Things I Do Not Understand

I’m feeling a bit curmudgeonly, so although I probably ought to be apologetic about this post, I am not.

Not at all.

So, on to the Things I Do Not Understand:

Otherwise intelligent women who say they want a nice guy but will choose the obvious jerk every time.  Please just shut up about how you really only want a nice guy.  I am a nice guy, and I am available.  If you really wanted a nice guy, you would choose me.  What you want is someone who reinforces your insecurities, because that’s where you feel most comfortable.  

Otherwise intelligent men who act like jerks when they’ve got a good thing going with a great woman.  What the hell is your problem?

Loud, lengthy, personal conversations on their cell phones in public.  I don’t want to know what you had for dinner last night.  I don’t want to know about your sister’s marital problems.  I don’t want to know about any of your medical problems.  Your gossip not only bores me, it’s also distracting me so much that I’ve read the same sentence eight times now, and I still don’t know what it says.  Perhaps I should start reading out loud?  If I did, I wouldn’t be any less annoyed with you, but you’d be annoyed with me, so the Cosmic Balance would be restored.

Droopy drawers.  Your boxers are your business, not mine.  I’m careful not to show you the crack of my ass, and I’d appreciate the same consideration.  Hint: the belt goes ABOVE your ass.

Eyebrow and lip piercings.  Are those unsightly bumps on your brow the look you were going for, because, really, it just seems like you might want to get that looked at.  Is it even possible to kiss someone when you have a lip ring?  

Clear plastic spit cups.  Gack.  Please keep your Copenhagen backwash hidden.  Thank you.

Traveling in sweats that look like PJs.  I’m 44, which I don’t consider to be very old, but I remember a time when people tried to look nice when they arrived for a visit with their distant relatives and friends.  I suppose maybe airline travel has become such an uncomfortable inconvenience that you feel obliged to make yourself as comfortable as possible, but please…can you at least try to look as though you bathed before I have to sit with my shoulder pressed against you for three hours?

Breast implants.  Okay, these are a good thing for reconstructive surgery, but on behalf of all men everywhere, I’m going to apologize for making you feel you need enhancement to improve your self image.  Here’s something for you to ponder while you’re looking through the catalog in your plastic surgeon’s office: You’re not catering to triple-digit IQs by getting big boobs with an unnatural shape.  

Tattoos on the small of a woman's back.  What is this about?  Girls, here’s a clue: the small of your back is one of the few parts of your body that you can rely on in the face of gravity.  Along with the nape of your neck, it’s seriously overlooked as an erogenous zone, but putting a tattoo here to get guys to look at that part of you is like putting a 60-foot billboard on a beach that says, “This Would Be A Good Place To Play Volleyball!”  

I may make this a regular feature…what do you think?

Travellers

I had an excellent Thanksgiving weekend, and should have pictures to put up soon. I believe they’re on a disc that’s still in my suitcase, and at the moment, I’m too lazy to go get it to see.

The trip up to my parents’ place in Wyoming was an interesting one, and filled with inspiration for my blog and for my novel.

One encounter that left me feeling rather thoughtful was with a willowy redhead in the San Diego International Airport, before we’d even left for Casper. I noticed her coming up the stairs as my daughters and I waited in line to go through security. She headed for the ticket counters, and we, of course, had to get through security. Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing behind her in the line for Starbucks. As I said, she was a redhead, and redheads have freckles…and we know how I feel about freckles. As I stood behind her, looking for any excuse at all to strike up a conversation, her boyfriend joined her. I’m assuming he was her boyfriend…he stepped up and planted a kiss on her lips. I politely looked away, but as I did so, I caught her looking me in the eye as her boyfriend kissed her, looking like Nicole Kidman on the Eyes Wide Shut poster. As soon as he’s done kissing her, she apologizes to him for making him stand in line for coffee, but says she’s addicted to Starbucks and that she’ll be grumpy until she gets some.

“This guy knows what I’m talking about,” she says, fixing me with pale green eyes. “Don’t you?”

We agree that coffee is an addiction, and we are connected for a moment, to the exclusion of her decaffeinated boyfriend. She allows her guy to encroach on her space, but without enthusiasm, and I suspect her conversation with me is a sign that she’s pissed off at him and I’ve been enlisted to help with the torture process.

On the flight to Salt Lake City, an impossibly pretty dude and his girlfriend are sitting in front of me, looking snuggly-cute with her head in his lap. That is, until he jams his backpack under his own seat so that he can stretch out his feet under the seat in front of him. When he hits my feet, he simply pushes harder until I instinctively move them out of the way. I kick back. This is MY space, dammit! “Place carry on items securely in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you.” He shoves harder, and my legroom disappears for good. No matter how cutesy the couple may be, this guy, with his artfully shiny hair style and sunglasses perched on top of his head, is just another jerk who thinks the rest of us are here to make room to suit his whim. I spent the next hour deliberately squishing the contents of his bag with my feet. I am gearing up for a New Year’s Resolution: I will no longer feel obligated to accommodate anyone's rudeness.

With any luck, he had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack.

Thirteen Minutes

Generally, when I tell people about my job, they nod appreciatively. I make a difference, they say.

This is true. I have made a difference. Many of those who participated in the opening weeks of the war were former students of mine, long since gone past the point of needing my tutelage, but nevertheless, they learned when they studied with me. And they did well.

Back when I was in the Navy, when I'd tell people what I did then, they'd nod appreciatively and issue exclamations: "Cool!" I had a reasonably sexy job, when I was in the Navy. Not SEAL Team sexy, not fighter jock sexy, but Big Explosion Sexy. My handiwork on CNN sexy. Wolf Blitzer Sitting On A Baghdad Rooftop And Silently Watching The Show sexy.

But right now, with something less than thirteen minutes left on the time of flight (BOOM!) for this simulation, on the Wednesday (BOOM!) afternoon before Thanks(BOOM!)giving(BOOM!), I'm thinking (BOOM!) that this is a little...no, a lot less exciting than watching paint dry.

And actually, that's not such a bad thing.

BOOM!

Weasels At The Door

I should start by thanking Lisa for this idea.  When she wrote about how her doctor assessed her age and appearance, she reminded me of an incident that happened several years ago, thanks to my ex-wife.  The incident in question happened eight years ago, when I was 36.  I’ve always thought I looked young, and even now at 44, I haven’t even got crow’s feet.  

But let me digress for a moment:

For as long as I’ve known her, my ex-wife has been what I will politely refer to as a “money gatherer”.  Throughout our marriage, even when I handled the bills, she had an uncanny ability to save money.  Though our combined income was more than seventy thousand a year (fifteen years ago), she would grudgingly allow me twenty dollars a week spending cash, out of which, I was to buy my lunches.  She’d somehow manage to keep herself to less than five dollars a week.  I knew very well how dearly she valued a dollar.

In retrospect, I should have realized that when we divorced, she’d still value my dollars very dearly.

I know.  Every ex-husband on the planet complains about his financial woes every time he thinks of his wallet.

This is not the same thing.  Seriously, I never begrudged her a share of my retirement check.  While I was serving the country, she made sacrifices, too…not the least of which was putting her career on hold for the first five years of our marriage while the Navy and I moved us from place to place.  I figure she’s entitled to half of what I earned in retirement for the period we were married, and coincidentally, that’s how the California courts think, too.

As a cynical former co-worker used to say, “You never really know a woman until you’ve faced her in court.”  The value my ex-wife places on a dollar became painfully clear the moment we set foot in the courthouse.  She insisted on a straight fifty-fifty split of my military retirement, though we’d only been married for eight years and eight months, which was just about half of the time I’d been on active duty by then.  So, while she would rightfully be entitled to a quarter of my retirement, she insisted on half.  It became a contentious point, and we fought over it for more than a year.  

By “fought over it”, I mean that we would basically recite Monty Python’s “Argument Sketch” through our attorneys:

Me: Oh, this is futile!
Her: No, it isn’t.
M: This really isn’t an argument.  It’s just contradiction.
H: No, it isn’t.
M: Yes it is! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.
H: No, it isn’t.
M: Yes, it is!  It’s not just contradiction.
H: Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position.
M: Yes, but it isn’t just saying ‘No, it isn’t’.
H: Yes, it is!
M: No, it isn’t!
H: Yes, it is!
M: Argument is an intellectual process.  Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of any statement the other person makes.
H: No, it isn’t.

All this at $175 an hour.  

For a year and a half.

Finally, I asked the court to rule on the issue, and because I was still on active duty and might not even serve out my twenty years, the judge decided that there was not yet any retirement to even discuss and further, since my official state of residence was Connecticut and not California, my ex-wife should take it up with Connecticut at the appropriate time.

Now, it is possible for a service member to request retirement up to eighteen months before his or her date of eligibility for retirement.  My ex-wife knew this, and mere seconds after the eighteen month clock started counting down, she called me to ask what my plans for retirement were.

I had none.  I patiently explained to her that filing my request for retirement made me ineligible for promotion, and that I wasn’t ready to close the door on that just yet.  She insisted that I submit my retirement papers immediately.  I refused, and I held firm.  

All of this leads to the amusing part of our story.

One Sunday evening in December, I came back unexpectedly from an exercise at sea.  No one could have anticipated my being home that night; I’d been gone for six days, was scheduled for another eight days underway, and only an engineering casualty on the ship had prompted our return that night.  

There was a knock at the door.  When I opened my front door, there stood one of the most bizarre-looking characters I have ever encountered.  He stood about five-foot-eight, and wore a long black leather jacket which was open enough to reveal the t-shirt and suspenders underneath.  His pants were baggy and purple, and looked as though they were intended to be the bottom half of a zoot suit.  A yellow fedora completed the ensemble.  

I am not making this up.

He looked like one of the weasel henchmen from Who Framed Roger Rabbit?.

He spoke.  “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Keemberlee Kebbofitch.”  He held out a large manila envelope.  “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

It dawned on me that he was asking for my ex-wife.  “Dude,” I said, unable to contain my amusement, “she lives in Arizona.”

He looked bewildered for a moment, frowned at the address on the envelope, and asked, “Areezona?”

“Yes.”

He frowned again, looked up at me and asked, “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

I decided he was stupid, and said curtly, “Dude.  She’s. Not. Here.”  I closed the door and snapped the bolt home.

The next morning, the manila envelope was on my doorstep.  He’d been a process server attempting to serve me with papers informing me of my ex-wife’s petition to the Connecticut courts for half of my military retirement.

On the paperwork attached to the outside of the envelope, he’d described me as “overweight balding male, aged mid to late forties.”

I hate weasels.

In Their Flowing Cups Remember'd

I always get a lump in my throat at military retirements.

It isn’t the awards or the mementos they’re given, nor is it the ritual of the ceremony.

Part of it, I am sorry to say, is jealousy. At most retirements, recognition is given to the retiree’s wife, for her role in his faithful service. I didn’t have that at my retirement, and I feel as though I missed out. I didn’t have a wife or girlfriend waiting on the pier for me when I returned from any of my four deployments. True, I was married for one of those deployments, but my then-wife showed up an hour late for our homecoming, reluctant to drag herself from her lover’s bed.

So the part where the retiring sailor gives flowers to his wife and thanks her for getting him through a long hard career only reminds me of how lonely my life has been.

Another reason for the lump in my throat is patriotism. Until a few years before the end of my Navy career, I never understood why so many veterans get misty-eyed during the Star Spangled Banner. Now, when I hear that melody, or sing those words, or see our flag being carried, it means something. The “land of the free and the home of the brave” isn’t a phrase that describes a house in my neighborhood, a house I’ve never seen the inside of, inhabited by people I sometimes wave to as I get into my car to go to work in the morning; I am free and I am brave. This is my home and that is my flag.

Patriotism turns out to be very, very personal.

The flag presented to me as a token of my service had been flown over the ship I retired in on September 11th, 2002. On the surface, it’s a small thing, being given a flag flown over what was then the Navy’s newest warship on the first anniversary of 9/11, but there were only two flags flown over the ship that day, and the other was presented to an old shipmate who’d been in the Pentagon when it was attacked, and a year later, still wore artificial skin where his own skin had been burned away.

The hardest part of any military retirement for me is when the retiree takes a few minutes to talk about their service, and to try to explain in three or four minutes what twenty-odd years has meant to them. Most of us cry during our speeches, our tears being the only way we can come close to expressing how honored we feel to have had the opportunity to make even a small contribution to the nation and the world.

I have publicly recited Shakespeare only twice in my life; the first was in Ms. Pickens’ sophomore English class (“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…”) and the second at my retirement. Though Shakespeare’s Henry V’s references to Englishmen in this soliloquy make it a little jarring when applied to Americans, the sentiments are entirely apropos:

“He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,--
Be in their flowing cups remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the end of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,--
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

Gwendolyn

She came to me last night, courtesy of a new friend I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with.  The woman I’ve been waiting for, she who avoided me as I was getting to know my other characters.

Gwen has been an enigma, not out of shyness, but because of her energy.  She turns out to have a vibrancy that just makes it hard for her to stay in one place for very long.  The things she’s experienced at such a young age have led her to seek the surface of things.  She sees even the tiniest of the events of her life with astonishing depth and clarity, but she knows all too well what real pain is.

In the Spring of 1940, seventeen year old Gwendolyn lied about her age to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and supported the Royal Air Force as a radar operator.  At her first posting in June 1940, she became close friends with another one of the “radar girls”, who was engaged to a fighter pilot posted to the same air base.  When her friend’s fiancé transferred to RAF Middle Wallop, she and her friend simply packed their things and followed him there.  

It took quite a bit of talking to get them out of trouble, but Gwen managed to charm the operations officer into arranging for the two women to be posted there.  

Shortly after she settled in, she met Lew Gravenor, and fell in love.  When he left England in 1944, she was just 21, but had put a lot of living into those four years.  

And that’s all I’m telling, for now.

The Fog

A dense fog drifted along the dark streets, tendrils probing among the houses of my neighborhood, accompanied by the mood music of the fog horn.  It’s that time of year again in San Diego.  I’m reminded of the Stephen King short story entitled, “Strawberry Spring”, even though it’s the wrong time of year.

I’m also reminded of another story about Maine…

A New Yorker accustomed to early morning walks at home continued the habit during his vacation in Rockport.  He was especially impressed by the determined lobstermen, heading out into the impenetrable fog that rolled in every day before dawn.

He’d noticed that none of the lobster boats seemed to have radar, so one morning, he asked one of the lobstermen how they managed to navigate the rocky, irregular coast with no radar and no visibility.

“Potatoes,” said the lobsterman, as he shoved off and disappeared into the swirling mist.

As you might have guessed, the New Yorker was thoroughly confused by this characteristically brief response, and he returned to the dock the next morning, hoping to talk the lobsterman into elaborating, even if only a little bit.

“Sir,” he asked, “how can you navigate the foggy coast with a potato?”

“Not a potato, Mister,” said the lobsterman.  “I said ‘potatoes’.  See this sack down heyuh by muh feet?”

The New Yorker nodded.

“Well, every few seconds, I reach down and grab me one them theyuh potatoes, ‘n I chuck it out ahead o’ m’boat.”

Feeling he’d been had, the New Yorker sputtered, “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard!  Throwing a potato can help you navigate?”

“Ayuh,” said the lobsterman.  “If I don’t hear a splash, I stop.”

Good Night, and Good Luck

I didn’t know anything about Edward R. Murrow’s on air battle with Senator Joe McCarthy until tonight.  I’m still not entirely sure I do know anything, but George Clooney’s film Good Night, and Good Luck was good theatre.  

David Strathairn’s portrayal of Murrow was hard-edged, and seemed resoundingly true.  His Ed Murrow was a man of towering integrity and self-effacing humility.  If I’d known him, I’m almost certain I’d have liked him, and absolutely positive that I’d have been awed by his presence.

The stand-out moment of the film is when, in the seconds before going on air with a piece that pulls apart McCarthy’s own statements, he dryly jokes with CBS’s chief executive that he's about to bring down the network.  Both men know that there is the real possibility that may happen, yet the show airs anyhow.  Murrow’s integrity is so far above reproach that the network stakes its very existence on it.  

When we got home tonight, I thanked my daughter for suggesting that we go see this picture, and I told her that whatever she chooses to do in her life, she should aspire to that kind of integrity.  As a father, it’s my dearest wish that she know the admiration and support of her colleagues in the way that Murrow did.

History

My boss sent me an e-mail the other day, asking if I had ever heard of Martin Kalbfleisch, mayor of Brooklyn for three terms between 1861 and 1871.  He (my boss) is reading a book about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, and Martin’s name figures prominently in the building of the bridge.

I did a Google search this evening and learned that Martin Kalbfleisch was born in The Netherlands in 1804, and went to sea when he was 18.  At the age of 22, he emigrated to New York City, where he found work as a clerk, and then as a chemist.  Eventually, he founded a chemical factory, which he ran for nearly twenty years, until he was elected mayor of Brooklyn in 1861.  A year later, he joined the U.S. Congress as a Democrat, but returned to New York after a single term and was elected mayor again in 1867.  He parted company with the Democratic Party while in office, and was defeated in 1871 when he ran for reelection as an Independent.

Construction on the Brooklyn Bridge began in 1869, while Martin was in office.  He was apparently involved to a great extent in the political dealings that were needed to get the project started, and he was (at least if you believe David McCullough’s account) quite the smokey-back-room politician.  Deals were made, and Martin Kalbfleisch’s not inconsiderable wealth made all the difference.

(Of course, he also built the first public school in Green Point, New York, so he couldn’t have been that bad a guy.)

So, back to the original question…yes, I knew of Martin Kalbfleisch.  He’s my Great-great-great-grandfather.

So, I feel a bit of a connection to the Brooklyn Bridge.  

What about you?  Anybody interesting in your family’s history?

It Ain't My Imagination

I have to say that when I began my blog, the last thing I ever expected was to make friends.  

It began with Craig’s List, and reading a Best Of post that gave a link to Kristy Sammis’ blog.  Her self-effacing humor and genuineness inspired me to begin my own, and I hoped that I might find a voice of my own that people might find entertaining.  

Almost immediately, Sherri discovered me and posted my blog’s first comment.  I’m sure that she discovered me by the link to my profile that goes up when a blogger posts a comment on another blogger’s site, and I’d just commented on one of Kristy’s posts.  However she found me, the warm reception was enough to draw me in completely.

The important thing, of course, is that I’m writing.  I’m a writer, and I am actively writing.  I knew, of course, that when I began to write, it would also become important to be read.  That’s happening, too.  

What I did not expect (and by “did not expect”, I mean I was taken completely off guard) was that people would care about what I had to say.  And not just what I had to say, but what I had to say next.  

All of this makes it seem like it’s all about me, that it was always about me, but that’s not the case.  Okay, it is the case, but there’s a growing list of sites I check every day, and sometimes more than once a day.  Because I care about what they have to say.  (Even if, like LJ, they don’t use words.)

Once in a while, these terrific people step off the page and send an e-mail or an IM, and a conversation ensues.  I love what that happens!  One minute, you’re chatting about the writing process and the next, you’re on the phone until the cheesecake cools enough to be put in the fridge.  Out of these small connections there sometimes comes a moment that pops like a flashbulb, an instant in which an Imaginary Internet Friendship becomes real, starting with the two words that mark the beginning of every friendship everywhere: “You, too?”

As friendships grow, real friends challenge each other to grow and change.  It’s been my experience that the best friends deliver that challenge without effort…it just happens, and you find yourself sitting in stunned silence in the wake of an epiphany.

I. Love. That.

So this has become so much more to me than “looking for ways to procrastinate”, as Ramblin’ Girl wrote in her first post.  It’s about broadening horizons, wisdom from unexpected sources, and friendships that I hope will continue to grow.

The Advocate

A little more than two weeks ago, a dear friend – a magnificent woman – was drugged, beaten, and raped.

I could not begin to tell you her story…it’s one for her to tell, if she chooses, when she’s ready.  Today, I’m writing my story, because she’s said it’s okay for me to claim a subplot to her story.  This is about the experience of learning that someone I love has been brutalized.

She and I have not been lovers for more than a year, but we remain friends and she came to me because I used to volunteer as a rape crisis advocate.  She knew that I would know what she should do.  

Rape crisis advocacy is not something one enters into lightly.  To be sure, it doesn’t require a master’s degree, but neither is it a “read this pamphlet, and we’ll call you when we need you” kind of volunteer position.  Even in the emergency room, the rape crisis advocate is nearly always the individual with the best understanding of how to handle the situation appropriately.  The training is intense and frightening, and still nowhere near enough to prepare you for the first time you walk into an emergency room and introduce yourself to someone whose life has just been irrevocably and involuntarily changed.  Quite honestly, nothing – not even experience – can prepare you for the tenth time, nor the twentieth time.  Every one is different.

And yet, every one is the same.  The rape victim is confused, disoriented by the experience, unable to focus, and has trouble making even simple decisions.  Not one will seek immediate medical attention voluntarily, and even though they will all admit that they need to be seen by a doctor, they quite understandably don’t want to be examined as closely as they know they’ll need to be.  They never want to deal with the police, no matter how sensitive the questioning may be.  They will all have to be convinced to submit to a forensic examination, mostly because there is no euphemism for it – rape kit: an ugly term if there ever was one – even though that exam nearly always makes them feel better because it’s the first thing they’re truly in control of after they’ve been assaulted.  Every single one will go through a cycle of disbelief and feelings of betrayal, crushing shame and self-blame.  And every one will just want to go home and be alone, to curl up in comfortable clothes and quietly find their solitary way out of the hollow place they’re in.

One in four women experiences this.  Believe it or not, so do at least one in ten men.  In spite of the classic image of knife-wielding strangers lurking in the shadows, three quarters of all rapes are perpetrated by someone the victim knows.  Most never report it.  

I know this last part very well; it took me 20 years to come to terms with being raped, myself.  I know the cost of not addressing it right away.  Left to themselves, most rape victims will never find their way out of that hollow place.

I received the news with no small amount of shock.  Why would anyone do this to such a sweet, wonderful woman?

It’s been a year or so since I’ve needed my “Go Binder”, the green notebook containing all the materials I’d generally need when I got the call – flyers, pamphlets, phone numbers, pens, note paper, a copy of an old San Diego PD PowerPoint brief  entitled, “Drug-Facilitated Sexual Assaults”.  The binder was right where I left it, in the trunk of my car, a habit I’d acquired because the director of the advocacy program thought I was good at it, and she would often call me when I was not on call.  

My friend was right; I knew exactly what to do.  I answered her questions, gave her phone numbers and addresses and recommendations.  “I’ll come get you, if you want.  I’ll take you to the ER and stay with you, right there, through it all.  I know what they’ll need to do, and what they’ll want to do, and if you don’t understand something, I can explain it.  I’ll make sure the police are nice to you.  They’re going to tell you that you should have a forensic exam done even if you don’t think you’re going to press charges, because if you have it done, then you still have a choice about pressing charges, but if you don’t have it done and you change your mind, there’s nothing you can do.  If you’re sure you won’t want to press charges, I’ll stop them from trying to talk you into it.  I’ll make sure that the ER staff doesn’t forget about you.  I’ll ask the questions you won’t think of until much later, and I’ll hold your hand and remind you that you’re going to be okay, that this wasn’t your fault, and we’ll get through this because you’re amazing and wonderfully strong, even if you don’t feel like it right now.”  And oh, by the way, I love you, and why the hell would anyone do this to YOU?

She very sweetly declined, not wanting to go to the ER, not wanting to be poked and prodded, not wanting to tell her story over and over again to strangers, or for that matter, to anybody.  

I wanted to scoop her up like a little girl, to hold her without a word until she felt better, to do something, anything to take away her pain, or at least see her safely through it.  In the end, I could only tell her that I understood and remind her that if she needed anything at all, she could call any time.

When we hung up the phone, I felt empty.  Drained.  Hollow-by-proxy.

I have sat with the loved ones of rape victims, quietly listening as they wrestled with their own shock and disbelief and anger, but I never related to them as well as I did with the victims themselves; I had no frame of reference.  In answer to their fears and questions, I have only been able to tell them a little of what their friend or fiancée or wife may be feeling, and to expect changes in the future.  The things I said at those times offered little in the way of consolation: things are different now, she needs your unconditional love and support, he needs your understanding while he comes to terms with this.

That afternoon, I was both advocate and friend.  I knew all the things I should do to help her though her crisis, but my love for my friend made the right choices more difficult.  I trust her completely, but I also know that, very often, those who have been raped have difficulty making appropriate choices.  Shock and shame cloud their judgment.

As her friend, I wanted to shield her from making the wrong choices, to prove to her that what happened to her was not her fault.  In short, I wanted to rescue her.  

But as an experienced advocate, I knew that the most important thing I could do for her was to give her control, to present her with options and honor the choices she makes.  It’s a course that runs entirely against my instincts, but I chose it anyway.  In the end, it probably makes me a better friend.

I’ve checked in with her every couple of days since then, just to see how she’s doing.  I haven’t pressed her to talk.  Until today, I haven’t reminded her that she needs to seek counseling.  She says she’s doing better, so well that she feels guilty about not feeling worse, which is perfectly natural.  

As for me, I’ve been taking advantage of the opportunity to look at my “rescuer instincts” up close, and struggling to find the words to write this post.  It’s an important post; a keyword search that leads to this post ought to be rewarded with a useful take-away.   For that reason, I hope you’ll forgive me if I close with a bit of a public service message…

If you know someone who has been raped:

• Remain calm and be sensitive


• Don’t ask unnecessary questions like, “Why were you there? Did you fight back?”  Sexual assault is neither sought nor caused by the victim


• Find out what she or he would like you to do, then do it


• Remind them how courageous they are for sharing this with you


• Respect their privacy, and maintain strict confidentiality


• Don’t joke about the trauma; you will only increase the victim’s feeling of isolation


• Offer to help them get medical treatment and counseling

Never forget the most important thing you can do for a person who has been raped: Let them make their own choices about what’s best for them.

1851.85 Per Day, or Bust!

This is thanks to Princess Diaree, who suggested I check out NaNoWriMo.

I'm taking this evening, or more precisely, the next hour, to come up with a subject.

I only need to write 50,000 words before November 30th. That's almost 1852 words per evening.

This will not be Shakespeare. No, this is a project that asks the Zen question, "If an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of computers for an infinite period of time could come up with all the great works of literature, what could one monkey with one computer produce in just under four weeks?"

I'm aiming low, but I'm gonna have fun doing it.

Google-plexity

I had an interesting experience not long ago. Those of you who are still dating, I wonder how many of you Google your dates? I’m guilty of it…once. (I Googled Freckles. I am not proud of that fact. Also, I found nothing.)

A couple weeks before I wrote this post, I ran through the data collected by my counter, and found that someone had reached my site by searching for my name, first and last. A couple of times. Turns out it was a woman I’d gone to lunch with, around the same time I was trying to get Freckles’ attention. What bothered me about this wasn’t that I’d been Googled, it was that I am certain that I had not told the woman my last name.

Happy Halloween, yo.

Turns out that my computer told her, but I didn't know that until this morning.

Regardless of how she came by that information, there wasn’t any spark, and that was that. We had similar backgrounds (had even been to the same liberty port at the same time twelve years ago, and remembered the same party there), but it was hard to sustain a conversation with her.

Sunday night, I took a woman out for a first date dinner. I’d posted an ad online and she responded. We’d spent an evening exchanging excited e-mails, talked on the phone the next night, and both come to the conclusion that we were dealing with cool people. We apparently have a lot in common: both movie fans, we liked the same TV shows (and I can’t tell you how rare it is to find someone online who doesn’t like “Survivor” or any other reality show), have similar sense of humor…there’s more, but I won’t bore you with the details.

The beginning of the date went well. She was attractive and funny, a good conversationalist. She wore an off-the-shoulder top, which she kept pulling down to keep her shoulders bare. She kept doing that thing that women do with their fingernails lightly tracing along their throats…you know that thing…dead give away that she’s attracted.

At some point, the conversation turned to how unhappy she is at work, and she stopped all her shoulder-baring and throat-stroking. When I suggested we go for a walk after dinner, she agreed, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it and she was just being polite. I tap danced as much as I could, but to no avail.

This afternoon, I got the e-mail. You know the one: “…I think I need to be up front and let you know that although I did have a nice time, I just didn't feel there was any of the chemistry that both of us are looking for .. so at this point I don't feel a second date is in our best interest.”

I’m at a loss for words. If this is the first time you’re reading this blog, I invite you to check out my older posts so that you can appreciate how rarely this happens.

I am at a loss because two people who seemed to have so much in common and similar tastes, who began the evening feeling at least a modicum of attraction for each other, might not be worth exploring for another two hours in another venue a few days later. (Okay, it’s possible that her throat itched, but not that much; it was dark, but I would have noticed a rash. Really.)

I should have known better. Since watching her drive away on Sunday night, I’ve had one question repeating in my head: “Online dating. How’s that workin’ for ya?”

Not so good. Rarely has.

And here’s why. In spite of all the things in common, she’s turned out to be just another one of those people who feels that the guy buying dinner could be replaced with someone potentially better after ten minutes of searching on Match.com.

Fuck the Internet.

I know, I sound a little angry, but honestly, I’m just disappointed in myself for going there again, when it so clearly hasn’t worked for me. And thanks to RadiantSmile for asking this question (a favorite of Dr. Phil’s), “What’s the payoff?” I know what the payoff is for me…it’s a reinforcement of all the negative tapes I play in my head.

So, no, I’m not angry, I’m just feeling stupid.

What I should be doing is paying attention to the women I meet by chance wherever. The cute little waitress in the Greek place I went to for lunch today. The woman who strikes up a conversation in the Post Office. The cashier in my neighborhood grocery store who smiles when she sees me.

You see, there’s a natural order to things. People are attracted to what they can see, regardless of how evolved we want to pretend to be and say that it’s the mind that matters. Yes, it is the mind the matters, because that’s what keeps you going when you look at each other and think, “not looking so good right now.” The connection you establish on an emotional and intellectual level is the sustainer…but the initial glance and the acknowledgement that “yeah, I’d go there”, that’s the booster that gets the whole shebang in the air.

Who am I to mess with what’s worked so well for this long?