at night in strange cities trying to make it.  Probably not.  And while you might also be concerned if your 18 year-old son came to you with the same proposal, I bet the concerns aren't the same.

So, fellas, I know it's kind of a drag, but this stuff actually matters.  Because half of us are female and whether you can distinguish between a joke and a threat will make a big difference in how much fear you put out into the world, and that just might make a difference in how many new jokes get told and how much new music gets made. 

Plus, I think we can all agree that those iceberg riding, married gays under the command of our Islamic-socialist President are plenty enough to be scared about for now.  That and whatever's in Eddie Van Halen's pants.  Maybe you should pick-up two of those food bins, just to be safe.

Beware of Dog

At 1:42 a.m. one recent night-turned-morning gone very, very bad, I contemplated my circumstances whilst my head was the filler in a pillow sandwich.  I had just been awakened by my needy newborn, whose needs had been addressed, but who nevertheless continued to howl.  And howl.  And howl.  There was no consoling him.  My only recourse was to block-out the wails and whimpers and wait for him to fall back to sleep.  I've been through this before, of course, but it's really true that you somehow forget or repress the less pleasant parts of the experience.  

If you haven't seen me in a while, you may be thinking, "Wait.  Whaa . . .?"  Because you are correctly calculating that I am well beyond even "Advanced Maternal Age".  Fear not.  The newborn in question is of the canine variety.  I have a new puppy in the house.  And by house, I mean in a crate in my bedroom just two feet from my head; at least during the night-time hours for purposes of house-training.

Although it's all a bit furry, from what I can tell, the basic reason I have a puppy two-feet from my head at night these days is that I have children. Children like animals.  Before the puppy joined our troupe, we already had two cats and a perfectly fine, reasonably well-behaved three year-old dog.  I had weathered extensive lobbying for rabbits and rats (yes, rats) and fish.  There was even once a request for a snake, but I made it clear that if I ever encountered a snake in or around my house -- for any reason and even if just borrowed or on loan from someone else -- I would leave and never return.

Ever. 

Lengthy petitions for more cats were denied without further review.   But somehow, the request for a second dog kept finding new life in an extended series of appeals during which the assigned judge repeatedly stated on the record that the matter would be taken under advisement.  (Between you and me, my husband should never be left in charge of any matter that may require saying "no" to wily, doe-eyed girls with their hands clasped beneath their chins while their eyelashes bat up and down at an unnatural rate of speed.  Especially if these girls are dramatically inclined, self-proclaimed animal rights activists and cunning bacon-vegetarians.  (If you are not familiar with bacon-vegetarianism, it is the kind of vegetarian who abhors and refuses all meat in the interest of preserving animal life and eradicating animal cruelty; except for bacon.))

Having given credence to the idea that a second dog might possibly be procured this summer after school was over, the judge then vacated the bench in favor of an extended business trip to Germany.  But a business trip full of schnitzel and sausages and beer is exactly when the scheming bacon-vegetarians will make their move.  And by move, I mean surf the web site of the local Animal Humane Society (AHS) for listings of adoptable puppies. Which they will promptly find.

Consider further that it is a rainy Friday night and the bacon vegetarians (BVs) are bored and restless. "Please, mom," they begin.  "Can't we just go look at them?  We've got nothing to do and it's just right down the street."  They are correct on both counts.  The three of you are confronted with the vacuous space that results when a fatigued parent is left to entertain fatigued children at week's end.  And the AHS is indeed just a mile down the road.

Familiar with their feigned innocence and superficial reasonableness, you anticipate their strategy: get mom in front of the adorable little puppy and she won't be able to say no.  Who cares if dad is in Germany.  I mentally steel myself for "no."  Certainly there will be other adorable puppies to be found in the world when both parents are stateside and school is adjourned for the summer.  Just dangle the carrot of a puppy "soon," I calculate, and I will be able to avoid a puppy now.

"Sure," I hear myself say.  "We can go look.  But we can't get a dog until dad is back and school is out.  O.k.?"

"O.k."

Confident that I have everything well in hand, we proceed down the road into the Humane Society (whose layout we are very familiar with due to all of the lemonade stand funds that have been donated by the BVs over the years) and proceed directly back to the puppy area.  And there he is:

 
He is truly adorable, but then, of course, all puppies are adorable.  As the BVs ask to play with him in one of the visiting rooms, I remember that the web listing said something about the dog having a health condition that would not require any further care from the owner.  I also recalled receiving a similar disclosure when adopting one of our cats many years back and it turned out to be the equivalent of a feline cold that just necessitated a few days of isolation from other pets.  No big deal.  I ask the volunteer attendant if she can open the cage so that we can take the puppy to a visiting room.  The attendant cheerfully retrieves the dog and I notice that something about this puppy's face is slightly off just as I register the attendant saying, "oh this puppy is SO cute and SO friendly.  He's just a lover!  And you don't even really notice that he only has one eye."

Huh?

The BVs and I look at the dog again, more closely, and sure enough, there is only one eye.  Two sockets, but only one contains an eyeball.  The other is just the ocular equivalent of a soap dish without a bar of soap.  My already fatigued mind struggles to comprehend this reality and sputters in its effort to generate even one, coherent follow-up question.  The BVs, on the other hand, instantly lock and load and take the kill shot, which they are eerily good at for proponents of peace and goodwill towards all living creatures (except those made of bacon): 

"Mom!  Look at him!!!!  We have to get this puppy.  He only has one eye and he's SO cute and cuddly. And friendly.  Look at him, Mom!  We can't just leave him here!!!  He NEEDS us!"

They embrace the puppy as if they have time-traveled and returned just in time to save him from the smoldering wreckage of a cold and harsh future with some other family.

I am totally screwed.

My prepared line of defense that "there will be other puppies" will instantly fail.  Because there will NOT be other one-eyed puppies.  Having never before in my 44-years of living encountered a one-eyed puppy, I know they are rare creatures who must keep company with the likes of unicorns and leprechauns and actually compassionate conservatives.  This puppy is, in fact, one of a kind.

To make matters worse -- he is delightful.  He exhibits no signs of abnormality, except for the missing eyeball, of course.  He is lively and happy and playful and puppy-ish, but not freakishly hyper or frenetic.  The BVs are cooing and hugging and bonding with him.  Finally, I grasp the only lifeline that is available and explain that we can, perhaps, put the dog on hold for 24 hours so that I can consult our veterinarian and gather information about any long-term care issues for one-eyed dogs.  And also, there is the matter of consulting the German office and somehow raising the prospect of possibly adopting a one-eyed puppy dog. 

Apparently, there are generally no long-term health issues for a dog born with just one eye, as this one seems to have been.  All sources indicated that he would adapt just fine.  Having never known life with two eyes, he would be blissfully unaware that there was any mode of existence that provided for better peripheral vision and depth perception, as well as a much lower frequency of being startled from the left.  On top of this, the German office responds with, "he's cute!"  Which provides no quarter for further objection or delay.

And so, 24 hours and a trip to PetSmart later, the BVs are joyfully clutching the one-eyed wonder dog in the backseat. 

We named our first dog Ozzy.  After Ozzy Osbourne.  In case this isn't self-explanatory, I will explain.  At the time my then 7 y.o. did a great impression of Mr. Osbourne.  In case this isn't self-explanatory  . . .  well, let's just say that she had somehow been exposed to Mr. Osbourne and had an uncanny ability to mimic his accent and speech patterns.  (I blame her parents.)  She even went as the Blizzard of Ozz for Halloween that year:

 

Wanting to memorialize this special talent, I suggested we name our dog Ozzy.  Everyone agreed.

When it came time to name dog number two, I invoked what I thought was the firmly established convention of naming our dogs after hard rockers.  I considered the following:

Jimmy Page
Robert Plant
Roger Waters
Steven Tyler
David Lee Roth
Eddie Van Halen
Dee Snyder
Nikki Sixx
Carlos Santana
Roger Daltrey
Pete Townshend

It turns out that the vast majority of hard-rocking types have very pedestrian first names.  Ozzy and Roger or Ozzy and Carlos just doesn't quite cut it.  But then:

AC/DC.  Angus Young.   

Angus.   

Yes!

Hence, I suggested Angus.  Ozzy and Angus.  Perfect.  

Summarily rejected by the BVs.  Angus, I was informed, was a horrible name.  Completely unacceptable.  I was crushed.  This was the perfect second dog name.  How could our children be so blind? And selfish?  What about me and the name I wanted?

I adopted a fall-back position.  What about Ajax?  Or Pirate?  Or one-eyed Jack?  No, no and Mom! There was only one name that would do, and it was the name given to him by the Humane Society.  The name already printed in all-caps on his complimentary dog tag.  The most iconic and cliched dog name of all time.  The only name, apparently, that could be given to a dog with this marking:

Spot.

And so, his name is Spot, though I whisper "Angus" on the side and give him treats when the BVs aren't looking.

But although his origins are humble and his name simple, the ego on this dog is something else.  It's all about him.  All the time.  He wants to jump on you.  He wants to bite your shoes.  He wants to pee exactly where he is standing . . . in the middle of the dining room.  And as if a "Spaniel-mix" with the ego the size of a St. Bernard needs any further boosts to his self-esteem, he was just named "Pet of the Month" by our veterinary clinic.  This will certainly go straight to his head, so I have banished him from all of our computers, especially since he tried to take a bite of out my MacBook Air.  He most certainly will not be allowed to google himself, if I can help it.  Because if he did, he would find this for the month of June 2012, at www.kenwoodpetclinic.com:

******

Pet Of The Month

Name: Spot (3 months)

 Likes: Playing with my brother Ozzy, meeting new friends, and going for walks!

Dislikes: Being alone; stairs that I can't get up; when my food bowl is empty!

When I grow up I want to be: Professional hole digger.

******

As is often the case with so many aspects of human relations and the conundrums we find ourselves in, Shakespeare has usually been there well before us and said all that can be said, quite well.  From existential crises of "to be or not to be," or sage advice to "neither a borrower nor a lender be" or "It's a long way to the top if you want to rock 'n' roll," Shakespeare has been there and done that.  Well, that last one might have been AC/DC, but in any event when our newest family member ran off and deposited this on the carpeting,

 
 I found myself channeling Lady Macbeth: "Out!  Out!  Damn, [S]pot!"

That Time With the Breast Milk in Oakland

When we last left each other, I was contemplating a dramatic change in my professional wardrobe accompanied by strategic self-groping and loud, profanity-laced declarative statements about my occupation.  I am relieved to tell you that this has not yet come to pass, though certainly the likely headline of "10 Lawyers Collapse Simultaneously From Heart Attacks During Mediation," would have alerted you that I had sprung my plan.  In any event, it is probably a good thing for all concerned that I have not made the papers in this regard, and yet the common sense that you are all hoping will arrive to save the day seems not to have rung my doorbell yet.  And so, while my breasts are at least arguably on the blogging table -- well, I actually have them right here, of course, and I am not at a table, but you know what I mean --  I feel compelled to grasp this opportunity to expose the only other breast-related story in my repertoire.  

To be clear, and to fulfill all of the required legal disclosures, the ensuing post will reference breasts, breast milk, and the pumping of breasts to capture breast milk.  Just to get any lurking squeamishness out of our systems, let's say the words several times in a row all together: breast milk, breast milk, breast milk, breast milk.  There. Over it now?  O.k.  Then we can begin.

***

My daughters are now 9 and 11, but they started out much younger.  Back in 2003, I interviewed for the job I have now on the exact projected due date for my second pregnancy -- February 26, 2003.  (Yes, I interviewed at a full and complete nine months pregnant.  I shit you not.  Undoubtedly the employment lawyers in the audience are laughing hard at what the HR department had to deal with when they got a load of me in person, "really, obscenely pregnant" having been left off of my resume.  To be fair, though, I did let them know I was pregnant before I showed-up, 'cause I'm thoughtful like that.)  I was rotund and swollen and waddling, draped in the lone maternity suit that still fit, a tent-like navy number with a tie-back struggling to meet its purpose of tying something back.  I don't remember much about the interviews that day because most of the residual brain capacity that was not being shoved out of the way by my ballooning uterus was fully occupied with a running and constantly evolving action plan for what to do if I went into labor in a strange and unfamiliar building on the other side of downtown, far from my car and my law firm office, in the midst of strangers.  I don't think I've ever experienced again the precise emotion or state of mind that is the result of the following internal mantra, "Please don't let my water break in the General Counsel's office.  Please don't let my water break in the General Counsel's office."

Four days later, my second daughter was born. (I have thanked her many times for her tardiness on that occasion, which allowed me to get the job and which she has never exhibited since.) Several weeks after that, I received the job offer and accepted.  I then took the four months of maternity leave I had negotiated and started my new job, on Bastille Day -- July 14, 2003.

As is often the case, after pregnancy and childbirth there was lactation.  I elected to breastfeed my second daughter, just as I had my first, which meant when I started back to work in July, I was still nursing, which then led to pumping as, sadly, my newborn was not so lucky to receive an offer of employment and have an office in the same building.  Happily, my new employer had excellent facilities for the pumping of breasts.  No more would I run the dangerous risk of pumping in my law firm office, as I had with daughter number one, which did not have a door that locked.  (This enabled my very well-meaning but uninformed male colleague to walk-in on a pumping session once, as he was sure the "Do Not Disturb" note taped to my door meant only that I must be working on a brief and surely did not apply to him.)

So, all was well in the land of new job and repeated motherhood, for at least the first few weeks.  Then my new boss, a sturdy NFL-lineman of a man (whom I had never met or worked with before he hired me), informed me that I needed to attend a major trial the company was about to begin in Oakland, California.  I would only need to attend for a few days, but it was a rare, bet-the-company type of trial that I really needed to experience directly.  Fine by me.  I love going to trial.  I would miss my little girls, but it would only be a few days.  The only hitch was the breastfeeding.  I would need to keep pumping during the trip if I wanted to continue breastfeeding when I returned.  (For any readers who may not know this, if you don't continue with the demand, the supply will dry up.)  So, I packed my bag and my lovely, Pump In Style breast pump.

Pump In Style.  This is worth pausing on for a moment. This is completely fraudulent marketing, if you ask me.  There is nothing stylish whatsoever about any part or aspect of this machine, let alone the task it is designed to accomplish.  The insides are just plastic and tubes and knobs and power cords, plus a little compartment for storing small plastic bottles, and the outside (which presumably is meant to be the stylish part) is just an unfortunate abundance of black Naugahyde, or some distant relation thereof.  And while one assumes the designers intended the black, hulking mass to pass as a briefcase or other professional carryall,  the hideous design only calls more attention to the charade.  It is the presumably well-intentioned equivalent of walking around with a sign taped to your back saying "kick me," only this sign says "this woman is carrying a breast pump because she will be pumping her breasts in the near future, or, she may have already done so."  It fools no one who has any cause to know about breast pumps.  Those who don't have any cause to know about breast pumps just make awkward jokes about your new, unusually portly briefcase, especially if you've not previously carried a briefcase around every day for months on end as if the nuclear codes were stowed inside.

Back to the trip.  Traveling with a breast pump causes one to encounter the following decision point: to check or carry-on?  On the one hand, you don't really want to be seen in association with the bag any more than necessary, on the other hand, were the device to become lost in transit, bad things would happen.  So, carry-on it will be.  This may cause your new boss to look at you funny as you tote not one, but two "briefcases" onto the plane in your second week on the job for the trial of a case you have had no involvement with whatsoever.  But onward you go. 

And here is where it starts to get interesting.  See, it is all well and good to plan and pack all of the necessary equipment and options.  But one cannot easily research breast pumping facilities from afar.  To be more specific, one cannot determine in advance where one might set-up shop for some pumping action in the Alameda County Superior Court House in Oakland, California, for example.  Not even with mad internet search skillz.  At least not back in 2003.

One possible explanation for this is that there are no such facilities. 

But I am getting ahead of myself.  First, you have to leave your hotel and be picked-up early in the morning by your outside counsel, who will also notice and furrow a brow over your double briefcase approach (and who you, reader, have correctly imagined to be an older white male).  But again you shall deflect odd glances and avoid anything that approaches acknowledgment of your seemingly unusual affection for briefcases, let alone any discussion that involves the words "breast" and "pumping" as applied to your person.

Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.

At long last, you arrive in Oakland.  It is now 8 a.m.  Court won't start for about an hour, so you listen to the discussions of strategy and the order of witnesses scheduled for the day, etc., nodding in agreement as appropriate.  Finally, group consensus says it is time to hit the bathrooms before the trial day begins.  Your first chance for some re-con is at hand.  Down the long, white hall you go to the bathrooms, because it is abundantly clear that in a building of this age and style the bathroom is your only place of refuge.  You visually sweep the room quickly and observe the traditional set-up:  a row of five stalls on the right and a row of sinks facing-off on the left.  You check the first stall.  No outlet.  Second: no outlet.  Third: no outlet.  Fourth: no outlet.  The final and remaining stall is against the end wall.  No outlet.  There is, however, an outlet just outside the stall on the wall near the floor.  This will have to do.  When it is time for pumping, you think to yourself, you will sit on the toilet in the last stall, plug-in just outside the stall and have at it.  Great.  Back to court.

Court happens and any number of things transpire that might make for an excellent and substantive blog about cutting-edge legal issues, such as the application of the ADA to the layout of moveable merchandise fixtures on retail floor pads, but that is not our concern.  Our concern is this: when will the morning break occur.  Or perhaps more accurately, "there will be a morning break, right?"

When the morning break in fact arrives, you bolt for the bathroom and secure the crucial fifth stall.

Plug-in: check.
Toilet as chair: check. 
Decidedly un-stylish pump on the ground in front of you (fully visible under the stall door): check.
Breasts locked and loaded: check.
Ignition: check.

But then you are suddenly alarmed by the incredibly loud noise that is reverberating all around the bathroom which, you have just noticed, seems to be covered completely in tile, marble, porcelain and concrete.  What in god's name is that racket?

Oh.  It's you and your breast pump.

Your eyes widen.  Your heart races.  Your face flushes.  Over the din you hear the outer bathroom door open and notice that an unusual amount of time elapses before a stall door is opened.  Not enough time to check or apply makeup with any diligence, but more than you would expect for someone on a mission to urinate.  You imagine the scene from the bathroom entryway: a room overwhelmed with mechanical whooshing and churning sounds, yet seemingly empty of people and machinery, except for a black A/C adapter style plug in the wall at the end attached to a cord trailing under the door of the last stall and dead-ending into a strange looking black briefcase.

Embarrassment closes in on you and wraps you in a much too long and lingering hug, but what can you do?  Nothing.  You can do nothing but continue on course, which is, therefore, what you do.

When it seems that a sufficient amount of milk has been forcibly extracted and captured, you re-stow your carry-ons (which have definitely shifted during this flight) and emerge determinedly toward the sink.  Here, you shall pour out everything you have spent the last 20 minutes trying desperately to produce and collect.  Down the drain it goes.  (Although I am saying it, it goes without saying that there is no on-site refrigeration available.  Plus, even if there were, how to transport days worth of milk at an appropriate temperature from San Francisco to Minneapolis at the end of it all?  FedEx?  It can't be done. And so, down it goes.)  You steal a glance in the mirror to see if there is anything in your appearance that says, "this woman has just spent the last 20 minutes half-naked in the bathroom pumping her breasts."  Not sure of what that would look like even if you saw it, and by now accustomed to your regular look of fatigued bewilderment (which, in hindsight, you now realize is exactly what the former appearance would look like), you finally exit the bathroom.

When you return to the court room, it is twenty-five minutes after the strictly enforced fifteen minute break commenced, which means you momentarily capture everyone's attention as you do your best to quietly re-enter and take your seat in the gallery.   It is now 10:40 a.m.  Day one.  You are still in the early rounds of a bout that seems destined to go the distance.

Lunch happens and is full of fascinating discussion of trial assessment and strategy.  You are able to maintain a veneer of normalcy because no pumping is required during lunch.  Your twice-a-day pumping schedule, developed as a compromise between returning to work and continuing to breastfeed, now seems the only possible way to navigate a trial schedule while lactating.  (You are a woefully underappreciated genius in the subject of breast pumping.)  This means you just need to knock-out the afternoon break without incident and you should be home free for the final evening pumping back at the hotel.

The afternoon break goes more or less exactly like the morning break. You nearly sprint to the bathroom to cower in corner stall and endure the silent comings and goings of other restroom users while you endeavor to pump in shielded anonymity, only to return tardily once again to a courtroom already in progress.

At the conclusion of the trial day, there is one final round of assessment and strategizing, punctuated with interjections of "great job today" and "well done."  In the car ride back to San Francisco, when the conversation relaxes back a bit from the legal minutiae and re-hashing of events, a joke is made about how the new hire must have a heroin habit, as she spends so much time in the bathroom. (I shit you not.)  You reflexively laugh and smile, yet offer no counter explanation.  You wonder if your employment is actually in jeopardy, but then steer the conversation deftly to some subject interesting only to Californians (such as freeway traffic or Arnold Schwarzenegger) and hope that you are safe.

Years later, days two and three of the trial are not distinct enough to recall.  You remember contemplating a different approach involving the manual pump (which is notable mostly for what it lacks: a Naugahyde case and clamorous mechanics) but then dismissing this idea, because even using lawyer math you realize that attacking the issue (or tissue, as it happens) one breast at a time is bound to take twice as long as two at once.  Somehow, though, the trip reached its scheduled end and you and your twin briefcases returned home to Minneapolis, where you resumed nursing and pumping and lawyering.  And did not get fired.   Or investigated for suspected heroin use.  At least not so far as you know.

***

And that, my friends, is the other breast-related story in my repertoire.  That's all I've got.  Not an ounce more.  Well, except for that time when I had to pump-and-dump on the New Jersey Turnpike on the way from Newark to a wedding, but really that's the whole story right there.  

Wherever I go, Whatever I do, I Have a Uterus

Every now and then I encounter a situation or circumstance that reminds me, in case I had somehow forgotten, that I am female.  It’s not that I lose track of this fact or get confused by the idea of gender.  It’s just that most of the time I don’t walk around and do what I do every day and simultaneously think about the configuration of my chromosomes.  I don’t brush my teeth or pour my coffee or drive to work “as a woman.”  While I am generally familiar with my own anatomy, and for years now I have correctly navigated department store offerings, public bathrooms and the locker rooms at the gym, there are still certain circumstances that never fail to stir up the sediment of my mind and send this thought bubbling to the surface:  I am a woman.   And sometimes this one: I am not like the other people here.

***

The first of these circumstances occurs in the course of what I sometimes do for my job.  I am an in-house lawyer for a large corporation.  I am in charge of managing the company’s litigation no matter the type, size or geographic location -- from real estate disputes in West Virginia to patent litigation in San Francisco to tax fights in Topeka.  To do so, I sometimes participate in mediations, settlement conferences, trials or other legal proceedings on behalf of the company.  And although I am not directly litigating the case (I hire outside counsel to do that), my role in these settings is more than just to provide a dusting of glitter.  I am the company and the company is me.  I am there to personify and articulate our view of the case or controversy and our willingness, or lack thereof, to resolve it through compromise.  Happily, because my advice and recommendations are usually behind the company’s positions, this is easy for me to do.

Often times, it seems, this reality is not quite so easy for others. 

Years ago I began taking an inventory along gender lines at these events.  It occurred to me only because it was startling in its obviousness.  It’s like noticing the one person in a crowd who is wearing neon orange – on St. Patrick’s Day.  You walk into a room of people and realize they are all boy people and you are the only girl person.  It’s just impossible not to think about.   The instigating event for my tallying was a deposition I defended years ago when I was still in private practice.   If memory serves, the count was 18-2, meaning that all of the lawyers in the room were men, my client was a man while me and the court reporter were the only women.  Ever since then, I survey the room before we begin and count to determine the ratio.  (Note: I do this silently in my head, of course, though I do like the idea of designating someone as the starter and sounding-off as we go around, just  to bring everyone into the game.)  Usually it’s on the order of 6-1 (I am the one) or 4-2.  Nothing all that remarkable.  Still, I have yet to ever break even or flip the advantage.

Sometimes, though, it is remarkable.  Just last week, I attended a mediation in a very large and complex lawsuit in New York in which 50 people from numerous law firms and corporations participated.  We convened in conference room as long as a city bock in which tables were arranged in a huge rectangle, with placards displaying our names U.N. style, and in which multiple screens were set-up around the room to ensure that everyone would have a sight line for any PowerPoint presentations that might be forthcoming.  I had to crane my neck a little to get a visual all the way around the room as we took our seats, but I conducted my now routine silent inventory: 44-6.

In these situations I become acutely aware of the reflexive question that arises and is practically written on the faces of the others when they encounter one of us comprising the six:  I wonder if she knows what she is doing/is any good at what she does?  

This question isn’t inherently sexist or discriminatory.  It could be asked of anyone, and so long as the asker is open to accommodating whatever conclusion the evidence supports, there is nothing wrong with this question.  Except that, in my experience, it only arises when it is a woman or non-white male that is being encountered.  In other words, you never see the same expression on the face of male lawyers when they are meeting other male lawyers for the first time.  Male is what they expected.  Male is the norm.  Male is assumed to be competent until demonstrated otherwise.  Female, however, isn’t.  I am not presumed to be an experienced and formidable attorney.  I am wondered about.  Competence is not automatically given to me – something for me to lose – it is something I have to demonstrate and earn.

To those of you who are predisposed not to believe this and who are rolling your eyes at me already, I can hear your questions.  How can I know this?  Aren’t I just making biased assumptions that stem from my worldview?  Haven’t times changed enough that this is no longer a reality?  I think these are good and valid questions.  I cannot be certain that I am right.  But my personal experience informs me that often times, I am right.  During my 15-year career as a lawyer, I have been asked the following questions:

(1) Are you the court reporter?

(2) Are you the paralegal? 

(3) When is the lawyer going to join us?

(4) Who else from your company is attending the mediation?

(5) Do you have authority to represent/bind your company?

(6) Do we need to talk to someone else to get additional settlement authority?

The first few questions almost always arise as I enter a room, before I have had an opportunity for introductions  -- when all that is known about who I am is what I look like.  I have no data to support this, but I have a hunch that most male lawyers haven’t been asked these questions.

It’s not that there is necessarily deliberate or conscious discrimination occurring (though trust me, that is still out there, too).  Most of these questions are not mean spirited and the askers are almost always immediately embarrassed and apologize once I have answered them.  But they nevertheless still reveal prevalent baseline assumptions, including this one: people in positions of authority tend to be male; as well as the similar, but slightly different proposition: women tend not to be in positions of authority.

Importantly, these assumptions are not wrong.  Most court reporters are women.  Most judges and business executives are men.  And while there are many women lawyers, there are far fewer of them in litigation.  See Women As Lawyers Stat Sheet.   Nevertheless, to presume that a specific individual is the court reporter based solely on the fact that she is the first woman to walk into the room is a dicey and damaging paradigm.

To be fair, I have considered the possibility that my personality may also play a role in this.  All other things being equal, I tend to be a happy and optimistic person.  I can sometimes be chatty (though here I note that if I were a man the adjective would be “talker” as in “he’s a real talker,” while a woman is chatty or bubbly; you can draw your own conclusions about the implications of the language).  On top of this, although I am most certainly capable of it, I don’t naturally gravitate to the “super-bitch” demeanor nor do I find it to be an effective strategy in the long run.  (Again, there are language differences here: asshole or hard-ass versus bitch.)  So, I tend to smile and be nice and not say “fuck you” to anyone right off the bat.  I prefer to wait until we have reached the appropriate point in the proceedings, which is usually much later, before breaking out the salty language playbook.  (Even then, while I find swearing to be cathartic and even enjoyable, I still tend to swear about someone or something and not at them.)  Niceness, it seems, is believed to be a known associate of weakness, inexperience or lack of intelligence.

I wonder why that is.

And since we have found our way to the topic of swearing, let me add this: if you are the kind of person who likes to swear and will do so in front of others on occasion (and I consider myself to be in this category), you need to own it.  Either be comfortable with it or re-assess whether you are comfortable with it.  But don’t go on a rampage of f-ing this and f-ing that in a room full of people and then turn only to me, the woman in the room, and apologize.   I realize that you think you are being polite, but you are not.  You are being sexist.  If you feel your swearing was rude and impolite, then you owe everyone an apology.   If you don’t feel you owe everyone an apology, then the only reason why you think you owe me an apology is because you think I am especially sensitive or delicate or easily offended simply because I wear a bra and you don’t. 

Well knock it off.  I don’t want your fucking apology.

While one might rationally conclude that these extreme ratios, sexist assumptions and biased behavior would make me angry, most of the time they don’t.   Perhaps it is the mellowing that comes with age, but anger is rarely the emotion I feel when experiencing any of the above.  Instead, it is more along the lines of sudden self-consciousness or a mental note of the observed dynamic.  It is emotionally disarming, actually, to enter a room and suddenly realize that everyone is thinking the same thing that you are -- you are a woman – even though not a word will be said about it.  So, I usually just conduct my inventory, observe what I can about the attitudes of the other parties I must engage with, and add that to the storehouse of information that informs what strategy I will employ and tactically how I will carry it out to achieve my desired objectives.  To be totally honest, and to give away a bit of what may have contributed to any success I have had, I think the habit of surveying and assessing my environment gives me an advantage.  I have come to embrace the upside of being underestimated.

***

The other time I find myself confronted with a flashing red light that says “FEMALE -FEMALE – FEMALE” is only every time I pick-up the newspaper or attempt to inform myself of current events via CNN.com or Slate.com or Mother Jones’ Twitter feed (@MotherJones) in 2012.  This is because several different presidential candidates and state legislative bodies are deeply concerned about my uterus.  Well, it is not just my uterus that they are concerned about, but really any American uterus anywhere, and it turns out only us women have them.

From my vantage point, the concern about the State of the Uterus is a corollary, if not always a companion, to the attitudes and assumptions detailed above.  The source of all of the anxious hand-wringing on the right seems to be this:  the uterus is among the standard features in the female product line, which also includes a "female" brain.  To their great chagrin, these features are a package deal and are not separable.  It’s sort of like the cold weather package on your car.  Either you’re in for the seat heaters, leather seats and the turbo-charged rear defrost or you are not, but there is no a la carte option.

This means that basic competence and intelligence are not to be assumed.  It must be demonstrated and earned.  As the good legislators in the State of Virginia have made clear, it therefore follows that just because a woman has had a uterus inside her body her entire life, doesn’t mean she is "fully informed" and really understands what it’s all about.  The best way to be sure her standard, female-model brain really gets it, is to force her into an unnecessary medical procedure so that she can see pictures of the fetus inside her uterus that she is seeking to abort.  (To my mind, the fact that she is seeking to terminate the pregnancy seems to conclusively demonstrate that she is aware that she is pregnant and has a firm grasp on the schematics of pregnancy, but I’m probably just missing some subtlety in the analysis.) 

No doubt the great state of Virginia is leveraging the latest findings from the front lines of educational research.  Certainly they are only proposing such legislation because it is backed up by stacks of disciplined, scientific, data-driven, peer reviewed studies showing that the best way to really educate on the topic of “you have a fetus in your uterus” is to require the woman to watch a screen while her genitalia is exposed and probed by a someone who disagrees with her decision to remove said fetus. 

With this revolutionary breakthrough in understanding, it only makes sense, then, that a wholesale reinvention of American sex-ed is just around the corner.  If we are serious about ensuring that our children really understand sexuality and reproduction, then we cannot turn our backs on them. We must employ the same techniques as soon as possible.  We would still break out the fifth graders by gender, of course (no need to make it awkward), but then I foresee classrooms where each child undergoes a pelvic examination while watching a screen.  Certainly the Catholics would be willing to assist with the young boys (as they have a demonstrated track record of deep concern in this area), while Christian and Muslim fundamentalists alike share a patronizing and paternalistic disdain for women generally, buoyed by a deep seated fear of female sexuality in particular (though, to be fair, the Catholics and Hasidim could get in on this one too) – so they would be eager to manage the young girls.  With all of these volunteers, we could roll-out a nationwide program that would really have an impact.  Because watching a screen while someone probes you is sure to make all the difference in your level of knowledge and understanding, which is what this is really all about.  Just ensuring that everyone is fully aware and informed.  And how can anyone be against that? 

***

The third situation in which gender awareness rises to the level of everyday consciousness is the Bahamas.  Well, to be more precise, not just the Bahamas, but really anywhere people strut around in bathing suits all day. 

(Here I must stop and say how fortunate I am.   Despite having been issued only a female model brain, I have managed to make something of myself and can contribute substantially to my family’s financial well-being.  Even further against the odds, given the brain I had to work with, I have managed to use my uterus responsibly (even without all of the latest advances of education-by-screen-and-probe), so I have two healthy children instead of 20.  As a result of this sheer good luck on my part, vacationing in the Bahamas with my family is within the realm of possibility.  And actually, I am doing it right now.)

The main downside to the Bahamas, coastal Mexico or Hawaii, however (and some of you may be surprised to hear that there is one), is that they encourage a lot of swimming and surfing and snorkeling and other activities that entail being in or very near the water.  Water itself I have no issues with.  It is lovely to look at and listen to and float on top of.  Getting in it, however, is where I often draw the line.  It is cold.  Always.  I don’t care what the latitude is or the name of the sea or ocean.  I promise you it is cold.  But although I am right about this, it is actually beside the point.  The point is that water begets water activities which begets bathing suits which begs the question – where is the line between “women’s bodies are beautiful and natural and are nothing to be afraid or ashamed of”  and “I really shouldn’t be able to tell the diameter and color of your areola, or that you most certainly have a Brazilian wax, if we’ve never been properly introduced and I am neither your lover nor your gynecologist."

This is a tricky subject, which means I shall immediately plunge forward.  I am not against bikinis.  Moreover, I am all in favor of women's bodies.  They are beautiful and natural and strong and capable of doing the same variety of activities that men's bodies can.  I do not believe they are dirty, or shameful, or full of sin.  I disagree that shaking hands with a woman or seeing her ankles (let alone any other body parts) can have catastrophic consequences on men, as some extreme religions profess.  Most importantly, I do not believe that virginity is a woman's greatest asset and that if she loses it outside of marriage -- even if it is forcibly taken by rape -- she should be put to death because she is now damaged goods and has brought shame to her family.  Indeed, these ideas are so horrifying and repugnant to me I have a hard time even referencing them to make my point.

But I find the other extreme almost as troubling.  Almost.  While the former views and practices arise out of a fear of women's sexuality and a paranoid, insecure need to repress and control it, the opposite practice of exaggerating, promoting and seemingly rewarding sexual display and expression by women is not much better.  They are two sides of the same coin, really.  Both reduce women to a single dimension: sexual functionality.  I say seemingly rewarding because I find the "female power" argument that is sometimes asserted here to be completely wrong-headed and false.  Embracing your own victimization doesn't make you less of a victim.  More to the point, no one believes that Girls Gone Wild is a stepping stone to becoming CEO.  Reducing yourself to boobs and a vagina just confirms the sexist suspicion that you don't have much of a brain.

So here I am in the Bahamas, enjoying the sun and turquoise waters.  And watching an endless parade of bodies and swimwear meander down the beach, into the ocean and in and out of the numerous pools.  Most of my fellow vacationers are not engaged in sexual advertising (though the delegation of overly-tanned New Jersey moms is pushing it more than I wish they would.) But there is always some contingent of "Oh!  How on earth did my breast pop out of my top like that when I made such an effort to secure it with four square inches of fabric held fast with double-knotted dental floss?"  To say nothing of the highly functional "thong" bikini bottoms.  Because nothing says "I am a highly intelligent person who should be taken seriously," like your ass hanging out for everyone to see.

***

But you know, maybe I've been coming at this all wrong.  Maybe I have just been extremely lucky that I've gotten this far in life with just a girl brain, without a "fully informed" understanding of my own body or the assistance of governors and legislators in making decisions about birth control, or a better appreciation of the true power of my special lady parts when exposed for all to see.  But I just can't get past my need for rigorous analysis and data  -- must be a weak, female brain thing.  So maybe if I just test these ideas I can see where the data comes out and that will inform what I should do.  Here's the plan:  I will go to my next mediation in stilletos and a thong bikini, grab my breasts with one hand and my crotch with the other and declare loudly, "I'm the lawyer and I'm here to represent.  Anyone got a fucking problem with that?!"

That should do the trick.

And the Stories They Rode In On

About halfway through 2011, for reasons I can no longer clearly recall, I decided to keep track of the books I read on an annual basis.  So I tried to remember what I had already read in the opening months of the year and jotted them down.  Then I added the rest as they accrued.  I eventually learned about Goodreads and now I track my reads that way, too, though I still keep a Word document on my computer to which I dutifully add each completed volume and its author.

There is something about lists and tracking one's own activity that is very powerful.  For example, in theory I already know what I eat every day because I am the one shoveling it into my mouth.  If I were to actually write it down, however, and reduce it to documentation admissible in court, I would surely object to my own evidence and argue that hearsay must somehow have been involved.  I know I ate a handful of tortilla chips and a chocolate chip cookie when I got home from work, before then pouring myself a glass of wine and beginning to make dinner, but confronting this on paper just makes me look bad.  Of course, this is precisely why food journals are encouraged in many weight loss programs, but let's consider the context for a moment: I am a tried and tired middle-aged woman.  I am not in the market for ANYTHING that makes me look bad.

Not surprisingly, I have not adopted the habit of writing down what I eat.   I see nothing rewarding in engaging in guilt-induced self-flagellation that would surely only make me uptight and unhappy.  But list-making in the positive direction -- good deeds done, rather than sins committed -- now that's something much more palatable.

Several years ago I started tracking my workouts on MapMyRun and then last year the books I read.  It is amazing how engaged one can be in chasing one's own tail just by doing so in the form of a list.  It goes without saying, I hope, that I am not required to report any of this to anybody else.   It's just me keeping these lists and monitoring my progress, if any.  I am both parole officer and ex-con.  And yet, it works.  By tracking my workouts and watching the accumulation of hours spent and calories burned, I am motivated to exercise more often.  By tracking the books I read, I find myself more willing to pick up a book and resist the television.

In my limited experience, the most satisfying part of list keeping comes at the end of a measurement period -- the end of a month for workouts, or the end of the year in the case of my newly minted book list.  I then review the time period in question and see what I managed to accomplish.  This can generate its own internal momentum, where I suddenly rush to get items logged before the bell rings and I must put my pencil down, such as on my recent year-end vacation to Mexico during which I was reading like a fiend to get one last book in before 2011 was bolted shut and padlocked forever. 

So far, my list of books read is not particularly impressive.  It looks like this:

RP's List of Books Read (est. 2011)

2011

Bossypants, by Tina Fey
Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall
See a Little Light: The Trail of Rage and Melody, by Bob Mould
Moneyball, by Michael Lewis
The Long Shining Waters, by Danielle Sosin
Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen
Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman, by John Krakauer
The Long Run (Kindle Single), by Mishka Shubaly
Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer's Quest to Find Zen on the Sea, by Jaimal Yogis
The Visible Man, by Chuck Klosterman
The Leftovers, by Tom Perotta


2012

Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris
Life List: A Woman's Quest for the World's Most Amazing Birds, by Olivia Gentille
Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, by Gabrielle Hamilton
Growing Up Amish, A Memoir, by Ira Wagler

Compared to many people I know, my list is decidedly short of stature.  Still, it is a starting point.  A geographic marker.  A benchmark.  I have read hundreds perhaps thousands of books in my life, but I've never kept track of them.  Now, I will write them down, strive to lengthen the list year over year and have the chance to look back and see where I've been. 

Which is what I did recently with my nascent little book list.  I looked back over it and was struck by how many of the books on my list were either memoirs/personal histories or biographies.  At least 7 of the 15 listed to date, and that's not even counting the book in which I am currently embedded, Hitch-22 (A Memoir) by Christopher Hitchens.  I hadn't been aware that I was seeking out so many non-fictionalized accounts of life in the modern world.  I hadn't done so consciously, yet I was consistently gravitating towards the stories of life as experienced and recounted by others.

Up until my 2011 survey, I would have told you that I almost always go for fiction.  In fact, the more fictitious the better.  By this I mean that I have plumbed the depths and limits of the canyon under the bridge of my suspended disbelief and it is deep and wide.  I am not bothered by impossibility or farfetchedness.  If the universe ceases to behave in accordance with the immutable laws of physics I will likely be giddy with delight.  To wit: some of my favorite books of all time are Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series.  If you are not familiar with these books I will first take a moment to weep for your gaping loss.  {Sob.}  I will then quickly move on to telling you that the series begins with a particularly lousy Thursday morning as experienced by our befuddled protagonist, Arthur Dent.  On this day, he finds himself lying down in the mud, in his bathrobe, in his front yard in order to dissuade the driver of a bulldozer from proceeding with tearing down his house.  After his startlingly calm and intelligent friend, Ford Prefect, arrives on the scene and convinces the driver of the bulldozer to take Arthur's place in the mud so that Ford can borrow Arthur for a few moments of critical conversation at the pub just down the block,  Arthur thinks his day might be looking up.  But then, with a seemingly celebratory pint in hand, he learns that Ford is actually a hitch-hiking alien from another part of the universe and that Earth is moments away from being blasted into smithereens by the Vogons as part of the equivalent of an intergalactic highway widening project.  Owing to his good fortune in having unwittingly befriended the only hitch-hiking alien on Earth, Arthur is soon safely stowed away on one of the Vogon blasting ships just as they are clearing out the inconsequential and irritatingly daft space detritus that is Earth.  And then the story really picks up.

(If you are not yet convinced of my historical appetite for literary silliness, I give you Exhibit B:  my once deep and abiding love of Tom Robbins' novels.  I rest my case and move for a directed verdict.)

After reminding myself of what types of writing I used to gravitate towards and noting how far away from this warm and familiar sun my apparently elliptical orbit has now taken me, I pondered the possibility that I had become interested in the real, concrete and gravity-ruled stories of others' lives because I am very aware of being decidedly in the middle of my own.  Aware that the beginning is over, the middle is in progress and that the end will one day come.  Accordingly, I find myself somewhat less interested in imagining the crazy, logic and physics-defying things that will surely never happen, than examining and considering the many, grittier, less shiny aspects of living that certainly will.  The human experience may not yet encompass the hilarity of intergalactic space travel (during which, you must not forget to bring your towel), but it is chock-full of nuance and emotion and the pain and joy that comes with experience and any kind of connectedness to others and the world we collectively inhabit.  Missives from the front lines of life are, therefore, suddenly more compelling to me.  I am thirsty for reports on the land ahead and for any advice or scraps of information about how others have navigated this terrain.  What were their joys, their pitfalls, their successes and failures -- their regrets?

***

Tina Fey's book was intriguing to me because I find her to be such a refreshing kind of celebrity, especially since I generally tend to dislike celebrity.  A lot.  The more you seek fame for the sake of being famous, the more I will tend to conclude that you are a vapid idiot not worth my time.  But Tina -- 'cause, you know, that's what I call her -- she seems different.  Better.  From what I can tell, she has managed to succeed not only in her field, but also in constructing a stable and well-engineered psyche  that is not in need of constant remodeling or redecorating with each new trend, nor at risk of collapse from huffing (and here I mean deliberately to reference both metaphorical Big Bad Wolves and Demi Moore).  She is smart and funny and has managed huge success in an industry known to be historically allergic to such women.  It seemed I wanted to know if there was some secret engine of abuse or hatred or family dysfunction that propelled her forward and I was very pleased to discover that, mostly, she is just normal smart and funny.  Not fucked-up and tormented smart and funny.  Somehow, I found that deeply gratifying and reassuring.  Maybe the future for women generally, and my daughters in particular, wouldn't require the tortured exaggeration of certain attributes and personality traits and the repression of others, often at great personal cost, to succeed in the big leagues.

Bob Mould, on the other hand, turned out to be quite the opposite kind of specimen.  I read his book, See a Little Light: The Trail of Rage and Melody, mostly because I am a big fan of his music.  Indeed, the title of this blog is a line from one of his songs.  Unlike Tina, Bob seems to have contracted every possible strain of fucked-up over the years and has paid dearly for it. And if you ask me, he still hasn't fully recovered.  Although we shouldn't need any more stories of abusive childhoods and drug addiction and denial of sexual identity to maintain our resolve against these social ills, his is yet another compelling account to add to the evidence sheet. 

Pat Tillman couldn't tell his own story.  As you may know, he was the former NFL linebacker who left a promising, lucrative and comparatively safe career in football in order to join the military and serve his nation after 9-11.  He was killed in Afghanistan by "friendly fire" in what can only be described as a horribly botched patrol that resulted from horribly botched military strategy and the illogic and irrationality that can exist in a "chain of command" environment.  That U.S. troops might be directly responsible for the deaths of other U.S. troops is awful, which is why it was determined at much higher levels that the true facts and circumstances of Tillman's death should be obscured and hidden.  The saddest part of this story isn't even the senselessness of his death and how it happened (although that is infuriating and heart wrenching), but that the handling of it was in such sharp contrast to the values Tillman embodied and for which he was willing to risk his life.  Tragedy happens.  We all know this.  But to bury tragedy in a shallow grave covered with the thin soil of short-sighted self-preservation and then preside over the body with a religious ceremony that the deceased specifically indicated he didn't want -- well, that just takes nausea and disgust and deceit and disrespect to a whole new level.  Pat's story is both inspiring because of the personal portrait of who Tillman was that emerges from Krakauer's thorough and considered research, and demoralizing for uncovering the persistent and intractable problem of narrow-minded group think.

Those are just the higher-profile memoirs/biographies on my list.  I haven't even told you about the even more fascinating lives of Phoebe Snetsinger (world-record holding bird watcher) and Gabrielle Hamilton, teenage runaway cum award-winning New York restauranteur and ridiculously talented writer.  But if you want to know the truth, these two are the best stories on the list and are nothing like what you think they will be.  Which, in a way, is the point.  It's the old "you can't judge a book by its cover" lessen that nevertheless bears repeating over and over again no matter how many covers you have tried to not judge in the past.

***

I don't have a nifty trick for linking all of these stories together, except to note that their disparity and individuality and uniqueness is precisely what I love about them and why I am currently so drawn to memoir and other non-fiction.  I love that the reality of human experience -- the common thread -- is simply that we are human.  There is no one thing that we all do or experience the same way or even agree upon, it seems.  And yet, we can recognize humanity in each other though it is manifested in an infinite variety of individual expressions and realities. 

Predictably, reading so many stories of the lives of others might lead one to consider what one's own story is.  If your life were reduced to a narrative, what kind would it be and how would it be told?  What would be the major themes and the minor plot lines?  What might the future, as yet unwritten chapters hold?  To what extent do you feel that you are in control of your story and able to shape its progression and denouement?  And to what extent is your story influenced or shaped by where you were born, who you were born to and your access to food, shelter, healthcare, education and employment?

If that is not enough to bog you down for a good long while, then let me add a few more existential rocks to your mental rucksack.  On a parallel track, one can also consider the fact that, unless you are a hermit who was born from the short-lived and unlikely romance between a rock and a lusty patch of soil one peculiar summer night long ago, you are also a player in someone else's story.  Perhaps many stories.  You are a son or daughter, sister or brother, wife or husband, boyfriend or girlfriend, mother or father or just plain old friend, acquaintance, colleague, schoolmate or neighbor to someone else.  This means that in addition to contemplating your own personal narrative, you can also contemplate how you figure into, or out of, the narratives of others.

Here's what I'm driving at:  I am someone else's mother.  In fact, I am two someone else's mother.  The. Mother.  You know, the person that everyone loves to complain about and load with expectations and impossibly conflicting essential attributes.  The person who must be strong yet soft, loving yet fierce, understanding yet demanding, nurturing yet freeing, forgiving yet rule enforcing, not to mention endlessly patient, good at school projects and in possession of a blue ribbon, family heirloom recipe for some sort of pie or cookie or other beloved baked good.  The person described and discussed at length in every single one of the memoirs/biographies digested above.  In short, the person responsible for millions of jobs and a whole sub-economy in the field of psychotherapy. (On the upside, though, if my kids ever win an Oscar, tradition holds that I will be the first person recognized and thanked in their acceptance speech.  So it pretty much evens out in the end.)

Here, to your great relief and mine, I will stop and take a breath.  I'm not really about to go careening out of control all over the internet.  It just feels that way.

What I find gratifying about looking through literary peepholes into the lives of others, or thinking about the book that is my own life, or the thousands of dollars in future psychotherapy, the need for which will be my fault, is not that I come up with answers, but that I come away with questions.  Lots and lots of questions.  There is nothing so satisfying as a good question.  (Fine.  Maybe there are a few things as satisfying or even more satisfying than a good question, but for me, a good question is up there.)

So, I think about the world full of different stories and how my own has unfolded and may yet unfold and I ask myself questions.  As it happens, the questions eventually led me to make a list.  A "bucket" list, I hear it's called, which I understand to reference a list of things that I would like to do or experience or achieve in case I accidentally cause Mrs. O'Leary's cow to kick the bucket . . . er . .  . lantern over and set the barn and then the entire city of Chicago on fire, which would surely land me in jail for the rest of my days. 

Whatever. 

I made a list and I like to review it every now and then.  Because in this instance, waiting until the end of the measurement period to take stock of where I have been, trace the major themes of my story and what I've done or accomplished, will be too late. 

And also, it is amazing how engaged one can be in chasing one's own tale just by doing so in the form of a list.