sometimes

Sometimes I think everyone is going to die of cancer. And I can’t see that there’s anything to do at all in times like these but pray.

teeth and mountains and grapes

I’m terrible at titling things. Even as a geeky preteen sitting at my dad’s PC Junior and composing the future of contemporary American literature in Word Perfect (other kids were having Tetris dreams, mine were words in grey Fixedsys on bright blue), I agonized over titles. I finally figured out it’s better to come up with the title first, before it has the chance to cheapen whatever beautiful thing I’ve written. Anyway, I just wanted to put it out there– titles: not my thing.

Often, I just list things I’ve been thinking about or doing.

Teeth: I got a new one this week. I have since made a concerted effort to smile wide, reversing the habit of a crooked smile which I formed when I lost the tooth and became incredibly self-conscious that everyone could tell.

Mountains: I met a girl named Everest. I’ve been thinking ever since about the oddity in being named for a thing people mainly just want to conquer.

Grapes: I.. well.. I was just eating grapes. Clever, no?

argh

I can’t believe it has been nearly 6 months since my last post. Half a year. It doesn’t feel that way, and that might be what disturbs me most. It’s gotta change. I’ve gotta change.

Maybe in a while I’ll work up something about the absolute tools racing crotchrockets through my sister’s neighbourhood at 2am.

oh, Pete

My sisters and I have gotten into this habit. We’re around one or both of my nephews most of the time and there are just some things that, while they’re really not vulgar, aren’t cute coming out of the mouths of a 2- or 4-year-old, so you censor a little bit. I think this is why we started to use the phrase “for Pete’s sake” so regularly. Likely out of laziness, it has been shortened to “Pete’s sake” or the simple exclamation: “Pete!”  Which we realize would make a lot more sense to the overhearer if any of us were actually talking to someone named Peter, and that is probably what people assume is going on. But when I am on duty and can be heard firmly saying either of my nephews’ names followed immediately by “Pete!” it is not because either of them were given that middle name, but is an expression of my exasperation with their behaviour. And it’s actually pretty funny to hear.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about Peter. The only one I know is Simon Peter– you know, the guy usually pictured at the Heavenly Gates in white robes and sandals and with plentiful facial hair. But it is the week of Passover, Good Friday, and Easter and I have been contemplating a younger Peter. A Peter steadfast in his faith, of whom Jesus himself asked Who do you say I am? and then called him blessed. And mostly the Peter who, not long after getting so righteously angry he sliced off the ear of man among those who had come to arrest Jesus (!), then denied he even knew Him. To save his own flesh from being attacked as the mobs attacked Jesus, or to avoid looking like the only idiot among them who wasn’t going along with the plot. And he didn’t even do this once and then feel terrible and knock it off, but three times in a row when he was asked about his association with Jesus he said he didn’t even know the guy. In his friend’s darkest hour, no less. And he had already been admonished for being unable even to stay awake to hang out while Jesus prayed in the garden. What a jerk. I’ve been thinking about how much I’m like Peter. I don’t think I’ve ever said “Jesus? Noooo, I don’t know that guy” but my actions do it all the time. I mean, all the time. I’m embarrassed even to think about the number of people I know who probably wouldn’t know what to say if someone asked them whether I even believe in God. I’m in no danger of being accused as Peter was.

Yet he’s often referred to as “Saint Peter.” After all that. The idea of “Saint Heather” actually makes me laugh out loud (it’s okay, go ahead). I don’t doubt what I believe, but I often wonder if God was playing a bit of a joke the day he thought me up. I know all about how Simon Peter the fisherman was told to “fish for men” and how I’m supposed to be following suit, and how I’m supposed to be the love in the world and people are supposed to see Jesus in that and I often think, with this disposition, God? Really?  But then I remember Peter. Dude got to hang out with Jesus Christ and walk on freakin’ water, for Pete’s sake, and he still couldn’t get it through his big thick skull. Like me. And if it wasn’t for grace he’d have been truly sunk, in a very permanent kind of way. Because– not for lack of trying, but– we’re never going to get it through our big thick skulls and God knows it. He doesn’t just give us this thing we call grace because it’s a nice thing to do, but because He knows we need it. I’m trying to start remembering grace more often when I fail the way Peter did (all the time) instead of telling myself what a waste of space I am because of it or throwing my hands up in defeat (screw it, if I can’t do this perfectly I won’t do it at all!– I’m incredibly good at that).

So all the time, I ask: with this disposition, God? Really? and I think He’s saying: Yeah, actually. I’m using your cynical, snarly, mistrustful tendencies to make you understand that you’re never going to do it perfectly, because it’s not about you anyway. Get over yourself, for Pete’s sake.

taking it for granted

I was looking this morning at The Washington Post’s “Day In Photos” for February 23, 2011. It’s a refreshingly different (and often more artful) way to keep up with current events. I do always approach the Day In Photos with some trepidation, because there are occasionally graphic images. Today, though, it wasn’t violence or gore that struck me. It was this photo of Libyan protesters standing triumphantly atop a symbol of Muammar Qaddafi’s ruthless government– one which they have burned from the inside, as the charred edges of windows show.

All due respect to the photographer, I wouldn’t even say it’s a particularly remarkable photograph, really. It just punched me in the gut with all the struggle and injustice that I cannot possibly understand. Not, at least, in the intimate, to-their-bones way that these people understand it. I imagine they are yelling. I’d like to hold that picture, to see it more closely, but I imagine many of those mouths are open and releasing triumphant shouts, and I can feel some of their joy. But I have never experienced, or even thought I might experience, the level of fear and oppression with which these people with their flags and their raised fists have lived. Most of the time, I take my many precious freedoms for granted. And honestly, I think that’s okay. All human beings should live in environments that allow us to take things for granted like the freedom to run our mouths at will or to blog about ruthless governments (and our own). It’s okay as long as I remember often enough exactly why and how I am allowed to do so.

the bottommost rung

So I recently went shopping. By myself. There’s a really nice new place out here that’s set up like a west coast mall– streets and courtyards instead of hallways and kiosks. So I made a return at JC Penney, and as I’m crossing the courtyard, mesmerized by the gigantic Christmas tree they’d already put up & decorated, this random Brit is all ‘ello! So, not generally being a rude person, I smile and say hi. Which he apparently takes as an invitation to come alongside me and walk & talk. Takin a walk? Looking for anything specific? Is shopping what you do to enjoy life? To make matters stranger, he was eating a lollipop and walking all jauntily– like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. He could’ve busted into a chorus of chim-chim-cher-oo and it would’ve almost seemed normal. You see? You see where friendliness gets you? STALKED, that’s where. I quickly cut across the street and darted into a store. At least I yelled “have a nice night” over my shoulder. Wasn’t that kind?

After that I was– because I clearly needed to take my self esteem down a few pegs from “I’m pretty okay” to “I should be shot with the other now-useless cattle”– trying on dresses at Forever 21. There was one other dressing room in use, by some high school girls. I witnessed the following conversation:

“you don’t have jeggings?”
“no..”

“WHAT? you don’t have JEGGINGS?”

“no way”

“how can you NOT HAVE JEGGINGS?”

“they’re just not me”

“JEGGINGS ARE THE BOMB”

“okay.”

“I LOVE MY JEGGINGS!”

“okay.”

I don’t know who the girl enduring this assault was, but I liked her.

I finally gave up trying to shove myself into anything at the tween store and instead settled on the Target clearance rack, where things began to resume a certain sense of normalcy. Ah, home.

Oh, Virginia…

So, I am still wondering at many of the aspects of becoming a New York transplant in Virginia.

I have finally confirmed (via Wikipedia, where else?) what I have been suspecting for the last year: the commonwealth of Virginia is home to a whopping 10% of the nation’s vanity license plates. According to my source, the national total is 9.3 million, which means we have the privilege of seeing any of approximately 930,000 personalized license plates tooling around on a given day.  I think this statistic means a little more when you also consider that Virginia ranks 36th in size among the 50 states. Why, Virginia? Why?

I don’t think I have ever really understood the compulsion to identify oneself by the bumper stickers/license plates/flags/back window decorations of one’s vehicle. Especially here in Hampton Roads, where I’m convinced we also have one of the nation’s highest percentages of completely idiotic drivers, I can’t understand why anyone would want to stand out in that particular way (perhaps VTLVR should consider his/her car’s lack of anonymity before nearly running me off the road). Also, particularly interesting to me is that it appears the most enthusiastic of the vehicle-adorners are very angry people. I’m certain there’s a study in psychology/anthropology here somewhere.

As much as I hate them, I will admit to being amused by them on occasion. Here are a few favourites, for your entertainment:

absolutely, positively #1:

SHARTD 

I was honestly behind this vehicle in traffic only a week ago. What does this vinyl-stick-figure-adorned-minivan-driving mom think that means? Because somehow I don’t think she reads it the way we’re reading it.

PPWIFE

I have no idea what this means either, but the only explanations I can come up with are gross and/or dirty. Is it just me?

UPURZ

Really? You’re angry at every single other driver on the road? That angry?

TWO OZ

Okay, I didn’t actually see this one, I just find it really funny. A friend told me that a family member, wanting to express love for the cinematic classic The Wizard of Oz, found that “To Oz” was already taken and tweaked it to get the desired exclamation. Now we just want to know: two ounces of what?

The Problem With Southerners

This may need to be a post in two parts.

I am from the great (perhaps greater at other periods in history than at the present time, sure, but this post is not about politics) state of New York. I was actually born in Pennsylvania, but have just a few very vague memories of those two years which, honestly, I’m not certain are not just fantasies imagined to accompany the stories I’ve heard told. Aside from a stint in Phoenix, AZ, I have spent most of my life thus far in the Empire State. Relocating to southeastern Virginia has been, in some ways, very much an adjustment.

While I get wisftully nostalgic for the crisp air and the season’s palette and the apples (!) in the fall, the most glaring difference has proven to be the social norms. I’m not really interested in arguments about whether or not Hampton Roads is actually in “The South,” though I’ve certainly seen enough Confederate flags to make one– and there’s that whole Mason-Dixon Line thing. The fact is, people here are different. Judgments about the relative goodness (or otherwise) of these differences are really not my point, either; some of them just drive me nearly mad. It is not easy to get used to. See, the thing is…

Southerners are not polite. They are friendly; they are not polite. I have been asked my opinion on cereals, soups, even clothes by complete strangers who act as if we’re old friends. But at least once and often several times when I go to any public place at all, locals will bump into me. I am big on “personal space” and not a fan of being touched by people I do not know very well, but that’s not even my gripe. People don’t mean to run into me, and I understand that. It’s just crowded or they have no depth perception or balance or awareness whatsoever of their surroundings or whatever probably innocent thing has caused them to barrel into me or my grocery cart, stomp on my flip-flopped foot, knock my bag off my shoulder, etc. But is it really that difficult to utter an “excuse me” as one continues on one’s haphazard way, tripping over large feet and knocking down small children? “I’m sorry” would do, but I’m not even asking for an apology. Really, all I want is for you to acknowledge that you’ve done something a bit inconsiderate, though most likely by accident, and all will be forgotten. Instantaneously, even. This can be done satisfactorily with two words: Excuse Me. When I’m visiting home and strangers do use that magical little phrase, I am sometimes filled with such fuzziness and warmth that it’s only that whole personal space thing I mentioned before that keeps me from shoving my tongue down their throats in sheer gratitude. This is how much it bugs me.

In New York, as a general rule, no one’s going to stop you in the produce section and start a conversation about their grandma’s potato salad. If you do it, you’ll most likely be looked at like you’re a little nuts and treated to a cordial but dismissive reply as your target moves in the opposite direction. This is what I’m used to. And it suits my disposition. I am not, however, accustomed to being commanded by strangers or acquaintances to do things. Here are some recent examples:

“Hand me that pen.”

“Give me her number.”

“Let me speak to ______.”

“Gimme the card.”

Why doesn’t anyone in the South use the words “please” or “thank you”?! I’m more than happy to hand you a pen, give you a number, or a card, or whatever it is you’re asking for in most cases, but I do not take kindly to being given orders.  My innate sense of self-respect and instinctive authority issues make me immediately prickle at these demands. Sometimes I will either say, “Please?” before I’ll acquiesce, or I very deliberately say “You’re WELCOME.” afterward. And then I’m the jackass and someone’s looking at me with eyebrows raised like what’s her problem?

No one holds a door down here, either. If I’m walking through a door that is not automatic, I glance over my shoulder without even thinking about it, just in case there’s someone on my heels for whom I should pause and hang onto the door handle just seconds longer. This, I learned when I was probably five, is the curteous thing to do. If someone is within a reasonable distance and is ostensibly headed out the same exit of which you are making use, you cannot possibly be in such a hurry that the 4 seconds it takes to avoid slamming that door in the stranger’s face is going to put you out. If you are not a pregnant woman experiencing contractions or a defense lawyer late for a clemency hearing (in which case, what are you doing at Starbucks, dude?), that kind of urgency just doesn’t exist.

One of my favourite customs has less to do with politeness and, I suspect, more to do with the self-respect and problems with authority I mentioned earlier. I’ve had several jobs which required me to use the phone a lot. But until I moved to Virginia, I was unfamilar with the custom of announcing oneself as “Mr. Smith” or “Mrs. Jones” rather than providing one’s full (first and last) name during the introduction phase of a professional phone conversation. I’m not even sure I can explain, entirely, why this gets under my skin the way it does. When I answer my phone at work, my greeting always includes the announcement of my first name. And when the caller replies with “this is Mrs. So-and-So..” I am immediately annoyed and, let’s be honest, less inclined to be of any real assistance. It feels like this stranger is demanding a level of respect which has not been earned. It feels like they are asserting their superiority, as I have already let my first name slip. Not to mention the practical reasons it’s dumb: does Mrs. Butler honestly think her last name is so uncommon that she is the only one who has ever dialed this number and by addressing me like she’s my Sunday School teacher I’ll know exactly who I’m speaking to? By not just giving your whole name up front, all you’re doing is wasting my time and yours, prolonging the process wherein I have to figure out how to help you. I’ve already given you mine. I’ve already set forth the rules of this exchange and you are not above playing by them. After all, you need something from me, remember?

I wonder where the line is? I don’t think it’s the Mason-Dixon. I haven’t done any scientific studies, but based on my many road trips between here & New York, it actually seems that the change begins in Virginia. If there weren’t gigantic signs, I’d likely not even realize the difference between Pennsylvania and Maryland, but shortly after crossing into VA, something changes. There is a palpable shift. Drivers, gas station attendants, fast-food purveyors are just a little different. It’s been over a year, and I’m still deciding if the vastly more agreeable weather and proximity to the water here is enough to compensate. I’ll let you know.

explanations

I was asked why my blog hasn’t been updated “in forever.” See, here’s the thing:

Every time I look at it (and I do look at it), I practically have an anxiety attack. First, I start stressing out about the fact that I don’t know what to say. Then I think about the fact that I could say anything because who cares?—but I couldn’t really say anything because so many people, people who really know me in “real life,” seem to read it [see last post]—then I think about how much I suck for not ever updating it, then about how much I actually really do want to update it and what this invisible, infuriating, mental thing keeping me from doing so even IS, then about how I’m wasting my whole life not doing what I want to do….. then I have a glass of red wine and watch an episode of Mad Men. This happens at least once a week.

whys

It’s an overexposure thing.