Yes, I Have a Problem

Posted on January 4, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Kris and gin

At 3am in Las Vegas, vomiting Asian Lettuce Wraps and Don Julio tequila into a hotel bathrobe, four words came through my drunken fog loud and clear: I need to stop.

Four little words that I recognized, even in the blur of inebriation, as vital. Words I would remember long after my once-per-decade overindulgence had ended.

It wasn’t drinking that I needed to stop, at least not entirely, it was the reasons why I was drinking that required my attention.

*

I am blessed and cursed by the inability to become addicted to just about anything. Aside from writing and physical fitness, my addictions tend to be intense but short-lived. I thrive on novelty and even the biggest and most exciting vices end up boring me eventually.

I say “cursed” because my need for The New Thing also keeps me from committing to more virtuous long term endeavors.

Alcoholism is not something I have ever worried about and it’s not a vice I’ve had cause to question in myself. My parents drank, sure. Dad had a bar in the rec-room, like many dads of that era, and he loved to play bartender, but he rarely drank to excess. Neither did my mom. They were both social drinkers and even when they did overdo it they never morphed into angry, mean or depressed drunks. Like just about every other teen, I experimented with booze but it didn’t hook me and thanks to my family I knew what “responsible drinking” looked like.

My first marriage was a crash course in what irresponsible drinking looked like. Having watched a man who frequently could not stop himself from drinking until he passed out, I was convinced that my occasional cocktails or glasses of wine were far from a desperate plea for help or an illness.

During my ten years in the film industry I rarely even tipped a glass of wine. I needed to be as fit and thin as humanly possible and ready to work even if the phone rang at 9pm on a Friday night. Alcohol did not lend itself well to that career or lifestyle.

The tropics loosened me up a little—hey, flavoured rum was cheaper than juice in the Bahamas, and boy was it soooooome kind of tasty! Even so, most times I was too busy to dull my senses more than a couple of nights out of the week.

Later, I switched to martinis—okay, gin on ice—to keep my sugar intake to a minimum. A wise decision, since straight alcohol takes more time to drink (at least until you get used to it) and the slower you consume alcohol the more aware you are of just how intoxicated you are becoming.

All this is my way of saying that over the years I have been acutely aware of what and how much I drank. There have been moments when I stopped and asked myself if I had a problem but, inevitably, life would get crazy and I’d put aside my martinis to focus on something more interesting.

Until lately.

Lately, drinking has become a habit. I don’t overdo it more than a few times a year but every night for at least two years has seen me filling a tumbler with ice and pouring in a few ounces of gin. At least twice, per night and sometimes more. Every night.

If you’re wondering, yes, it bothered me. But then I would think, ‘Well, it’s not like I’m hiding it or don’t have an Off switch, like my ex.’ Once I’d satisfied my self-created criteria for What Constitutes A Drinking Problem, I would let it go. And I am well-versed in the old adage that stating you don’t have a problem is often a sign that you do, in fact, have a problem.

I don’t have a problem.

Let me rephrase that. I have a problem but it’s not *that* problem.

What is my problem? Let’s go back to Vegas to answer that.

*

I have never thrown up from drinking too much alcohol. There are a few times in my youth that I wanted to but my body hates and fears throwing up and shuts down the possibility whenever it can with a fierceness that is wondrous to behold. But this night in Vegas was no ordinary night.

I had not just overdone it, I had legitimately poisoned myself. Two martinis in the room, a mojito at dinner (the Asian Lettuce Wraps I would revisit later), followed by countless (yes, I lost count) glasses of Don Julio tequila while playing Four Card Poker. One of our tablemates was supplying the drinks and we were all having so much fun I didn’t slow down for even a moment to wonder if maybe I should. . . well, slow down.

When Prez and I left the table at 2am I left behind two glasses of tequila I had not yet even touched.

As I told Prez later, “I was fine and then I was definitely not fine.” So, I barfed up booze and dinner and could have easily chalked it up to the kind of crazy drunk I have maybe once every ten years. (The last time was a friend’s 50th birthday, not quite a decade ago but close enough). But those four words—I need to stop—rang in my ears and would not cease.

Apparently, you can have an epiphany even while you’re gooned. Who knew?

What those words drove home for me was that I was no longer enjoying alcohol, I was using it. Using it to numb myself, to avoid pain, to avoid conflict, to avoid unpleasant truths, to avoid All the Bad Things. Drinking wasn’t the problem; why I was drinking was the problem.

As I emptied my stomach, I did not vow to quit drinking and live a clean life from that point forward. I did promise myself to stop hiding and avoiding. I promised myself I would be brave. I don’t mind admitting that scares the hell out of me right now.

*

My epiphany happened on December 23rd. Since that time, I have had one martini, which is about 20-25 less than I usually would have had by now. (The math makes me queasy). I’ve had some glasses of wine with dinner but several nights have been dedicated to water, tea or freshly-squeezed orange juice (I love you, southern California). I don’t feel deprived or anxious. I feel no burning need to “hit the bottle”.

The hard part is the rest of it. Slowly, I am facing the things that made me choose liquid anesthetic. Of course, the loss of my father and sister rank right up there. I have made a conscious decision to move forward in (not from) my grief. I need to look after me for awhile and get myself back on the path of hard work and optimism. There’s still room for missing my family, but now my grief needs to move to the back seat and let me do the driving.

Other problems will be tackled as I go along. I’m a realist to the core. No one changes overnight. This will be a long road and I’m content to know I’m on it and my wheels are rolling.

I am forgiving myself for faltering. I wasn’t strong enough. It happens.

If we’re together, don’t be surprised or offended if I turn down your offered martini. If you’ve bought me drinks or bottles of gin in the past, don’t feel as if you contributed to my problem. I did what I needed to do to protect myself and the martini you bought me may have saved me a night of crying alone in my room. It’s all good. If you see me drinking, don’t assume I’ve “fallen off the wagon”. As I said, my goal is not to quit drinking or get clean, my goal is to tackle the reasons I’ve been drinking. When I’m finished with that, I imagine the volume and frequency of my drinking will return to a normal level without much effort on my part. Don’t think that you can’t drink around me—this is not about temptation and even if it was it’s up to me to be a responsible adult. Don’t worry that I will lecture you about your drinking. I won’t. Don’t worry that I won’t be as much fun at social events; I’m a goddamned laugh factory even when I’m 100% sober!

My 2016 has begun with a challenge for me to be better. Wish me luck but, more importantly, wish me strength. I think I’m going to need it.

Posted in Friends, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Travel, USA | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Me and the Great Big Ocean

Posted on December 31, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Wed pic 57

Another New Year’s Eve approaches. Another, likely futile, attempt on my part to stay up until midnight. This year Prez and I are in the same place, with the same people, as the year before. Nothing has changed and everything has changed.

I’ve been contemplating the year ahead, an exercise that reminds me of driving our boat out of Ucluelet harbour in the middle of August, blinded by fog, rocks on all sides, hoping our GPS is accurate, wondering what the seas will be like once we navigate into open water. Optimism tempered by experience.

Goals and plans are my GPS. Though I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions (with the exception of my annual vow to floss more often), I usually have a surplus of goals that wake me up every morning and drive me onward. The end of the year is stock taking time for me. How much have I accomplished? What remains undone and why?

This is a different year.

All I can say about 2015 is “I survived”. Every plan and goal I had going into this year, I tossed overboard to keep the boat from sinking.

In fact, as I type this, all my years on the water are coming back to me in sharp focus. No coincidence. Life on the ocean, with its long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of extreme euphoria and moments of sheer terror, is the perfect mirror of our larger life.

If that’s so, then 2015 was the two days Prez and I left our little cay in the Bahamas and journeyed to Key Largo, Florida in our little fishing boat. We set out in calm water, under clear skies, only to have a white squall drop on our heads. In the Grand Bahama marina, we cleaned up and dried off, me still in shock. From there, our uneventful crossing of the open Atlantic and the notoriously treacherous Gulf Stream had us grinning again, even if we inadvertently chose one of the most difficult cuts to make our entrance to the shelter of the intercoastal waterway and were swamped by a standing wave. But our hubris was quickly punished by one of Florida’s tropical thunderstorms that soaked us as we slept and sent my poor cat Emily dashing across the marina in a feline panic. More triumphs and mishaps followed until we arrived at our destination, soggy and exhausted, only to find that every piece of electrical equipment we owned, no matter how meticulously stored, had been destroyed by salt water.

More than twelve years later, every high and low of those two days remain etched in my cranium. I suspect 2015 will have the same effect. I may not remember every day and every moment but this will be the year that fixes itself in my memory—all the good, all the bad.

That day we arrived in Key Largo, our future had never been more uncertain. In a way, that day would set the tone for all the years to follow. Uncertainty became our guiding star, as odd as that may sound. We feared it, pushed against it, and then slowly, somehow, embraced it.

Many times the ocean has humbled me, reminded me of what a small and insignificant creature I really am. But the ocean has also taught me that storms can be weathered and there are often no two words more important and meaningful than, “I survived”.

The house Prez and I rented in Key Largo came with a lovely outdoor tiki bar, complete with a palm thatch sun shade. When we inspected the bar, we noticed several old cell phones had been nailed to the palm trunk—a perfect summation of the laid-back attitude of the Florida Keys. Seized by the inspiration, Prez hurried to dig our now-dead phones out of the pile of electronic corpses that had once been our links to civilization. Losing our cameras, our laptop, our phones, all our photos and every address and phone number ( both old and new), had devastated us—the final insult to end a failed experiment. Solemnly, Prez nailed our dead phones to that palm trunk. We laughed, we unpacked, we dried out our belongings, and then we carried on.

We had no idea where we were going or what we would do next but we had survived and a world of possibilities awaited us.

I have no idea where I’m going in 2016. Thanks to 2015, I do know that whatever I do I will have the love and support of my friends and family, and even kind strangers.

So here I am at the turn of the tide, nailing my metaphorical cell phone to the palm tree. I survived.

Here’s to the year ahead and the great big ocean of life.

Posted in Environment, Friends, Grief and Mourning, Life, Ocean, Travel | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

The Road

Posted on December 18, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Camera shot into side mirror of truck

You say, “The Road won’t win this time. I will nail my feet to the ground. I will hold fast. I will be normal.”

You make plans and you imagine yourself the star of a movie where nothing changes and the hero (you), wakes in the same bed every morning all year round. And just as it begins to feel possible…

Come. Come to me.

Hands slap over ears. “I can’t! I won’t!”

You can. You will.

The moment your co-pilot turns to you, before his mouth even opens to speak, your heart raises its hand. Yes, you will go.

You’ve writhed and squirmed and fought but now you’re in that same old seat. Your eyes have become windshields, your lungs pistons, your brain a steering wheel.

Welcome home, the Road says.

You’re reading the maps, calculating the distances. No more junk food this time, you promise. Until the first shiny sign, a heartache of miles down the Road. Gut bombs away.

The radio crackles its death rattle. You dig out the miniature rectangle that holds all the songs in the world and beyond. “Remember when we had to carry all our CDs?”

But you remember more than that. You remember Johnny Cash on the eight-track player, snuggled between Mom and Dad in the front bench seat of a truck that was always too hot or too cold, and yet always just right. Even then, the Road sang you to sleep.

…I’d let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away.

It’s your turn at the wheel and you settle in as your co-pilot contorts into sleep.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

Better than okay. You steal glances as he sleeps. This is where you fell in love with him. This is where you love him best—on the Road.

Wipers slap and hypnotize.

You’re in Mississippi. Wild pigs run through the gas station and no one seems to notice but you and your co-pilot. Both of you so hungry but what are those deep fried things in the glass case—triangles, circles, logs, lumps of…?

You’re in Oregon. You can’t pump your own gas in Oregon.

In Colorado the thunder storms threaten to shake you apart.

Route 66. No wonder someone wrote a song about it. Road kill apparel? A room full of fireworks. A room! A pack of bombs proclaiming “God bless America…we kick ass!”

Winding along the coast of Northern California feels like reading a diary full of beautiful secrets. Motels time-warped from the 50’s. Of course you must see King Kong in the tiny theater, even if the seats have been pilfered from the school cafeteria and your butt is numb before the opening credits.

And Baja.

Kristene and Fred Perron in Baja

And Baja.

Winding beach road in Baja

And Baja.

Little girl in Baja, Mexico

Silently you say, “Let’s keep going. Let’s never stop.” Maybe, if you keep going, the Road will take you away from “it”. Whatever “it” is—debt, grief, uncertainty, certainty, expectations, flaws, responsibility.

“You okay?” Slurred with sleep this time.

You’re okay.

“I’m okay.”

When you say it on the Road, it always feels true.

Posted in Baja - Mexico, Grief and Mourning, Love, Travel, USA | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Creepy Creepers and How Not to Be One

Posted on December 7, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Portrait of scary evil man with hood in darkness

While doing some housekeeping behind the scenes of these Coconut Chronicles, I stopped to read some of my old posts (I swear I’ll get around to re-formatting them some day). Overlooking some of the more egregious grammatical errors, it was kind of fun looking back on the Princess of ten years ago, what she thought, how she felt, where she was. Fun until I came upon this post and this one that described some truly awful days I spent working at the Canadian Princess Resort in Ucluelet, BC.

What did I feel after reading those posts? Disappointed. In myself for not speaking up. In that small percentage of the opposite sex that makes life awful for women. In the company that did not take steps to protect their staff.

It’s hard to read…

On top of the drive-ins, McFishing has two daily plane loads of guests, which yours truly meets and greets at the airport. These flight guests are usually drunk, often missing teeth, and are ready to make the best of their three days away from the old ‘Ball and Chain’. During the half hour bus ride back to the resort I give them some information, fill out registration cards, fend off wandering hands and try not to get drunk myself off all the fumes. Over the past three months I’ve noticed a correlation between the amount of alcohol a man consumes and how charming and handsome he thinks he is. I once had a drooling, farting, Jabba-the-Hut-type man ask me if I wanted to come to his room for (wink wink) ‘french lessons’ (insert rude tongue gesture here). He thought this was hysterical and looked genuinely surprised when I, politely, declined. So I’ve nicknamed our bus “The Meat Bus” – if you haven’t already guessed, I’m the meat.

…and remember that I did nothing, nothing to protest this or demand management deal with this terrible situation. Sure, I needed a job and the money was good but no amount of money should involve opening yourself to sexual harassment every damn day.

But there is another more insidious reason I did nothing about that abuse: it seemed normal. That is to say, over the years I’d witnessed and been on the receiving end of so much bad male behaviour that one more instance didn’t jump out at me as something shocking. This was merely how the world worked—some guys were creepers and you just found workarounds to deal with it.

I don’t feel that way anymore but getting to that place involved a good amount of education and self-awareness. I had to take a lot of steps back and examine everything I had internalized as normal.  “Normal” isn’t chiseled in stone. “Normal” is what you learn from birth onward. “Normal” can be changed if it is wrong.

Changing “normal” can be tricky. The first instinct when you realize you (and the other 49.99% of the population) have been duped is anger. That anger can be useful. Laws change when large groups of people get angry enough to change them. But anger can also put people on the defensive, especially when those people lack a common reference point.

This Huff Post article brilliantly captures the dilemma.

We [women] have all learned, either by instinct or by trial and error, how to minimize a situation that makes us uncomfortable. How to avoid angering a man or endangering ourselves. We have all, on many occasions, ignored an offensive comment. We’ve all laughed off an inappropriate come-on. We’ve all swallowed our anger when being belittled or condescended to.

It doesn’t feel good. It feels icky. Dirty. But we do it because to not do it could put us in danger or get us fired or labeled a bitch. So we usually take the path of least precariousness. ~ Gretchen Kelly

We’re angry at men for not understanding something that they simply cannot comprehend because they don’t experience it and we don’t talk about it.

After reading those old posts of mine I talked to Prez and started listing just a handful—a tiny handful—of some of the incidents I’ve been subject to from as early as nine years old, and it struck me how few of those incidents I’ve ever shared, with anyone.

In fact, the incident at nine years old happened at school. I was in the classroom during lunch for some reason I can’t recall (probably reading). A kid named Norman walked in with two of the class goons. (Yes, there are goons in fourth grade). The three boys walked to where I sat and Norman said, “Strip!” You can imagine the shock on my young face. He said it again, “Strip!” and the boys moved closer to me. I ran. I ran to the safety of my friends playing outside. I did not tell my friends what had happened—I could barely process it myself.

I did not tell my friends. I did not tell my teacher. I did not tell my parents. I did not tell anyone, not for more than thirty years. The way I saw it, these were things that some boys/men did sometimes and I was lucky, and, after all, nothing bad happened. But some days I wonder whatever happened to Norman and if there are girls and women out there who weren’t as fast on their feet as I was, and I feel deeply ashamed for not speaking up.

What this unpleasant stroll down memory lane has taught me is that the time for silence is over. Even if it seems we women are being overly nit-picky, we need to point these things out. Until everyone understands the landscape in which women must function, the term “male ally” will remain empty words.

When you start to discuss the subject, it is surprising to find out how little many men know about the world women inhabit. I had an uncomfortable conversation with Prez a while back about some comments he had made during a science fiction convention I was attending. He was not part of the convention but we connected briefly at the hotel bar. He was tipsy and he was imitating some guy he’d seen on YouTube, some show he found hilarious. This behaviour was waaaaaay out of character for Prez. I know he meant no harm and wasn’t trying to be a creeper but the female friends of mine he had just met for the first time might not have been so understanding.

During the uncomfortable conversation, I explained about the problems with harassment at cons,why many cons now have strict policies, and how his behaviour, no matter how innocent it seemed to him, could offend or threaten women. He was genuinely confused, embarrassed and apologetic. Then he asked me, “Well, if these cons are so bad for harassment why do you even go?”

My answer to that question was too lengthy to write out here but it can be summarized as, “If I didn’t go to any place I thought there might be a risk of harassment or sexual assault, I would never leave the house.”

That shocked him. It shocked me to admit it. But it is the truth.

This is not to give the impression that I believe danger lurks behind every corner and that every trip out my front door involves legions of creepy men waiting to pounce. It is an acknowledgment that I have run into problems in places I would have never expected.

While out for a solo run on a well-used trail: “Oh look, a guy masturbating under that tree. Guess I’ll take a different route today.” Sadly not my first (and probably not my last), experience with public wanking.

Men, most of you are awesome. High fives and gold stars! But even you, awesome men, sometimes step unknowingly into creeper territory. Not because that’s who you are but because the female across from you has a different history than you do. What is playful to you can be threatening to her…and she probably won’t tell you that. What can you, awesome guy, do to avoid being “that guy”? Well, here are some suggestions.

  1. Stop looking at her breasts. No, I don’t care what she’s wearing. Eyes up. Practice at home with a pin-up poster if you must.
  2. Consider how well you know the woman. Once a good friendship has been established you can let your hair down a bit and if you’ve paid attention you probably know what kind of person you’re dealing with and her comfort levels. There are jokes and language I will happily share with my close male friends that would completely creep me out coming from a man I barely know.
  3. Respect boundaries! If she says she doesn’t want to __________, don’t force the issue. She has her reasons. Pressuring and forcing is creepy.
  4. Don’t assume that because you have a wife or girlfriend you are non-threatening. Some of the biggest creepers I’ve encountered have been “happily” married.
  5. Consider the power dynamic. My time on The Meat Bus is a perfect example. A big part of my job description included being friendly and making guests feel welcome, and those men exploited my employee status. Don’t confuse professional courtesy with permission to be a creeper.
  6. Watch your body language. Pay particular attention to “trapping”—positioning yourself so that the woman you are speaking with feels there is no easy way out if she wants to create distance or leave.
  7. I don’t really have to explain why catcalling is bad, do I?!
  8. Accept that even a woman you think you know well may not be comfortable being alone with you. It’s not an insult to you, it’s simply what she needs to feel safe.
  9. Eyes up!
  10. Listen. Some of us are starting to talk about these things that bother and threaten us. When a woman trusts you enough to share that with you, don’t brush off her concerns as unimportant.

That final tip is your best bet. Listen. Women are so used to their concerns being joked about, belittled, or met with hostility that when we do talk about them that’s a pretty big deal. And if you’re ever worried that maybe you have crossed the line, it’s okay to ask, nicely, “Hey, that thing I said, did it bother you? Because I’m worried that maybe it bothered you.”

For my part, I’m making a conscious effort to speak up, to stop using workarounds when I can, and to make the people I love aware of the world in which I live. I hope you will join me.

Posted in Health and wellness, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Say Anything?

Posted on December 3, 2015 by clubfredbaja

too much talking concept illustration digital illustration

One of my favourite television shows of all time is the Twilight Zone—both the original and the 1980’s reboot. Along with a good dose of SFF, the series often tackled philosophical questions in settings divorced from our current reality, which allowed a higher degree of objectivity for the viewer.

Of all the episodes, one that stands out for me to this day is “To See the Invisible Man”, which aired in 1986. The plot is simple. A man living in a society where anti-social behaviour is a criminal offense is sentenced to a year of punishment for being, quite simply, a jerk. His punishment is a year of social shunning, assured by an implant on his forehead and the understanding that anyone who acknowledges him will face the same punishment. The cocky protagonist soon discovers that social isolation is every bit as bad as prison, and being treated as if you are invisible is torture.

With the rise of social media, I’ve often thought back to that episode. The human desire for acknowledgement and affirmation is strong and it lurks behind every post, every tweet, every pin, every Instagram. Blogs, podcasts, videos, every form of online communication is a means of confirming our existence. What you’re reading right now is my tool to reach out and say to the universe, “I am here” in the hopes that someone will whisper back, “Yes, you are here.”

More than that, we have needs to fill. The narrative, expressed through the medium, varies with the need. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me I’m funny. Tell me I’m smart. Tell me I’m a good parent. Tell me I’m a good friend. Tell me I’m unique. Tell me I’m strong. Tell me I’m loved.

And there’s nothing wrong with any of that. We’re not all born loving ourselves, comfortable in our own skin. Sometimes a kind word can help us along the path to self-realization and acceptance.

Here’s where it gets complicated, though. You see, we also need our opinions and beliefs validated. Sometimes we fill this need at the expense of others.

I am no exception to this. I’m an opinionated person. I’ve stepped on more toes than I can count over the years, usually in this blog.

Is it right? Should we be able to say anything we want? To anyone? Anywhere? Does freedom of speech trump cooperation, empathy and peaceful co-existence?

This past August, as I stood in the audience at the Writing About Controversy panel at Worldcon, I listened to an audience member express some concerns about this issue. She said she was a new writer and wanted to post her thoughts about the Sad Puppies debate online but was worried that doing so might negatively impact her career as an author. Author John Scalzi replied that she should not be afraid to share her opinion publicly, that anyone should be allowed to say what they want. This seemed to please both the woman asking the question and most of the audience.

It didn’t please me.

In fact, I thought it was one of the worst pieces of advice he could have offered. I’ve read and enjoyed Scalzi’s books and I’ve agreed with many of his blog posts and opinions, but his comment made me think that he is perhaps out of touch with reality for the majority of people.

Standing next to me that day were a collection of good friends whose careers could easily be damaged or lost for publicly sharing an incorrect or unpopular opinion. How many other people out there have had their lives burned down around them for sharing something online? Sometimes what they shared was completely innocent but taken out of context and twisted to feed a hungry mob eager for some modern day shaming. Sometimes what they shared was offensive but hardly deserving of the punishment they received in return.

As a freelance writer, I have a fair amount of liberty to express my thoughts without concern for my job. If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you could easily jump to the conclusion that my internal editor must be on a permanent vacation. The truth is I censor myself often and rigorously. I’m not perfect at this. I slip up, frequently, but I always try to ask myself two critical questions before I share my thoughts publicly.

Question 1: What is my goal?

Question 2: Will sharing this help achieve my goal?

A shocking amount of time, the answer to the second question is a resounding “NO”. That’s when I back off.

I could bombard my friends, family and acquaintances all day long with facts and statistics about the dismal state of the ocean, the damage we’re doing to global fish stocks, coral bleaching, shark finning, etc, etc, etc. Would that achieve my goal? (Goal = bring awareness to the importance of the global ocean ecosystem). No. Bashing people over the head with information, no matter how noble the intention, never works. People feel overwhelmed and powerless as it is. The more you stuff your opinion in their face, the more they turn away and shut down.

I share about 1% of what I would like to share about the ocean I try to focus on easy actions people can take to be part of the solution and, wherever possible, I try to avoid pointing fingers or playing the guilt card.

When it comes to more political or sensitive matters, I employ those two questions but I also toss in a self-prioritizing system. If I’m going to step on toes and risk possibly losing friends or future clients, it better be for something that is 100% worth it. This censoring system is not as simple as the two questions; it involves taking stock and consciously choosing battles. We all care about a host of causes—yes, I can care about foreign refugees AND homeless people in my own country—but unless you’re willing to lose every ally you have, it’s worth deciding WHAT MATTERS MOST.

I learned this trick from a marine biologist I dove with in Florida. She had been in the field for years. She knew all the bad stuff there was to know about fisheries and the ocean. I asked how she copes with it. She told me she realized a long time ago that nothing short of running away to become a hermit in the bush could keep her ethics safe from the reality of daily life. “I chose my top three,” she said. Three rules she would live by and never break. I don’t remember them all but one of them was not to eat shrimp or prawns—easy, effective, non-guilt inducing.

My top three? Women’s rights tops my list. I chose this cause as my number one for obvious reasons but also because, as a woman, I can always speak with absolute authority on the subject. All things ocean come next—another topic I can speak on and always feel comfortable in my knowledge and experience. Animal welfare (specifically cats and dogs) is third. They don’t call me Crazy Cat Lady for nothing.

In our new reality, where the promise of connection is just a click away, the temptation to say anything we want can be overwhelming. There are frequent variations on the theme of free speech, of how it is not up to the individual to edit themselves but for everyone else to accept them for who they are. Kindness, consideration and responsibility are afterthoughts, what matters is ME ME ME!

I think we have become too enamored with the word “freedom” and the cult of the individual.

At the end of that Twilight Zone episode, the prisoner is released at the conclusion of his one year term and he walks out into a world where he is seen, is spoken to, is listened to…where he exists. He is a changed man, filled with empathy and a new appreciation for the importance of social connection. Shortly after he embarks on this better path, however, he encounters a woman in tears and discovers that she is serving the same punishment he just completed. Instead of ignoring her, as the law dictates, he embraces her. He knows another year of silence and shunning awaits. He chooses love over acknowledgement.

I wonder how many of us would make that sacrifice.

Posted in Computers and Internet, Environment, News and politics, Ocean, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Happy

Posted on November 30, 2015 by clubfredbaja

I had this idea for a really long blog post about how I’ve been having more and more moments of happiness lately and how I can finally feel the magic power of time starting to do its thing. I thought I would end the post with a selfie of me and Parker–the puppy I look after during the day while my bro-in-law Dave and his partner Daniel are at work. Then everything fell apart.

Every time I tried to sidle up close to Parker, he took that as an invitation to pounce. Much face and ear licking ensued. When I looked at the disastrous series of selfies I thought, ‘Huh, that actually sums up everything I was going to write about’.

So, dearest Nutters, with my sincere thanks to the Wonders of Time, I give you: Happy

Kristene Perron happy with puppy 1 2 3 4 5 7 8 9

 

Posted in Animals, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Mind Killer

Posted on November 24, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Shark fin above water

What scares you? Not in the big, metaphorical sense but in an immediate, palm-sweating, heart racing kind of way. Spiders? Heights? Water?

In Frank Herbert’s classic novel, Dune, fear is described as “the mind killer”. There is some truth in that description but I feel as if there is a piece missing.

Fear has been on my mind lately. Last week I had a molar removed. The tooth had endured two separate roots canals but the vertical fracture remained and now an infection was eating away the jaw bone above the tooth. When the endodontist gave me the news, my stomach dropped. This was no simple extraction. There was a good amount of bone loss and the offending tooth was right up against my sinuses. An oral surgeon would have to remove the tooth and put in some “new” bone. I would likely require IV sedation.

That last part is where the fear came in. I am getting braver with dental injections but I hate and fear having IV lines put in.

Fear is a strange emotion. It serves a practical purpose. Our ancient ancestors who feared snakes, for example, probably stood a better chance of not getting bitten by the venomous ones, and dying, than their fearless counterparts. In such a case, fear saves lives and enables future generations of snake-fearing humans to exist. But what happens when we learn to identify snakes and evolve past the need for blind fear?

Can we evolve past deeply rooted fear?

I love sharks. Apex predators are a necessary part of any ecosystem; sharks keep our oceans healthy and balanced. I know the statistics. I know the facts. When I dive, snorkel or swim in open water I am not afraid of shark attacks. That’s silly. There are thousands of dangers that are infinitely more likely to injure or kill me in the ocean than sharks.

So explain to me why, when a twelve-foot bronze whaler shark swam beneath me while Prez and I were out diving in the Cook Islands, my brain was seized by blood-chilling fear. The shark was not being aggressive. If anything, it was curious—slowly circling about ten feet below us as we surfaced from our dive. In a finger snap, my logic and knowledge vaporized. I was terrified. Even after I was safely back on our boat, watching the lazy leviathan from above, my heart refused to stop pounding.

This is the frustrating part of fear. Everything your brain knows is true, all the evidence that proves you are safe, can be wiped away as easily as erasing words from a whiteboard.

But there are many types and degrees of fear. One of the most common comments I received while working as a stunt performer was, “You must be fearless.” Not true. I often experienced fear before a stunt but it was a good, useful fear. This type of fear, harnessed, sharpens your senses, tightens your reflexes, and boosts your energy. This is adrenaline fear and it is nature’s performance enhancing drug. This is not fear to be conquered; this is fear to be channeled.

The fear I experienced looking at a shark circling beneath me and the fear I experienced before deliberately diving out of the way of a speeding car exist on opposite ends of the fear spectrum. Somewhere between those two extremes lies my fear of needles and flying. These varieties of fear serve no function except to debilitate, embarrass and annoy me.

The question I’ve wrestled with over the years is: How do I beat this kind fear?

In our culture, fear is viewed as a weakness. We soak our fear in shame. We call people wussy, chicken, yellow, coward, wimp, baby, weakling. We want people to “get over it” to “nut up or shut up”. I am as guilty as anyone else when it comes to this.

I used to love flying and would mercilessly tease friends who bit their nails on rocky flights. Then, in 1993, on a Korean Air flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles, as our 747 fell and passengers screamed and overhead bins flew open and I thought ‘So this is how I die’, everything changed.

My fear of flying was born in that single traumatic event and no amount of nutting up and shutting up made my palms any less sweaty or my heart rate any less frantic. It wasn’t until I broke down and asked for help that I experienced any relief. I waited more than ten years before I finally asked my doctor if there was anything he could give me to help with air travel. Before I asked, however, I prepared a long and detailed explanation so the doctor wouldn’t think I was being wimpy.

The explanation was unnecessary. All my doctor wanted to know was why I’d waited so long to ask for help. A few tiny pills, that’s all it took for me to head skyward again without panicking.

I’m learning to abandon the shame of fear. I’m learning to ask for help. When I get my blood taken now, I ask for “the chicken room”—a room with a bed, so I can lie down. As long as I’m horizontal and I don’t look at the blood-taking apparatus, I’m fine. I learned that trick after I came out and told a friend of mine—a friend who works in a hospital lab—about my fear. “Oh yeah, just ask to lie down. You’ll be amazed,” she said.

I did. I was.

When I called the oral surgeon’s office a few weeks ago to set up my appointment, I decided to swallow my pride and tell them about my IV fear. “Oh, that’s fine,” the receptionist said. “Just ask for some freezing cream when you get to the office. You rub it on your hand, let it sit for thirty minutes, and then you won’t feel a thing.” I also asked if I could take one or two of my “chill pills” to take the edge off before the surgery. The reply? “Absolutely.”

Because of all this soul-baring, I had a pleasant and painless experience. The tooth is gone. The bone is healing. I’m compensating for dietary restrictions by allowing myself extra ice-cream rations. All is good.

Fear is the mind killer when we fail to acknowledge it or when we allow it more power over us than it deserves. The problem with ignoring fear is that fear will always find a way to manifest itself, sometimes as hate—misdirected hate. When that happens, it is more than our mind that suffers.

There’s a lot of fear going around right now. Terrorist attacks in Paris and Beirut and threats elsewhere have rocked us yet again. The terrorists can pat themselves on the back for a job well done; we are afraid and a lot of innocent people are caught in the middle.

In a state of fear, logic, facts and statistics are wiped away. Every refugee becomes a potential terrorist, no matter what the facts say. The shark is no longer a vital part of the ecosystem circling you out of curiosity, it is a killer waiting to clamp you in its razor jaws and drag you to the depths. It is natural to fear the shark. What we do with that fear is what matters. Do we declare open season on sharks? Do we revel in their destruction? Do we shut the doors on all the refugees? Do we attack Muslims and burn mosques?

Fear is the heart killer.

Sharks scare me but I will not let that stop me from speaking up for their well being and demanding their protection. Flying scares me but I will not let that keep me from traveling on airplanes. Needles scare me but I will not let that stop me from taking care of my health. Bombs scare me but I will not let that stop me from caring for my fellow humans and extending a hand of kindness where and when it is needed.

I will not let fear destroy either my logic or my empathy. Will you?

“I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” ~ Frank Herbert, Dune

Posted in Animals, Environment, Health and wellness, Life, Love, Nature & Environment, News and politics, Ocean, Travel | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Here and There

Posted on November 16, 2015 by clubfredbaja
Kris and Fred Perron in Nelson

Fred and Kris arrive in Nelson. September 2006.

Unlike some other adoptees, who grew up under a cloud of abandonment issues, my “rootless” status always left me with a feeling of absolute possibility.  My borders were not defined. I did not look at my parents and see my future self. I could be anyone.  I could possess any number of genetic talents waiting to surprise me. I could be from anywhere.  I was the definition of a blank slate and I loved it.

For a while, as a child, I was convinced that my biological parents were aliens or, at the very least, intergalactic travelers. One day they would return—in a spaceship, naturally—and take me away to explore the universe. To aid their search, I would sometimes leave notes in the backyard: “I’m inside, in the middle bedroom.”

I loved my adoptive family with every cell in my body but I wanted desperately to know the world (or universe) beyond 119 a Street.

I found other avenues of escape through books and movies, family vacations, my overactive imagination, and every opportunity I could find or make to travel. This drive to move has never left me, though it has mellowed.

A friend recently noticed that of all the deeply personal ground I’ve been covering in these Chronicles lately, I haven’t spoken about my move from Nelson. Indeed, this is unusual for me—The Coconut Chronicles began as a kind of travel blog, after all.

Nelson has been our mailing address since November 2009. We also lived there for one year prior to moving to the Cook Islands. For 7 years, we thought of Nelson as home. Or, at least, home base. We came and went a lot but there was always a bed, a kitchen, and a bathroom waiting for us when we returned.

More than that, Nelson was the place where we found an entire city full of people that we enjoyed being around. For a population of only ten thousand, Nelson has a shockingly robust arts community, a bustling downtown core, and citizens that are physically fit, environmentally aware, and politically active. The scenery is gorgeous, the traffic is light, and the vibe is relaxed, fun and inclusive. Short of an ocean, Nelson struck us as the closest thing to paradise we could find.

Short of an ocean. I’ll return to that later.

I should be grieving for my lost home. I know that.

When I consider the number of friends I made in Nelson and the Kootenays, I am overwhelmed. Good friends. The kind of friends you feel as if you’ve known your entire life or longer. Friends who would rally together on a moment’s notice to send you off to a science fiction convention to cheer you up. Friends who inspired and encouraged. Friends who made me laugh loud and long.

I should be grieving for my far away  friends.

In Nelson, I found opportunities a big city would have never offered to someone with my paltry qualifications. Chair a literary competition, compile an anthology, and plan an awards gala for over 200 guests? Sure, why not? Co-host a radio show where I get to interview some of the most interesting and influential people in the city? Yep. Make a connection that gets you a contract with a NYC literary agent? Uh huh. Teach a workshop through the local arts centre? Done. Launch a novel to a packed house at the local library? Check.

There was more than one Nelson moment when I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “Why are they letting me do all this stuff?”

I should be grieving for the loss of those rare opportunities.

It is fitting that Nelson was the destination of so many 1960’s war resisters. When I think of the city, peace is what I feel. To walk Nelson’s streets and back alleys is to step back into some fictional past, where “free range children” were the norm, grand old houses had personality and charm, neighbours eschewed fences for fruit trees, and everyone knew the name of the main street’s resident cat. I loved living in a place where everything I needed was a short, peaceful, and visually pleasing walk away, and on each of those walks I would run into at least one friendly face.

I should be grieving the loss of that oasis of peace.

In the weeks leading up to our departure from Nelson, I made arrangements with friends for one last cup of tea, one last lunch, one last glass of wine, one last walk in the woods. These meetings were full of love but absent the pang of grief I knew I should feel. I knew I was going to miss these friends dearly; what was wrong with me?

It was during one of these “last lunches” that my friend Dana so perfectly articulated what I was feeling. She had endured a stretch of chaos and tragedy of her own, and had undertaken similar big moves in the middle of it all.

“Do you feel as if everything is happening and you’re just riding along, going along with it? You don’t feel good or bad, you’re just doing the things you know you need to do?” she asked.

That was it exactly. That is where I am still.

In a word, I am numb. My gas tank is empty. I have moments of happiness and sadness in my day-to-day life but the big picture and the larger feelings have vanished. The furor of the recent bombings in Paris and Beirut only left me wanting to get away from it all—to shut my ears and eyes. Even other people’s heightened emotions are too much. All I want right now is stillness and silence, routine, even boredom.

You see, I made a mistake. All those years, that delightful feeling of rootlessness that came from living without the defining borders of genetics, led me to believe that I was a truly free spirit unbound by family, career or religion. That was a lie. I had roots. Deep roots. They anchored me to the earth. And when they were torn away, I was not free, I was adrift. Lost.

I am not in Nelson but I am not really in Campbell River either. I am neither here nor there. I am floating, drifting, waiting for the wave that will carry me home.

The decision to move to Campbell River was something Prez and I have been talking about for a few years now. For all of Nelson’s charms (and they are legion), we have missed the ocean. And, now that we have returned, it is the ocean that whispers promises of better days ahead. I see this in the eyes of my husband—eyes that spark to life every time we walk on the docks or along the shore. He is home.

And he is my home.

Posted in Friends, Health and wellness, Nelson - British Columbia, Travel | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Not Alone

Posted on November 9, 2015 by clubfredbaja

 

leaf cutter ants

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…” ~ John Donne, Meditation 17, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

When I lived in Costa Rica, ants were among the most common sight. Tiny sugar-loving ants, big meat-eating ants, and those masters of food transportation, the leaf-cutter ants. All ants are amazing to me but leaf-cutter ants are in a league of their own. On many of our jungle hikes, Prez and I witnessed highways of leaf-cutters that rivaled the I-5 in downtown Los Angeles. One lane would be bumper-to-bumper ants carrying bits of leaves over their heads, the other lane would be comprised of ants returning to the tree to collect more foliage. Unstoppable. A colony of leaf-cutter ants can defoliate a citrus tree in 24 hours.

The secret to their success? Leaf-cutter ants have large, complex societies, second only to humans.

Ants as a group are a force of nature, as anyone who has tried to battle an ant infestation will attest.

A single ant? SQUASH.

This may be the most blatant and blunt metaphor I have ever used and maybe it’s not exactly a compliment to compare humans to insects but I think some bluntness is much-needed in our western society.

I’m not sure specifically where or when the Cult of the Individual started but we in the west have become infected by this idea. The self-made man, the rugged individual, the determined entrepreneur—we have built myth after myth upon humans who go it alone, conquer the odds, and reap enormous rewards.

Dependency has become a dirty word. No one celebrates Dependence Day and yet we are dependent, all of us, on each other. Our cooperation is what has helped us thrive as a species. No one who witnesses the marvel of leaf-cutter ants in the wild clucks their tongue and says, “What a bunch of wussies.”

I didn’t always see this. I fell for the myth as hard as anyone else. I have spent most of my life believing that the goal was independence, the goal was self-reliance, the goal was not to let them see you as weak or needy. I still slip back into that way of thinking now and then; it’s difficult to stand against the juggernaut of culture sometimes.

But I was wrong. I was wrong to think I could thrive on my own, or even as a marital unit of two. And I have never been so happy to learn that I was wrong.

*

In August 2015, when the Consortium of Ridiculously Kind Persons banded together to send this sad author to Worldcon for some much-needed cheering up, all the thoughts I had been harbouring about the necessity of community solidified.

Sometimes the stars align and drop you into a moment of rare and perfect clarity. In my case, this happened near the end of an otherwise gin-soaked and laughter-filled weekend of stress-relief in Spokane, Washington. I have written about the good time I had at Worldcon, but I have not written about this small yet vital moment within that good time.

Thanks to my friends Griffin and Alistair, I found myself at the Baen Books party, in a very swanky hotel suite. This was the evening of the Hugo Awards and all that related drama, and I found myself flying solo as my friends were off tending to more serious matters. I was fine on my own—hey, free gin!—and soon struck up a conversation with two friendly strangers, John and Gregg.

Our conversation started off on the usual small-talk path but then it took a sharp turn in another direction. I can’t recall exactly when the shift occurred but one moment I was relating the story of how I came to be at Worldcon, the next I was discussing death and grieving in intimate detail with people I had only just met. Not at all my usual party modus operandi.

I am not a religious person, I am not a spiritual person, I do not believe things “happen for a reason” or that there is some mystical power controlling our destinies. And yet, for however long this conversation went on, I felt transported. It was as if the three of us had stepped into a bubble, out of time and space, away from the party and the triviality of everyday life.

We talked about death. We talked about mourning. We talked about our individual pain—we had each lost someone dear. We talked about the necessity of community. We talked about western society’s fear of grief. We talked about all these things with hearts and minds wide open. At one point, Gregg, who is a member of the indigenous Salinan tribe, shared how his people approach death, their philosophies and rituals. As he spoke, I reached out and grasped his hand, a few tears fell. I felt completely connected, safe, relieved.

You are not alone—that’s what I felt.

Eventually, the conversation reached a natural dénouement. We exchanged contact information and then I stepped out of the bubble.

I rejoined my other friends and re-assumed my usual Party Kristene persona. But that time-out-of-time stayed with me. It is with me now. More than the words spoken, it was the sense of connection. With strangers. With members of a much larger community.

You are not alone.

*

Community is not simply the place where we live. Community is the web of people we connect with in every possible way. We are part of the community and we help shape it.

Since the first day I learned of my sister’s illness, until now, my community has held out their hands to support and carry me. Every act of compassion, no matter how small, combines with the others, multiplies and expands, becomes almost a physical force.

The texts my half-sister LeAnna sent me every day for weeks. “How are you doing?” Four small words. You are not alone.

The notary public who waived her fees after learning I needed notarized copies of my marriage certificate to access my deceased father’s bank account and settle his estate. You are not alone.

The apple pie baked for me by my friend Wendyle in lieu of knowing the right words to say. You are not alone.

The nightly “happy hour” my mother-in-law Nancy put on for me every day I stayed with her after Kelly’s death. You are not alone.

The bank employee who worked an hour into her lunch break to help me sort out the paperwork for my dad’s estate. You are not alone.

The time my friend Griffin spent with me on Facebook the night after my sister died, just “being there” until I could finally fall asleep. You are not alone.

And on and on and on it goes.

Could I have survived this time without my community? Perhaps. But who would I have been when it was all over? How hard my heart? How empty my spirit?

I was wrong about the value of community and I am so glad. I cannot do this alone. I need you. I need all of you.

*

After the whirlwind of that Worldcon weekend, real life continued, with all its chaos. I thought often about that time-out-of-time with deep gratitude. In an eye of calm I emailed a quick hello to John and Gregg—no expectations, just a desire to have a thread of contact.

Weeks later, I was surprised and humbled by Gregg’s long and thoughtful reply. Surprised because he had been reading these Chronicles and offered some incredible insight on the various gumballs that roll out of my cranium. Humbled because he had made such an effort to get to know me through my words.

About community, Gregg wrote: “The idea of community is the bedrock of the human species…” and “…the fundamental need for connection by the human species can not be suppressed. Perhaps much of the ‘stress’ of modern life is from the (largely unsuccessful, futile, ridiculous) attempts at such suppression.”

(The entire email is worth sharing but this is one of the parts that I’ve chosen to share today, with the author’s permission).

Modern life is a life of separation. Connection is risky business. Even as I sent that first email to Gregg, part of me was thinking, I hope he doesn’t think I’m a stalker or a weirdo or something. I don’t think I’m alone in that way of thinking, either. I think most of us second guess ourselves when we reach out to others. Something that should be natural has become alien and frightening. We have manufactured stress out of thin air.

Gregg also wrote, “So many people (I imagine that includes me) have no idea of the impact we have on those we encounter in life.”

True again. Every day, in every connection, we impact and influence the people around us. We shape our community in a million ways we are not even aware of. When we under-value ourselves we also under-value the importance of community.

*

There should always be a place for “the individual” and we should always celebrate the things that make us unique. But those leaf-cutter ants are pretty damn amazing too.

To celebrate and embrace community does not diminish us as individuals; community is strength. No matter how self-reliant we think we are, we all need to feel those four words…

You are not alone.

Posted in Friends, Health and wellness, Life, Nature & Environment | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

A Short Rant About This Thing That Makes Me Want To Scream

Posted on November 4, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Yes I'm a Woman

Have you seen this little “gem” floating around social media? If you’re a woman, did it make you feel better about yourself? Did you read this and think, “See, all these little flaws are okay because I’m a woman and that’s how we are!”?

Read it again.

When I read this, I wanted to reach through my computer screen and rip it up. Of all the insipid fluff that clogs up social media, this is one of the most detestable fluff-balls.

Why?

Let’s dissect this piece of nonsense.

Yes, I’m a woman. I push doors that clearly say pull.

I’m a woman. I pull doors that say pull because I have eyes and a brain. Yes, I have eyes and a brain. Yes, women have eyes and brains. Crazy, I know.

On the rare occasion that I push a door that clearly says pull, it is because I am distracted, I am drunk, or because I am a writer and my brain is busy on that tricky part of chapter 3 that I just can’t figure out. If I push a door that clearly says pull that action has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I have a vagina.

Guess what? I’ve seen men push doors that clearly say pull. Does that make them women?

The subtle message in this opening line is that women are goofy and stupid but that they should be proud of that instead of perhaps acknowledging that both men and women occasionally do stupid, goofy things.

I laugh harder when I try to explain why I am laughing.

This has never been a problem for the men I know. Men can be in the middle of the biggest fit of hysterical laughter in their life but then stop on a dime to explain in clear and logical terms exactly what it is that is making them laugh.

/sarcasm

I walk into a room and forget why I was there.

Forget the glass ceiling ladies! Our real problem is that we are constantly walking into rooms and forgetting why we are there. Our male co-workers and bosses should know this and always provide us with written instructions when we venture out into another room.

This is probably why there has never been a female president or prime minister in the US or Canada. Can you imagine the global embarrassment when our nation’s leader walks out to deliver a speech and suddenly goes all glassy eyed.

“What am I doing here, again?” she whispers to Vladimir Putin.

Putin shrugs.

I hide the pain from my loved ones.

What kind of pain? Is your appendix about to burst? Maybe you might want to mention that. If not to your loved ones, perhaps to the 911 operator?

Is it emotional pain? Because if that’s the case you’re not doing so well at this whole “hiding” business based on the roughly one thousand emotion-related Facebook posts I’ve seen you make.

And why are you hiding this pain? You know withholding information is a form of control, don’t you? What you’re really saying is that you don’t trust your loved ones enough to let them decide how to handle an unpleasant truth.

And getting back to the whole women thing, most of the women I know are pretty good about sharing their pain, and everything else. Most women I know are frustrated by their male partner’s lack of communication, not their own. Hmmmm…

I say it is a long story when it’s really not.

Huh?

Yeah, just…huh?

I cry a lot more than you think I do.

Maybe the person you’re addressing this to cries a lot more than you think they do. How do you know? Maybe we’re all crying a lot more than anyone thinks we are—male and female alike.

I actually cry slightly more than probably most people think I do. Or maybe I don’t. I’ve never asked people how much they think I cry. In any case, I don’t really care what anybody thinks of my tear output. It’s not as if Vegas is taking bets on how much I cry. I cry. It happens. I feel better when it’s over. Mission accomplished.

I care about people who don’t care about me.

Well, then you’re an idiot. Sorry, but it’s time somebody broke that to you. Being a woman does not give you a free pass to be an emotional martyr.

I know lots of people who care about people who don’t care about them. Do you know what they’re called? Parents of teenagers, that’s what. Or maybe just “family” because there’s lots of unrequited caring that goes on in families—men, women, children, adults, all equally guilty.

Outside of your family (and sometimes inside of it), why would you waste your energy on someone who does not care about you? Why not take that energy and spend it on the very nice people who do care about you? I bet they would love that extra energy and …BAM…win/win situation.

I try to do things before the microwave beeps.

I don’t own a microwave but if I did I would not use that as a time management system. I have a clock on my smart phone!

I listen to you even when you don’t listen to me.

Aaaaaaaand we’re back to expending energy on people who don’t care about us. *facepalm*

And a big hug will always help.

…unless my appendix is bursting, in which case I would prefer speedy medical attention.

How is this a woman thing? Men, do you hate hugs? Do hugs not help men? Has my husband been lying to me all these years?

Yes, I’m a woman!

Just in case you’d forgotten. See…vagina!

*

All the Ugh!

What I hate about this schlek is that it takes a whole raft of non-flattering behaviours and emotions and attributes them solely to women. On top of that, we’re clearly supposed to look at these acts of goofiness, stupidity, and emotional masochism with a sense of feminine pride. I am a stupid doormat, hear me roar!

This schlek makes me want to scream because it’s a trick. It’s designed to make women feel good about themselves while it simultaneously reinforces all kinds of terrible female stereotypes.

How about this: Let’s change “woman” to “human”. Better? A bit. It’s not perfect but it’s not quite as offensive. We all do stupid things now and then because we’re human. We all cry and care too much for the wrong people sometimes because we’re human.

But it’s still not great. There’s a big leap from “These are things I do that many other people do because we’re fallible and don’t always get it right” to “I behave poorly but I’m proud of that and you have to accept me as I am!”

So let me try my revised version of this schlek…

Yes, I am human. Sometimes I push doors that are clearly marked pull but mostly I do not. Like most non-psychopaths, I laugh harder when I try to explain what I’m laughing about. You should probably wait until I’m finished laughing before you ask for an explanation. I do walk into rooms and sometimes forget why I’m there but that has more to do with age-related memory degradation or possibly stress than anything else. If you notice that I am always forgetting things, there may be a more seriously problem and we should consult my doctor. I don’t hide my pain from the people I care about because I love and trust them and I know they will do their best to help ease that pain. I strive to give an accurate estimate of the length of my stories before I tell them. How much do you think I cry? Once I have the answer, I will let you know how close you came to guessing the real amount. I don’t waste my time on people who don’t care about me, which means I have more time and energy to spend on the people who do care about me! Yay! I don’t own a microwave. I do own a clock. I do well with time management although I do have a tendency to forget about the soup on the stove while I’m writing. (I should start setting a timer). I always try to practice active listening but I don’t waste my time on people who don’t listen to me. I think that’s fair. I love hugs! Do you love hugs? Yes? Here’s a hug! Yes, I am human, just like you*.

*Unless you are a robot or an alien.

Yep. Much better.

Posted in Entertainment, Family & Children, Friends, Life, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments