Old Men Fighting in the Streets

   On my afternoon run through City Park (here in gorgeous Sarasota, Florida), I witnessed something pretty startling: two old men, fighting and screaming horrible things at one another in the middle of the road. While hiding behind a SUV in a nearby parking lot, I'm fairly certain I was able to figure out what caused the fight, so allow me to unfold the scene.

   Earlier on my run, I happened to notice a group of elderly people  - most looked like they were in their mid-70's and on up - standing along the side of a busy road that cuts past the marina. They were all holding signs that I couldn't read, but even before I had reason to be concerned about an ensuing fight, I gathered that the signs were of a political nature. I even thought to myself when I first jogged by that the people holding the signs must be of a more of a liberal persuasion (mostly due to the fact that one of the ladies I passed was holding up two very gnarled-looking fingers in the peace sign, and several of the other people were swaying like they might be signing "All we are saaayyy-iiinnngg is give peace a chaaance...")

   Anyway, on my way back past the marina, while listening to a very groovy tune on my iPod, I suddenly noticed a big fat Basset Hound dart several feet in front of me, and he looked rather upset. Next, I saw a very well dressed older gentlemen - wearing a buttery yellow cardigan over his lime green Polo shirt, along with tan golf shorts and a pair of boat shoes - dashing after the dog. The man seemed upset, so at first, I assumed he was frustrated with his dog. But the level of agitation seemed a little too high, and, I also noticed that he seemed to be shouting at someone over his shoulder. So I removed one earbud so I could hear what was going on, and that was when the first "F-bomb" landed right in front of me! (It came shooting over the top of a parked car and landed directly on the man in the yellow sweater, and suddenly, it was more than clear I was entering a verbal war zone!)

   I eased my jog down to a walk and then tucked in behind a nearby truck and turned my iPod off. Then I peered over the truck and watched as the first well-dressed man - who now had his dog on a leash - started walking toward a second well-dressed man (who was wearing bright orange slacks and a purple Polo shirt). The man in the purple shirt was holding up a sign that said REPUBLICAN DEPRESSION: 1929-2008.

   I'm not even sure what that means, exactly, but I did quickly gather he is not a Republican! But the verbal exchange between the two men didn't help me sort out the conflict much better. Yellow sweater man was shouting with his fist raised high in the air that the man in the purple shirt was an idiot and his stock broker was an idiot, too. The man in the purple shirt shouted back that the man in the yellow sweater was a pompous $%&*  &$%# and that he didn't have a @&*$*$% clue about economics. The insults continued, but I was unable to ascertain the true crux of the argument. As the man in the purple shirt started to cross over closer to yellow sweater man and his Basset Hound, I could feel things were about to get ugly, so I slipped out from behind the SUV and made my way onto the sidewalk leading away from the road. 

   From a distance, I watched as purple man poked his finger at yellow man, and the two seemed to be spitting words and hurling insults with great heat. I felt a little shaky as I watched these two grown men, fighting like hopped up teenagers. I decided that I couldn't take any more - it actually made me sad to see two men (who were very likely grandfathers) fighting in the middle of the road. What has this world come to?

   As I put my earbuds back into my ears, and pressed Play on my iPod, I couldn't seem to shake the electric spark in the air over politics and the economy in America. We are so polarized about how to handle things that even or most mature citizens are behaving badly. How are our children supposed to know how to behave when even their grandparents can't control their emotions?

  As I sit here and blog about this unusual episode in my day, I can't help but wonder how we as Americans will ever get passed our differences. Things are just so big and seem to be so broken. Is it all worth arguing about? Well...I guess it's worth arguing about, but I'm not sure that's the answer. Maybe I'm more like the Basset Hound - I try not to get all tangled up in the arguments, and do my best to keep my slow, fat body out of the fray.  I don't know... But I just thought I'd blog about it and see if that would help.

  

One Possible Reason June Cleaver Wore Heels

   I watched a lot of Nickelodeon when I was a kid - it was kind of new when I was a teen, and since my dad was rather strict about watching MTV, I filled my spare time (that he knew about anyway) with shows like Leave it to Beaver and I Love Lucy. It was great entertainment, but not always the most gripping plot situations for sure, so you had to kind of make it interesting on your own. You had to try to invest your attention in other ways to make the program a really good waste of time.

   So I diverted my attention to studying the details of the sets and the clothing that all the characters wore.  Since there was no color to stimulate the eyes, the details had to be spot on, and it was always very interesting to notice even the smallest touches! However, sometimes, the details didn't make sense within the context of the situations, which would often leave me amused. Take for instance the fact that June Cleaver was known to vacuum in her high heels. What's that all about? I mean, high heels and hard-core housekeeping are a dangerous combination, right?

  Well, this weekend, I found out that maybe there was an actual reason for the heels. Maybe June didn't have a choice about the shoes she wore when it came to tidying up the place. Maybe, just maybe, June had a pulled muscle in her calf.

  You see, I pulled a muscle in my right calf this weekend. It was a freak situation - one that came on with quite a bit of drama actually. You see, I had been wearing some high heeled clogs one day last week, and the following morning, my calf was a bit tender. I really didn't think that much of it, but the tightness of the calf grew throughout the day, and it caused me to limp slightly when I would walk. Well, on my daily trip out to the mailbox in my flip flops, I took a wrong step, and with a loud POP, my calf muscle gave way, and a blinding pain swelled up and over my entire leg!

   I managed to hobble my way into the house and flop down on the sofa, but the calf was clearly a mess. The swelling and pain were miserable, and I knew that this was going to be a problem for me. My whole weekend was shot, and as I recognized the full reality of the situation, I knew that even my passion for cleaning my house would be put on hold, because I would need to give the leg a rest. 

   So after a full weekend of elevating the leg, wrapping it in a compression wrap and messaging various liniments and herbal remedies into the muscle, the ability to hobble became a bit easier. I was able to walk on my bad leg by keeping all my weight on the ball of my foot, and I could actually put a little weight on the leg - as long as my foot was in the tip-toe kind of position. It was a drag to try to get around this way, but I was truly thankful for any kind of progress by the time Saturday night rolled around! But my need to do my weekly cleaning was pressuring me to find a solution to my limited mobility. I had to think of something.

   That's when I had a brilliant idea: What if I put on a high heeled shoe?

   It made good sense to try. I mean, when I was hoisting all of my body weight on the ball of my foot, if my arch got tired, I could have easily landed flat-footed, causing excruciating pain to radiate through my leg. At least with the high heel on my foot, the shoe would prevent the arch from failing and flopping my weight on a flat foot, and maybe, just maybe, I'd be safer in a high heeled shoe, and maybe, just maybe, I would be able to get the rugs vacuumed.

   Well by golly Wally, IT WORKED! In fact, it not only took the pressure off the ball of my foot and my arch, I could actually walk and place my full weight on my bad leg!! And while my vacuuming efforts didn't feel as easy as June's efforts looked on the show, I got the job done, and done well. 

   I certainly hope the calf muscle will heal in due time - I mean, I certainly don't want to be confined to high heeled shoes for the rest of my life! But the thing is, I feel like I have a new appreciation for June and her cleaning efforts. I feel like there is a newfound connection to her plight as a woman who has a need to vacuum - no matter what! 

   Well, there is no way that I will ever be sure about why June wore heels while doing her chores. But I guess I feel like I can frame up a better answer to that question at least! ;o)

Pinky Issue

   For some reason, this week, I was reminded of an issue I used to have with one of my pinky fingers. I know it sounds really odd to have an "issue" with a finger, but I truly had a problem with my left pinky. You see, smack dab in the center of the middle portion of my pinky - between the upper knuckle the knee-equivalent knuckle of the finger - I had a dark, black, unsightly mole. I had - and still have - various moles and freckles on my hands, but this mole on my pinky was very troubling... And very ugly to me.

   Back then, when I would look at my left hand, all I could see was that big mole, just looking back at me like it's name was John Boy Walton. Everything else about the finger was fine - it had a good nail and it was the right shape and size. But just like the actor who played John Boy Walton, all I could see when I looked at that finger was the big, black mole!

   So to make sure no one else had to look the ugly speck, I'd tuck my pinky under my ring finger when I was sitting idle, or I'd ball my hand up into a tight fist to make sure the monster spot didn't garner any inadvertent attention. (I think I may have actually caused the joint to pop out a bit on that hand in an effort to cover up the mole because to this day, my left pinky has a very broad range of motion - compared to all of my other fingers, that is.)

   Then one day, when I was in the sixth grade, I had the brilliant idea to put a bandage over the mole! By wrapping the taupe colored adhesive around the middle of my finger, I could hide the spot! The idea was genius because if people did happen to notice the bandage, they would worry I was hurt - which would be a lovely reaction - and not be tempted to turn away with horror over the ugly mole that was hiding under the dressing! It was a great plan, and I was so very happy to have stumbled upon it.

   The first few days of wearing the bandage provided me with a newfound liberation! My left hand was suddenly free to move about and accentuate my stories with fluid movement and total and complete participation. I felt confident and happy with the bandage on my finger, and even though my mother asked about it a few times (without the anticipated and welcome sympathy I had predicted, but with more of the pestering, worried-mother style she was known for when bandages were in use!) I felt like the bandage was a great and brilliant move.

  But after wearing the bandage for about a week, I did start to feel there could be a potential down side to my camouflaging plan. Due to the fact that I have always had an irrational need to wash my hands (repeatedly) throughout the day, my pinky finger had started to smell a little - like wet adhesive mixed with a tinge of fungus. And even though I changed the bandage every day - sometimes twice or more - the stench was still present, as if it was a permanent part of my pinky skin. And then there was the chapping. The skin under the bandage started to shrivel slightly and had a milky, yet chalky quality to it that simply didn't look right. However, the shriveled, caky quality of the skin only made the black of the mole pop with more drama, and even though the stink kind of drove me crazy, I now I realized I simply couldn't allow myself to go through my life without the bandage!

  So I pressed on with my bandage strategy, but I came up with various ointments and creams to apply to the finger before I put the bandage in place, and I worked out clever ways to use my left hand without getting the pinky dirty. (That way, when I washed my hands, I could let the bandaged left pinky pull away from the water - kind of the way you hold it when sipping proper tea from fine China.) The new techniques I used worked for a time, but eventually, it was the stench that finally got me. I can actually smell that awful, pungent smell in my mind as I recall this time in my life, and even the memory of it makes me dizzy. I had to finally face the reality of my situation. People could either see the unsightly mole on my finger, or smell the stench of my molding, rotting flesh underneath the bandage. 

   So...I decided to let the mole win.

  Loads of time has passed since I was in this sixth grade dilemma, yet the other day, I caught myself tucking my pinky under my ring finger when I placed my hand on the back of my husband's chair at church. It was strange to think that I was still self-conscious about my pinky, so I pulled my hand up to my face to inspect the mole. To my complete and utter shock, there was no mole on the pinky at all! Not even a "speck" or a "freck" - it was just plain skin (that didn't stink!)

   As I studied my pinky for awhile, I had to laugh at myself. At one time in my life, I thought for sure this mole was going to be a problem I would have to deal with forever! AND, I was oddly certain that if other people saw the mole, they too would think it was unsightly! The way I analyzed that silly freckle and focused on it was such a waste of energy - especially if I'd known it would fade as I grew older, and one day, wouldn't even exist anymore! 

   The whole thing kind of makes me wonder: are there things in my life right now that I obsess over as if they are going to impact my life forever? Are there things that take over my mind and guide my every decision that one day will end up being as trivial as the mole on my pinky?

  Well, I do believe there are always a few irrational driving forces in my life - especially when it comes to things having to do with how I think others will see me. BUT, I really do think I can learn a lot from this memory involving my pinky! Maybe I should just have a little more faith in the fact that nothing ever stays exactly the same, and I can trust that even my own outlook has the potential to evolve! What a revelation!

   (Hmmm.... I may just have to go out and buy a pinky ring for my left finger to commemorate this valuable life-lesson!)

A Question of Talent

   So my husband likes this show that kind of gets on my nerves a little bit. It's called America's Got Talent. Thankfully, we are nearing the home stretch of this dreadful talent show, where acts from all over America compete to win a million dollars and a Vegas show. I think the reason the show bugs me so much is because some of the acts are just really terrible. It kind of slays me when the judges ask the guy who just pulled string through his nose and out of his mouth if he believes his act is worth a million dollars, and he confidently answers, "Oh yes!"

   It's not that I want to be a dream squisher, or that I don't want people to believe in their greater value. It's just that it makes me worry, that's all... I worry that if a drag queen lip-synching Tina Turner songs, or some inflatable plastic mascots can stand on a stage in front of people like my husband, and declare the have talent, maybe I'm not as talented as I hope I am.

   So in the end, is it really a matter of talent, or is it more about confidence? I guess maybe a combination of both, really. And while I'm super happy that we won't be watching this show much longer, I guess I need to take some notes from the various acts that have been on the show. One, that in order to be successful in life, you have to put yourself out there and try. Two, that a belief in your ability to move people in some way is often all the fuel you really need to make it. And three, America is a very open place for showcasing the odd, the unusual and the questionably talented. Points taken... ;o)

Sister's Keeper

   You know how when you're with a good friend, you kind of count on her to tell you if you've got pepper in your teeth, or if you have some mustard on your chin? I mean, if she's a good friend, she will certainly tell you about that kind of thing, right? Well, wouldn't it be nice if that same kind of care and concern extended beyond the bonds of friendship, and spilled out and over into the collective sisterhood of being a woman? I find myself pondering this because of two experiences I had this week, and now I feel the need to share. I went to Washington DC and Philadelphia with my husband, and while I was out and about, I saw a couple of sisters in trouble. 

   The first sister was having what you might call a minor wardrobe malfunction. We were on our way in to do a meet and greet with the Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid, and it was kind of a busy, bustling environment. I was scooting my way over into a line to sign the guest book when a larger woman stepped right in front of me. I pulled back to let her in, but because she was a bit larger, my face was literally pressed into her back. I did my best to keep a thin margin of space between me and this gal, but it was a real effort. That's when I noticed that the woman's shirt tag was hanging out of her collar. It is sticking out and flopping around, just a tad above my sight-line. It was a shirt made by the oh-so-stylish Liz Claiborne and it was an XL.

   Now, I felt like if it were me, and my XL label was flapping around, I would hope someone would give me a signal or maybe discreetly tuck it in. So acting on impulse, I gently tucked the tab into the collar of the space-invading sister. It just seemed like the right thing to do, right? WRONG! I guess that was just too familiar of an act for a total stranger! The woman swung her head around and gave me a nasty look and said, "You got a problem?" I decided explaining was out of the question, so I just smiled and said, "Nope...no problems..."

   Now even though I generally consider myself as a person who learns her lessons, I must have a sadistic side in me when it comes to helping out one of my fellow ladies. This time, as I was boarding my flight from Philly to Atlanta, my eyes were drawn to a young woman, sitting in an aisle seat. She was wearing a tan skirt and tight, white T-shirt. She had managed to wedge her feet up and off the floor by bending and tucking her toes into the seat-back pocket -- you know, the pocket where people shove garbage, magazines, and if you're unlucky, used air-sickness bags. And because she was wearing a skirt, her risky positioning basically gave all the boarding passengers a free cooter shot! (She had on lime green panties, by the way, and it was not a good angle!)

   Clearly, this was not good! I felt immediately concerned that she was flashing everyone as they boarded the plane! There were even people pointing it out to each other! I felt like I had to do something. So being the glutton for punishment that I am, I carefully lowered myself down so I could line my head up to hers and said, "Miss, you might want to reposition..." She looked up from her book and said in a kind of angry huff, "What?!" So I lowered myself again and said, "You might want to put your legs down..." The girl just looked at me like I was a total idiot, and said, "My legs are fine..."  

   As I kept making my way back to my middle seat, way in the back of the plane, I felt my cheeks start to redden with embarrassment for trying to help a sister out. Don't other woman want this kind of care? Aren't we supposed to put our necks out to protect one another from embarrassment or humiliation? Isn't that what we women do? Well...I guess not anymore. I guess we have entered a time in our culture where it is all about live and let live. Perhaps it's time for me to make a mental note that these days, you have to be careful when it comes to protecting strangers from themselves!

A real head scratcher...

   OK, so here's the situation. While buying a hot, sticky cinnamon bun and a latte this morning at my favorite coffee shop, my attention was diverted by a stunning young lady exiting from the bathroom. She had on super tight, super small shorts, and a stomach-skimming, cropped T-shirt. Her stunning-ness wasn't so much about her face - which was fresh and pretty, but nothing shockingly so - but more about her long legs, and her very skimpy outfit. 

   I watched her cross the coffee shop and then stop at a table where there was an incredibly frumpy looking middle-aged woman, wearing one of those believed to be figure hiding ensembles - you know, the kind that just shapelessly drapes over the body in an effort to "conceal" flaws that simply can't be hidden? I quickly surmised that this older gal was the girl's mother. (Well, I guess I picked up that fact because the lovely girl said, "You ready to go Mom?")

   Anyway, as I watched the two women gathering their things, I was feeling a bit ashamed of the cinnamon bun I had just ordered. (To have a lovely figure like this girl has, you can't go around eating cinnamon buns, now can you!) That's when I heard the mother shout, in a sharp, rather alarming tone, "Get control of your eyes!" For a second, I thought she was speaking to me, but then I realized there was a man standing right behind me, and - I'm just guessing here - I think he must have noticed this woman's daughter as well. 

   The two ladies marched out of the coffee shop with a huff of self-righteousness, but not before the mother had a chance to zap the man behind me with her hateful stare. Once the room was all clear, nearly everyone seated in the immediate area let out nervous laughs and commentaries like, "Whatever!" and "What a beast!" The guy behind me seemed to take some solace in the fact that other people in the room were struck by the exchange as well. And it seemed that people's reaction almost made him the victim! And I'll be honest, there was a tiny part of me that felt a little sorry for him, too, because the mother's upset seemed so hateful and personal.

    But as I slathered on a layer of real butter (only on the outer section of my roll that didn't get enough frosting), I began to really wonder about who was ultimately responsible for what went down in that exchange. Does the mother have the right to be upset at a man for looking at her daughter with lust in his eyes when her daughter is going out of her way to flaunt her great body? Does the man have a responsibility to keep his eyes diverted when a woman openly exposes that much of herself in the middle of a public coffee shop? And what about the sexy girl? Was this her plan? Did she hope to get this kind of attention from the men she passed by, while wearing this eye-catching number?

    As I pondered all of these thoughts and replayed the situation in my head, I became convicted of the fact that there were likely multiple things going on during this exchange. Could it be that the mother had some jealous feelings about the attention her daughter was getting and lashed out? Maybe. I don't think this is an uncommon phenomenon - especially in these modern times where women seem to be competing at ever turn with each other, whether they are related or not! And to me, it seems like when women compete, it is for some kind of brass-ring achievement anyway (like male attention, for example).

   Or what about the idea that the mother was actually upset at her daughter but didn't have enough confidence to reprimand her flesh-and-blood, and instead, took it out on a stranger. I do see that many women have trouble confronting other women with truth because they fear losing the relationship or connection. So maybe this mother was a bit troubled or even embarrassed by what her daughter was wearing, but just couldn't find a way to share her concerns with her daughter. Perhaps this caused her frustrations to mount up and suddenly, without warning, she lashed out at the first man she made eye-contact with!

   And what about the man. Was he out of line? Sure. But when have guys ever not struggled with looking?! It's how they are made. And in this day and age, women are decadently presented for the world to see - much like the bakery case, filled with confectionary bliss, that once housed the cinnamon bun resting on my plate! How is a normal person supposed to control the lust for something so decadent when it is displayed in such a way for creating temptation?

   Clearly the daughter didn't mind the attention, and that's where my thoughts have stayed put. If she found the gaze of lusting men in my favorite coffee shop offensive, she certainly didn't let on. Looking back, I even recall that she lifted her leg seductively as she reached down to pick up her purse. I am going to take a wild guess here, but I have a feeling this girl knew exactly what she was doing this morning when she dressed herself and checked her reflection in the mirror. She new the power she could have over men by showing off her body. (But I have to wonder if she realizes what this "power" is doing to her mother!)

   So now I'm left to wonder, and scratch my head a bit. How do we as women protect each other, own our greatness and beauty, and live out our lives with respect and dignity if we can't find a balance. There simply are no collectively accepted rules of etiquette or codes of conduct anymore - particularly among women these days. And to me, this seems like a scary place to be. 

   

 

Strawberry Shortcake - She is just a fond memory...

   I had this little doll when I was around 7 or 8 called Strawberry Shortcake. She was this cute little collectable toy with red hair, a starched-white pinafore, strawberry-patterned bloomers and a funny little bonnet. But the most notable thing about her was the fact that if you took a good sniff of her head, she smelled of sweet, luscious strawberries. Yum!! 

   Oh! And did I mention that she had yummy friends? There was another doll that smelled just like apricots and one that was scented with peaches and cream, and I'm pretty sure there was a sister that wore the scent of zesty blueberries, too. I loved these dolls - mostly because they also had the kind of hair your could comb, and you could even wash them without taking away their lovely scents (which is a huge bonus when you are OCD!) But the very best part of all was the fact that they were very innocent and silly, just the way childhood should be.

   So you can imagine my sadness when earlier this week, USA Today revealed that the makers of this classic toy felt the need to "revamp" Strawberry Shortcake to make her more "relevant" to today's young girl. The new and improved Strawberry Shortcake now has a thiner face, longer, more flowing hair, and a more realistic girl-like body. Oh, and did I mention that she also has painted lips and no awkward freckles on her nose?

   I know it's ridiculous, but as I read more about this new, more modern version of one of my childhood favs, I actually felt a sense of sorrow. Why isn't the old version good enough for the new youth of America? Is the doll that inspired me so much that I still remember her at age 36 not good enough for the child of today? Why isn't something innocent relevant to childhood anymore?

   As a younger sister, I used to find myself wishing that I could be in stride with the things my sister did. (In fact, I was recently thinking of how badly I wanted to wear my sister's training bra when my mother finally decided the time had come to get my sister's boobs under control. I think I even remember sitting outside her locked bedroom door, begging her to let me wear one of her tiny training bras - specifically the one with the tennis racket details sewn right into the center - to school the next day.) For my mom and me, it was a constant battle to keep my little mind where it needed to be so I could enjoy being Sonja at every age.

  And, as is the classic case when it comes to my mom, she used to say something poignant and pithy to me during those times when I was a puddle outside my sister's room: Sonja, you can always grow up, but you can't grow down.

   She was right. You can't go back into a time of innocence and blissful ignorance once you start to see too much. When the things you are exposed to rob you of the refreshing freedom of not knowing or fully understanding the cruel realities of the world around you, the layers of happiness start to pull away. When you enter into a time and place where a toy has to be "relevant" to an adult perception of what's important in a young girl's world, there goes childhood.

   So tonight as I post this long awaited entry, I want to send a shout out to my mom, the late Diana Jean Bentley. Thanks for holding onto my youth for me, and for whispering truth in my ear. Thanks for giving me a childhood where a dolly in bloomers and a bonnet inspired me to enjoy my time of innocence.