I always knew my body was a capable one.
I remember being small, and deciding that my family was waiting too long to put up our Christmas tree. So I dragged the box--probably bigger than me at that point--carefully downstairs, negotiating several tight corners and a narrow, steep staircase--downstairs and set the thing up myself. It became a tradition for me to do it, and early enough on that I don't remember how our family did the tree thing prior to that.
I remember how easily I'd get bored of my bedroom, frequently rearranging furniture for a change. I almost wrote "quick change," but it wasn't a quick process at all. I could only push or pull one end of my dresser a few inches at a time, walking it forward, and then moving my bed in the same manner.
In high school, in the season I didn't play a sport, I lifted weights for fun. In field hockey season, we'd run miles during practice, much of it in a semi-squat. (Yes, it's a bit of a different sort of sport.) My idea of fun as a child was riding my bike up and down our dead-end road or horseback riding. I never worried about whether my body was capable of accomplishing a task or participate in an activity.
I got sick my junior year. It took a while to diagnose (an undifferentiated autoimmune disorder, which is what they diagnose you with when they know the problem is with your immune system but not what the actual cause is), and the first few months were frightening. I became so accustomed to hearing the latest worst possible prognosis that I forgot that there was any other option. This viewpoint was helped along by the chronic fatigue and pain I was dealing with at the time, and exacerbated by the fact that I was unwilling to give up a single activity, pushing my now-limited endurance far beyond what was reasonable.
Suddenly, playing field hockey was not just physically challenging, it was incredibly painful and exhausting. There were days I was too sore or too tired to manage a flight of stairs. I refused to give any extracurriculars up, so it was the norm for me to go from class to field hockey or softball practice to play practice to prefect duty and then home at 10:30 to start four hours of homework. It kind of sucked there for a while.
I got my health under control my freshman year of college. I was angry for a long time that I'd ever had to go through all that, but now, almost decade later, I see the experience differently. My body made it through that mess as best as it could, even while I was ignoring what it needed to get healthy. My body works hard for me, and I've gotten better at treating it right. I eat better, sleep more, and call it quits when I'm running out of steam. I try to be active, though I hate working out. Since getting my health under control, I've climbed all the stairs of Notre Dame and tackled the Eifel Tower and huge national parks. I live in a third-floor walk-up without a problem. I got an air-conditioning unit up those three flights of stairs alone. My body works.
So I'm not going to hate it just because my thighs touch or because my belly has a bit of squish. It's been too good to me to turn on it for such a petty reason. It's a (mostly) healthy body in a normal body fat range. If that changes, I'll need to renew my dedication to treat my body well. That doesn't seem to be what dieting is about. The focus of dieting has always seemed to me to be deprivation--punishing yourself. I owe my body better. I used to worry about my weight all the time, constantly striving to keep it in check. But I've come to realize: this body of mine?
It's good.
Showing posts with label Not Funny and Not Trying to Be. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Not Funny and Not Trying to Be. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
A Case of Mistaken Identity
Last weekend I went with some friends to the Field Museum and spent a couple of hours perusing the Taxidermied Everything exhibit. Most of the animals I recognized. Some of them caused what on God's good earth is that?! moments. But those moments were all with really foreign, uncommon animals that you don't see every old day on National Geographic or, you know, at the dog park.
So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me. Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!" And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!
Oh boy. I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.
Let's face it: it's pretty funny. But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets. Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore. (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)
Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:
How many of these breeds do you recognize? Get the answers here. I can tell you, I didn't do very well.
(True: This is my second rant this week--sorry. I'll try to be funny on Friday.)
Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!
So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me. Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!" And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!
Oh boy. I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.
Let's face it: it's pretty funny. But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets. Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore. (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)
Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:
- Alpha Blue Blood Bulldog
- Rottweiler
- Catahoula Bulldog
- Boerboel
- Chesapeake Bay Retriever
- Rhodesian ridgeback
- Presa Canario
- Patterdale Terrier
- Olde English Bulldogge
- Hungarian Vizsla
- Fila Brasiliero
- Cane Corso
- Ca De Bou
- A "Bully" dog
- Bull Mastiff
- Boxer
- Black Mouth Cur
- The Argentine Dog or Dogos Argentino
- American Bulldog
- Alapaha blueblood Bulldog
- The Alaunt
- The Bull Terrier
- American Staffordshire Terrier
- Staffordshire Bull Terrier
How many of these breeds do you recognize? Get the answers here. I can tell you, I didn't do very well.
(True: This is my second rant this week--sorry. I'll try to be funny on Friday.)
Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!
Monday, April 8, 2013
It's a Grisly Affair
When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about. She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.
When I was little, I was stupid.
Here is what being an adult woman is really like:
Because, fuck.
(True: Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms. I am suddenly terrified of life.)
When I was little, I was stupid.
Here is what being an adult woman is really like:
- WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
- BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
- NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV. THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV. Stop judging my sweatpants.
- Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
- You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
- I could go out. Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
- That event so awful I won't name it here. (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
- Wolf whistles.
- Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
- Childbirth war stories. (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
- The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.
- Smashing, painful mammograms. For years.
- Menopause and the accompanying misery. For years.
- Death.
Because, fuck.
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(True: Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms. I am suddenly terrified of life.)
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Hops in the Right Direction: Let's be Better.
Prada has a strong body. Her front leg has centered since I adopted her, and proportionally, her core abdominal muscles pretty much make her Arnold Schwartzenegger. Her hindquarters have enough power to launch her up onto the couch. She can run fast enough to almost catch a rabbit. (And if that fence hadn't been there, she might have done it, too.)
But the fact remains that I am stronger. I walk in a perma-shuffle around my apartment so I don't accidentally step on her, because I could hurt her so very easily.
It bears repeating: I could hurt her. Easily.
Obviously, I don't. My strength and size does not give me the right to hurt those weaker and smaller than myself. Rather, I was always taught, and fully believe, that it is my duty as a decent human not only not to hurt those I could, but also to act decently towards others.
The lesson doesn't just apply to tiny, fluffy dogs that have been closer to euthanization than they ever deserved to be.
It applies to boys who play football who rape a girl. It applies to their peers, who stood by and did nothing. It applies to the adults in their lives, who either looked the other way or didn't teach these children what it means to be a decent, responsible human being. It applies to the media, irresponsible with their reporting. It applies to the people outside the situation who have used social media to harass and blame the victim. It applies to me, because I haven't spoken out earlier, more frequently, louder. It applies to you, because we are all part of this culture and society that allow this to happen, that allow some people to think any of the above behavior is acceptable.
We can do better. We can provide a good example of how to treat those weaker than us and those who are vulnerable. We can speak up when we see something that is wrong. We can talk openly and honestly to the young people in our lives. We can start difficult discussions. Why can ask "Why?" We can offer victims a safe place to talk, and we can listen. We can hold ourselves and others accountable. We can well and truly--each and every one of us--do something to create a different, better future, where we all are decent--and most importantly, safe.
Whether it's to the four-legged, three-legged, or two-legged, I challenge you this: Let's be better.
(True: If you don't think rape culture affects even the lucky people who haven't been assaulted, think again. And as always, be safe.)
But the fact remains that I am stronger. I walk in a perma-shuffle around my apartment so I don't accidentally step on her, because I could hurt her so very easily.
It bears repeating: I could hurt her. Easily.
Obviously, I don't. My strength and size does not give me the right to hurt those weaker and smaller than myself. Rather, I was always taught, and fully believe, that it is my duty as a decent human not only not to hurt those I could, but also to act decently towards others.
The lesson doesn't just apply to tiny, fluffy dogs that have been closer to euthanization than they ever deserved to be.
It applies to boys who play football who rape a girl. It applies to their peers, who stood by and did nothing. It applies to the adults in their lives, who either looked the other way or didn't teach these children what it means to be a decent, responsible human being. It applies to the media, irresponsible with their reporting. It applies to the people outside the situation who have used social media to harass and blame the victim. It applies to me, because I haven't spoken out earlier, more frequently, louder. It applies to you, because we are all part of this culture and society that allow this to happen, that allow some people to think any of the above behavior is acceptable.
We can do better. We can provide a good example of how to treat those weaker than us and those who are vulnerable. We can speak up when we see something that is wrong. We can talk openly and honestly to the young people in our lives. We can start difficult discussions. Why can ask "Why?" We can offer victims a safe place to talk, and we can listen. We can hold ourselves and others accountable. We can well and truly--each and every one of us--do something to create a different, better future, where we all are decent--and most importantly, safe.
Whether it's to the four-legged, three-legged, or two-legged, I challenge you this: Let's be better.
(True: If you don't think rape culture affects even the lucky people who haven't been assaulted, think again. And as always, be safe.)
Monday, January 14, 2013
In Defence of Books
I have a collection, or a library. Call it what you will, I have a lot of books, and I take a lot of pride in that. I have a knack for choosing good ones in a number of genres. (My reference collection is particularly eclectic and interesting.) I've managed to get my hands on a number of unedited pre-release books, a few of which are now worth a fair bit of money. I have a book by one of my favorite poets, signed just a few weeks before the man passed away. I have books from friends that we use as an excuse to keep in touch, and I have books I've reread so often pages are falling out.
I recently got my first smart phone, and one of the first apps I downloaded was an e-reader. It's fantastic, but there are reasons I will always love the "real thing" better...
A new book smells fresh and crisp, like possibility--and nothing can compare to the feeling of cracking a hardcover spine for the first time, and opening the book and yourself to a new world. An old book smells a little musty and comfortable, like a well-broken-in couch. It's familiar and cozy, and the plot and characters greet you like old friends.
A book finds a space in your home and settles in. It never demands attention (until you actually start reading it, if it's a good one), and it never "helpfully suggests" you should be doing something better with your time. It never gives you a hard time for what you do or how you do it or who you are--books provide a shelter against a world of people who all think you ought to be fundamentally different than you are. A book never thinks you're too fat. It never tells you that you're weird, or that you're bad at all the things you should be good at. A book never points out your perceived flaws, and it never makes you feel bad about who you are.
Instead, it gives you adventure, even though you're stuck in a cubicle all day. It gives you characteristics to aspire to, even in a world where reality TV actors are considered role-models. It gives you hope in happy endings and in the possiblity that the loose ends will all tie themselves up and that there will somehow be meaning, even though the news tells you all about how everything is going to hell and we're all doomed.
I've got a lot of books. I've also got a lot of adventure, aspirations, and hope in my life. And those are all Very Good Things.
(True: You'll notice that when I do book reviews here, I only give positive reviews. That's because I'm not going to waste my time reviewing a book I didn't like, and I'm not going to waste your time reading a review I don't think is worth your time.)
I recently got my first smart phone, and one of the first apps I downloaded was an e-reader. It's fantastic, but there are reasons I will always love the "real thing" better...
A new book smells fresh and crisp, like possibility--and nothing can compare to the feeling of cracking a hardcover spine for the first time, and opening the book and yourself to a new world. An old book smells a little musty and comfortable, like a well-broken-in couch. It's familiar and cozy, and the plot and characters greet you like old friends.
A book finds a space in your home and settles in. It never demands attention (until you actually start reading it, if it's a good one), and it never "helpfully suggests" you should be doing something better with your time. It never gives you a hard time for what you do or how you do it or who you are--books provide a shelter against a world of people who all think you ought to be fundamentally different than you are. A book never thinks you're too fat. It never tells you that you're weird, or that you're bad at all the things you should be good at. A book never points out your perceived flaws, and it never makes you feel bad about who you are.
Instead, it gives you adventure, even though you're stuck in a cubicle all day. It gives you characteristics to aspire to, even in a world where reality TV actors are considered role-models. It gives you hope in happy endings and in the possiblity that the loose ends will all tie themselves up and that there will somehow be meaning, even though the news tells you all about how everything is going to hell and we're all doomed.
I've got a lot of books. I've also got a lot of adventure, aspirations, and hope in my life. And those are all Very Good Things.
(True: You'll notice that when I do book reviews here, I only give positive reviews. That's because I'm not going to waste my time reviewing a book I didn't like, and I'm not going to waste your time reading a review I don't think is worth your time.)
Monday, November 12, 2012
Tips for Talking to the Person Who Is Not a Doormat
Because I've worked part-time in a bar, I've had my share of opportunities to talk to new and interesting people. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's awesome. As Bill Nye the Science Guy said, "Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don't." But every once in a while, there's that outlier that doesn't make the experience awesome...
(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post. Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people. If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)
** Personal space. This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.
** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation. Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.
** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately. She probably has a life. That's a good thing.
** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to. Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation. Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.
** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you. It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat. Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze. You are not being subtle. You are being a dick.
** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever. A long conversation doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever. Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering.
** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans. Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.
** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested. Just a suggestion. There is not always romantic subtext. Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation. Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.
** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:" No, you aren't going to change her mind. She's had enough. Stop.
Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.
(True: These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had. I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she. And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all). Substitute pronouns as needed. And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she." That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender. Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations. Friends don't treat each other that way, either. Get it? Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to. End disclaimer.)
(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post. Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people. If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)
** Personal space. This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.
** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation. Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.
** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately. She probably has a life. That's a good thing.
** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to. Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation. Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.
** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you. It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat. Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze. You are not being subtle. You are being a dick.
** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever. A long conversation doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever. Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her. In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering.
** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans. Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.
** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested. Just a suggestion. There is not always romantic subtext. Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation. Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.
** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:" No, you aren't going to change her mind. She's had enough. Stop.
Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.
(True: These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had. I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she. And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all). Substitute pronouns as needed. And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she." That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender. Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations. Friends don't treat each other that way, either. Get it? Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to. End disclaimer.)
Monday, November 5, 2012
A Word on Words
You know what's weird? The English language. It's a bit of a soapbox of mine, but I'll try to keep it pauciloquent.
Our idioms are strange. I understand them, and I'm a word nerd, so I actually know the etymology of them, but there are still some very odd ducks.
"Horse of a different color:" I think of purple ponies. Always purple. I don't know why.
"Mind your Ps and Qs:" And Ds and Bs, because the lower cases all look pretty damn much the same. (The whole beer thing is much happier.)
"Square meal:" For some reason, our lesson on the food pyramid in grade school always included this phrase, prompting me to believe that diet and geometry were closely linked.
We've also got strange words like "blurb" and "oaf" and "quire" (i.e., two dozen sheets of paper). And what does "i.e." mean, anyway? In other words (wink), what the hell are we saying every day?
I'm not the only one. Check out these cool Internet thingers for more...
(True: Don't even get me started on ten dollar words. None of us have time for that.)
Our idioms are strange. I understand them, and I'm a word nerd, so I actually know the etymology of them, but there are still some very odd ducks.
"Horse of a different color:" I think of purple ponies. Always purple. I don't know why.
"Mind your Ps and Qs:" And Ds and Bs, because the lower cases all look pretty damn much the same. (The whole beer thing is much happier.)
"Square meal:" For some reason, our lesson on the food pyramid in grade school always included this phrase, prompting me to believe that diet and geometry were closely linked.
We've also got strange words like "blurb" and "oaf" and "quire" (i.e., two dozen sheets of paper). And what does "i.e." mean, anyway? In other words (wink), what the hell are we saying every day?
I'm not the only one. Check out these cool Internet thingers for more...
- The Oatmeal
- "Idioms and Axioms Currently Used in America"
- 26 Weird English Words from A to Z
- A weird index
(True: Don't even get me started on ten dollar words. None of us have time for that.)
Friday, July 13, 2012
Hops in the Wrong Direction
Sorry I've been MIA this week, but you see, this blog makes me think of dogs. And this week, dogs make me think of Lennox. And what happened to Lennox makes me think very uncharitable things.
I have no doubt that Lennox is just one, well-publicized example of what has happened to numerous dog families affected by breed specific legislation, and I feel so, so sad by the misperceptions and biases that are perpetuated in what I like to think of as an era of dog advocacy, an era in which we understand better than ever the special bond our species and the canine species have held for so long.
I've heard a lot of people say Lennox and the media attention his case has received may help bring awareness to the way-too-common injustice of breed specific legislation, and I guess that's the best we have to hope for at the moment.
But that poor dog should never have put in the position to have been made a martyr.
I find the issue very upsetting, and not something I can speak thoughtfully (as opposed to vitriolically) on. But James W. Crosby is an expert, and he speaks thoughtfully where I cannot.
I have no doubt that Lennox is just one, well-publicized example of what has happened to numerous dog families affected by breed specific legislation, and I feel so, so sad by the misperceptions and biases that are perpetuated in what I like to think of as an era of dog advocacy, an era in which we understand better than ever the special bond our species and the canine species have held for so long.
I've heard a lot of people say Lennox and the media attention his case has received may help bring awareness to the way-too-common injustice of breed specific legislation, and I guess that's the best we have to hope for at the moment.
But that poor dog should never have put in the position to have been made a martyr.
I find the issue very upsetting, and not something I can speak thoughtfully (as opposed to vitriolically) on. But James W. Crosby is an expert, and he speaks thoughtfully where I cannot.
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Monday, May 7, 2012
Even When My Eyes Are Closed
Please be forewarned: This post is graphic and ugly. If you're looking to get your happy on, go here instead. No joke.
Friday night was going to be a good night. Another week of twelve hour work days was over, and it was my first free weekend in longer than I cared to remember. I had tickets to see The Avengers with The Squeeze later in the evening, but with a couple of hours to wait, I decided to splurge on a new book and a sub from the shop where The Squeeze works. Not wanting to deal with street parking, I parked in the garage around the block from both the bookstore and the sub shop--the first hour is always free.
I grabbed a book and checked out just as the clerks were ready to close, and then headed over to the sub shop. I chatted a moment with The Squeeze and his coworkers, got my sandwich, and left. Next to the building is a well-traveled, well-lit alley that leads to the parking garage and the entrance closest to where I had parked.
As I turned the corner of that alley, I saw three people and a pile of clothes. I live in an artsy-fartsy neighborhood, so my first thought was that it was some kind of guerilla art. After all, the three people seemed placed very carefully around the pile. My next thought was that they were tourists. We get plenty of them; you see people with luggage all over the place, especially on the weekends.
I was going to have to walk past them to get to the garage entrance, and I sort of felt like I was going to be in the way of whatever it was they were doing.
I suddenly realized it wasn't just a pile of clothes or luggage. There was a person in there, all crumpled in on himself. His legs were folded under him like he'd collapsed in the middle of a prayer. The rest of him had sort of settled between his knees. His brown plaid golf hat had fallen a few feet away, leaving his thin, white hair messy and uncovered. His iPhone still balanced precariously in his back pocket.
The two people on either side of him--men--were both on the phone with 911. The woman, who had stationed herself in front and to the side was very studiously not looking. I wanted to be able to do that, too--not look.
"I didn't see anything," she told me. "I just heard a thump."
Another woman approached. I think she'd been there a while, but I hadn't noticed her. It didn't matter, faces were all a blur anyway. "I think he's just really drunk," she said. No one else seemed to agree with her, but then, not a one of us had actually seen anything.
Couples dressed for dinner and groups of excited, chittering teenagers downtown for the movie kept passing by on their way to or from the garage. Each suddenly fell silent and hurried past. Whispers buzzed, "jumped."
Workers from some of the nearby restaurants appeared, hoping to help. One of the phone-calling men had apparently said the pile of clothes was still alive, but that was several minutes ago. Eons ago. He certainly didn't look alive. How could he be? No one believed it.
Some idiot in a minivan drove down the alley. The brown hat was crushed under a tire.
Finally, the paramedics arrived, with their muted lights and muffled sirens. There were a lot of them in the ambulance, maybe five. Or maybe there were fewer, but they were moving so fast, it was hard to tell. They approached the pile of clothes, reached out. After a moment, one of them pulled the pile up by his armpits and the pile turned into a man, but not a real one. He looked like a puppet, all dangling limbs and no resistance and cottonball hair. His shoes dragged loose on his ankles.
I turned away.
I didn't stay. The paramedics had no interest in the four of us who were there first. And what would I have to tell the police when they came? I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything. Thank god. (Or I saw and heard too little or too much, oh god, but still nothing useful.) I went home. I ate my sandwich. I went to the movie I'd purchased tickets for. Because what else was I going to do?
Friday night was going to be a good night. Another week of twelve hour work days was over, and it was my first free weekend in longer than I cared to remember. I had tickets to see The Avengers with The Squeeze later in the evening, but with a couple of hours to wait, I decided to splurge on a new book and a sub from the shop where The Squeeze works. Not wanting to deal with street parking, I parked in the garage around the block from both the bookstore and the sub shop--the first hour is always free.
I grabbed a book and checked out just as the clerks were ready to close, and then headed over to the sub shop. I chatted a moment with The Squeeze and his coworkers, got my sandwich, and left. Next to the building is a well-traveled, well-lit alley that leads to the parking garage and the entrance closest to where I had parked.
As I turned the corner of that alley, I saw three people and a pile of clothes. I live in an artsy-fartsy neighborhood, so my first thought was that it was some kind of guerilla art. After all, the three people seemed placed very carefully around the pile. My next thought was that they were tourists. We get plenty of them; you see people with luggage all over the place, especially on the weekends.
I was going to have to walk past them to get to the garage entrance, and I sort of felt like I was going to be in the way of whatever it was they were doing.
I suddenly realized it wasn't just a pile of clothes or luggage. There was a person in there, all crumpled in on himself. His legs were folded under him like he'd collapsed in the middle of a prayer. The rest of him had sort of settled between his knees. His brown plaid golf hat had fallen a few feet away, leaving his thin, white hair messy and uncovered. His iPhone still balanced precariously in his back pocket.
The two people on either side of him--men--were both on the phone with 911. The woman, who had stationed herself in front and to the side was very studiously not looking. I wanted to be able to do that, too--not look.
"I didn't see anything," she told me. "I just heard a thump."
Another woman approached. I think she'd been there a while, but I hadn't noticed her. It didn't matter, faces were all a blur anyway. "I think he's just really drunk," she said. No one else seemed to agree with her, but then, not a one of us had actually seen anything.
Couples dressed for dinner and groups of excited, chittering teenagers downtown for the movie kept passing by on their way to or from the garage. Each suddenly fell silent and hurried past. Whispers buzzed, "jumped."
Workers from some of the nearby restaurants appeared, hoping to help. One of the phone-calling men had apparently said the pile of clothes was still alive, but that was several minutes ago. Eons ago. He certainly didn't look alive. How could he be? No one believed it.
Some idiot in a minivan drove down the alley. The brown hat was crushed under a tire.
Finally, the paramedics arrived, with their muted lights and muffled sirens. There were a lot of them in the ambulance, maybe five. Or maybe there were fewer, but they were moving so fast, it was hard to tell. They approached the pile of clothes, reached out. After a moment, one of them pulled the pile up by his armpits and the pile turned into a man, but not a real one. He looked like a puppet, all dangling limbs and no resistance and cottonball hair. His shoes dragged loose on his ankles.
I turned away.
I didn't stay. The paramedics had no interest in the four of us who were there first. And what would I have to tell the police when they came? I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything. Thank god. (Or I saw and heard too little or too much, oh god, but still nothing useful.) I went home. I ate my sandwich. I went to the movie I'd purchased tickets for. Because what else was I going to do?
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Hops in the Right Direction: A Fresh Start for Allegan County Puppy Mill Dogs
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You've probably heard about the horrific hoarding/puppy mill situation that was uncovered this week in Allegan County, Michigan, in which 352 (now nearly 400 after several litters were birthed) dogs were rescued from a couple's small--really small--home. You can watch a news clip here. The couple has been arrested on felony charges of animal cruelty.
This is the kind of news story that clenches around you, drowns you in anger and pity. Or it does me, anyway.
But let's take a step back.
These dogs were rescued. They are getting the grooming, healthcare, and love they were deprived. Fortunately, not a single one has had to be euthanized, which means there are 400 dogs that now have the chance to find a family that will love and care for them. So many people have voluteered to help that the shelter that has taken these dogs has had to turn some away and ask them to come back later. Requests to adopt these dogs have come from as far away as New York and Florida. Money, gas cards, and pet care supplies have been pouring in, and professional groomers have closed their shops to help clean the dogs up.
Legislation has been introduced at the state level to prevent this kind of situation from happening again.
None of these means what happened or how the dogs were treated is okay. I'm not a generous enough person to forgive anyone who would do this, regardless of the circumstances. (I'm trying really, really hard not to rant about just how angry this story has made me.)
I do believe, however, that these 400 dogs were very, very lucky. So many pets will suffer their entire lifetimes in squalor and neglect in hoarding situations or mills. Because of this high-profile case, how many well-intentioned families will refrain from buying the puppy from the store window and adopt instead? How many more people will volunteer at shelters--not just those involved in the Allegan County case, but all over the country?
I'm hoping that the outrage this mill has created will fuel so, so much more good. I hope it will inspire people to get their dogs from reputable breeders. I hope it will inspire people to consider adopting their next pet. I hope more people will become educated about puppy mills, and that this will become a culture where we get pets not just for what they can give us (cuddles and unconditional love), but for what we can give them (a long, loved, enriched life where the dog can be a dog, and not a decoration or a "baby").
I'm hoping people will remember that there are two lucky dogs in every person-dog relationship, and one of them is you.
(True: The Puppy Mill Project in Illinois is dedicated to educating people about puppy mills and what local pet stores are supplied by them. Even better, they help pet stores transition to being supplied by shelters instead.)
(Also true: Prada is getting a big hug tonight.)
Shout out to my friend Pamela for bringing this story to my attention. She tells me they've raised over $10k in 24 hours. If you want to help, you can get donation info here or here.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Hops in the Right Direction: A Call to Arms
I usually try to hop in the right direction on Thursdays, but this post just couldn't wait another day.
There hasn't been much snow in Chicago for, well, pretty much all winter. Prada is totally bummed out. Her favorite winter activity is putting her nose down in the fresh snow and then running around the yard, snowplow-style. Her second-favorite activity is napping in her warm bed (if my lap is unavailable).
Sadly, not all dogs have a warm bed to call their own. The Animal Welfare League is the largest shelter in Chicago, and the only one that has a base in the economically depressed south side, with services including low-cost clinic care and no-cost monthly pet food distribution. The ALW is also out of bedding for their animals. A drive is being held to collect new and used pet bedding, as well as items that can be upcycled into bedding like sweatshirts and remnant fleece.
You all know what a softy I am for dogs, but this one really gets me. The shelter where I adopted Prada had cement floors--the kind of slippery floor that is very scary to her. A kind volunteer found a rug to put in Prada's run, so she had a safe harbor. Every dog deserves one of those. So, the first three people to comment today will have brand new beds donated in their name (or their pet's name or whatever).
This is Mya. She is a people-lover, and she loves to use that long tongue to give kisses. She also is in desperate need of a foster home. She needs knee surgery, and the money has been donated, but it can't happen until she has a place to recuperate. Every day she waits, it's another day in pain. She's in Frankfort, Indiana. Spread the word. Facebook Mya's story. Let's help her find a foster home--it's only a very little miracle she needs, after all.
There hasn't been much snow in Chicago for, well, pretty much all winter. Prada is totally bummed out. Her favorite winter activity is putting her nose down in the fresh snow and then running around the yard, snowplow-style. Her second-favorite activity is napping in her warm bed (if my lap is unavailable).
Sadly, not all dogs have a warm bed to call their own. The Animal Welfare League is the largest shelter in Chicago, and the only one that has a base in the economically depressed south side, with services including low-cost clinic care and no-cost monthly pet food distribution. The ALW is also out of bedding for their animals. A drive is being held to collect new and used pet bedding, as well as items that can be upcycled into bedding like sweatshirts and remnant fleece.
You all know what a softy I am for dogs, but this one really gets me. The shelter where I adopted Prada had cement floors--the kind of slippery floor that is very scary to her. A kind volunteer found a rug to put in Prada's run, so she had a safe harbor. Every dog deserves one of those. So, the first three people to comment today will have brand new beds donated in their name (or their pet's name or whatever).
This is Mya. She is a people-lover, and she loves to use that long tongue to give kisses. She also is in desperate need of a foster home. She needs knee surgery, and the money has been donated, but it can't happen until she has a place to recuperate. Every day she waits, it's another day in pain. She's in Frankfort, Indiana. Spread the word. Facebook Mya's story. Let's help her find a foster home--it's only a very little miracle she needs, after all.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Be Safe
Warning: if you are expecting the funny, you are going to be disappointed. I am not a good enough writer to address the issue of sexual violence with any sort of levity. Be prepared instead for lots and lots of righteous anger.
Reading articles like this and blog posts like this make me angry. Not at the writers--I appreciate their sentiments, concern, and willingness to take some flak to start a conversation that needs to be conversated. What makes me angry is that I follow the Rules to Not Get Raped. I dress pretty darn conservatively, and only "cheat" occasionally when I go out with multiple trusted friends. I've taken self-defense courses. I carry pepper spray, and even sometimes carry my keys between my fingers. I live in and visit only "nice" neighborhoods. I only stop at well-let gas stations when I'm driving at night, never at rest stops. When opening the door for strangers, I keep the chain lock engaged until I know what I'm dealing with.
I'm lucky. I haven't been assaulted.
And that has nothing to do with my having followed the "rules."
I was following the rules when a guy I was seeing in college threatened me. I am angry that I still wonder sometimes what I did to allow that. I was flirting--did I encourage him? I wore a push-up bra--did I encourage him? I kissed him--did I encourage him?
Then I remember that I spent the next three days cowering in my room because my roommate was out of town, and with the guy living in the same building, I was afraid even to leave to go to the bathroom. I had asked him to leave when I started feeling uncomfortable. When that didn't work, I firmly told him to leave. Then I demanded. I'd made it more than clear that I did not want to be treated that way.
I am angry that when my boyfriend is going out alone at night, I say "Be safe," and mean "Make good decisions." And when I tell a girlfriend who is going out alone at night, I say "Be safe," but it's a prayer instead of a directive.
I'm angry that I have, on occasion, chosen to stay home rather then go out alone at night.
I'm angry that I have to wonder if wearing a ponytail is tantamount to "asking" for it to be grabbed, and I'm angry that having very short hair made me a target for disparaging and sometimes frightening comments about my supposed sexual preference.
I'm angry that I am expected to always be aware of my surroundings and the people in them. I'm angry that I feel I have to.
I'm angry at how often I've been made to feel dirty or guilty because of how other people have looked at me, talked to me, touched me.
I'm angry that this is my reality, and I'm one of the "lucky" ones. I've never been assaulted.
I'm horrified that for other women, the reality is so much worse.
My friends: Please, this holiday season, be safe.
Reading articles like this and blog posts like this make me angry. Not at the writers--I appreciate their sentiments, concern, and willingness to take some flak to start a conversation that needs to be conversated. What makes me angry is that I follow the Rules to Not Get Raped. I dress pretty darn conservatively, and only "cheat" occasionally when I go out with multiple trusted friends. I've taken self-defense courses. I carry pepper spray, and even sometimes carry my keys between my fingers. I live in and visit only "nice" neighborhoods. I only stop at well-let gas stations when I'm driving at night, never at rest stops. When opening the door for strangers, I keep the chain lock engaged until I know what I'm dealing with.
I'm lucky. I haven't been assaulted.
And that has nothing to do with my having followed the "rules."
I was following the rules when a guy I was seeing in college threatened me. I am angry that I still wonder sometimes what I did to allow that. I was flirting--did I encourage him? I wore a push-up bra--did I encourage him? I kissed him--did I encourage him?
Then I remember that I spent the next three days cowering in my room because my roommate was out of town, and with the guy living in the same building, I was afraid even to leave to go to the bathroom. I had asked him to leave when I started feeling uncomfortable. When that didn't work, I firmly told him to leave. Then I demanded. I'd made it more than clear that I did not want to be treated that way.
I am angry that when my boyfriend is going out alone at night, I say "Be safe," and mean "Make good decisions." And when I tell a girlfriend who is going out alone at night, I say "Be safe," but it's a prayer instead of a directive.
I'm angry that I have, on occasion, chosen to stay home rather then go out alone at night.
I'm angry that I have to wonder if wearing a ponytail is tantamount to "asking" for it to be grabbed, and I'm angry that having very short hair made me a target for disparaging and sometimes frightening comments about my supposed sexual preference.
I'm angry that I am expected to always be aware of my surroundings and the people in them. I'm angry that I feel I have to.
I'm angry at how often I've been made to feel dirty or guilty because of how other people have looked at me, talked to me, touched me.
I'm angry that this is my reality, and I'm one of the "lucky" ones. I've never been assaulted.
I'm horrified that for other women, the reality is so much worse.
My friends: Please, this holiday season, be safe.
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