Author: the outside lane

Happy. That about covers it.
Howling Sea Lane, Religion, Uncategorized

You Can’t Have the T Without the A…or the V

the outside lane

In 1995, I was cruising toward the zenith of my zealotry, which crested in 1998.  I was 24-years-old and working for a major banking institution (you’d know it–they advertise everywhere.)  This bank, we’ll call Pursue, was a partner with the United Way, and every year there was an awesome party to kick off the employee giving campaigns.

I had worked for Pursue for two years at that point, and had enjoyed those parties massively.  The swag was always a nice perk, and at my just-above-minimum-wage salary, any perk was welcome.  One year we got lottery ticket scratch offs, and I won $100.  Do you know what $100 means to someone who makes $7.15 an hour?!

Somewhere between 1995 and 1996, Focus on the Family started to wage a real campaign against the United Way, citing that they gave money to Planned Parenthood, and Planned Parenthood performed abortions.  I had eschewed the secular in favor of strictly religious radio programming, so while I was at work, I listened to a lot of Focus on the Family* or Bob Larson (the Rush Limbaugh of Christian radio.)  Don’t judge me.  Okay, judge me, but do it out of love.

FotF’s programming convinced me that if I gave to the United Way, I was killing babies.  I may as well have been performing partial-birth abortions with my own teeth if a cent of my UW contribution went to Planned Parenthood.  And, much as I had personally boycotted Burger King for years (because they bought their fish from Iceland, and Iceland was harpooning whales or something–I forget.  man, did I miss their chicken sandwiches!), I took a stand against the United Way.

This meant refusing to attend the awesome party Pursue was holding because I felt it was hypocritcal to refuse to support UW and still benefit from their party.  No one seemed to care much that I didn’t want to support them financially (though it was all but a corporate mandate that employees give–and I disagree with corporately mandated giving), but they freaked out that I wasn’t going to go to the party.  In fact, members of management tried to force me to go to the party.

I did not back down.  I stood my ground against HR’s directive that I was not allowed to say why I wouldn’t participate.  It got ugly, then it got better.  I was resolute.  I did not go to the United Way parties for three years, and I missed out on some unbelievable swag and more scratch offs.  Feh.

I rarely stopped to think about the good the United Way does.  I rarely stopped to think about how they fulfill their vision:  Everyone deserves opportunities to have a good life: a quality education that leads to a stable job, enough income to support a family through retirement, and good health.  I focused on a fraction of a fraction, and I missed out on the opportunity to share my pittance with others who didn’t even have that.  I focused on the possibility of abortions not yet provided and ignored living, starving children.  Just like Jesus!  Ugh.  Jesus was all, “Girl, don’t look at me.”

It would be years before I would even allow myself to consider the good work that Planned Parenthood does.  Yes, they do provide abortions.  They also provide many other services to women and girls, who otherwise could not afford medical care.

From Wikipedia, some numbers:

[Planned Parenthood] serve[s] over five million clients a year, 26% of which are teenagers under the age of 19.[36] According to Planned Parenthood, 75% of their clients have incomes at or below 150 percent of the federal poverty level.[35]

Services provided at locations include contraceptives (birth control); emergency contraception; screening for breast, cervical and testicular cancers; pregnancy testing and pregnancy options counseling; testing and treatment for sexually transmitted diseases; comprehensive sexuality education, menopause treatments; vasectomies, tubal ligations, and abortion.

In 2009, Planned Parenthood provided 4,009,549 contraceptive services (35% of total), 3,955,926 sexually transmitted disease services (35% of total), 1,830,811 cancer related services (16% of total), 1,178,369 pregnancy/prenatal/midlife services (10% of total), 332,278 abortion services (3% of total), and 76,977 other services (1% of total), for a total of 11,383,900 services.[35][7][37][38][39][40] The organization also said its doctors and nurses annually conduct 1 million screenings for cervical cancer and 830,000 breast exams.

So what we’re looking at is 26% of services for cancer related issues, pregnancy, prenatal, or midlife services and care.  70% of services are related to the prevention of unwanted pregnancy, and the prevention and treatment of sexually transmitted disease.  96% of what Planned Parenthood does is directly related to women’s health, unborn baby health (because sexually transmitted diseases affect those guys, too!), and the avoidance of abortion through birth control.

The Susan G. Komen Foundation has the market cornered on cancer donation.  And, also from Wikipedia, “have been caught up in the controversy over “pinkwashing“—the use of breast cancer and the pink ribbon by corporate marketers, especially to promote products that might be unhealthful—in return for a donation to the cause. Komen benefits greatly from these corporate partnerships, receiving over $55 million a year from them.[61] However, critics say many of these promotions are deceptive to consumers and benefit the companies more than the charity.[62]”  

I’ve never been a big Komen fan, but have sponsored friends and family who have walked in the Race for the Cure.  No matter how commercial I find their message, I’m all for anything that is working to keep my family and friends alive.

Komen has done some wonderful things, including supporting Planned Parenthood, making it possible for them to provide 170,000 clinical breast exams, and 6,400 mammogram referrals in the past five years.  That’s somewhere around 200,000 women the Komen foundation touched in a real way.

Look.  I told you this story so that you understand that I have been on both sides of this coin.  I have been so zealously opposed to abortion (and choice, let’s be honest) that I would not support an organization whose work includes feeding and clothing, educating and advocating for the children who WERE NOT aborted.  I was so blinded by an nth of a percent out of religious righteousness that I ignored the screaming need of men, women and children who are already with us, and already in great distress.

I am 100% pro-choice.  It is my heart’s desire that abortion never be a wanted option, but so long as there are humans in the world, there will be imperfections (ill-health, rape, careless teenagers) and choice is valid.  We should work toward a world where every child is wanted, where women do not have to worry about considerations in the event of pregnancy due to rape or incest, where women’s health has improved to the point that we can save both mothers and children.

We help women, children, and the unborn when we support programs that offer preventative treatment and care, that offer contraception and education, and that provide healthcare to those who would not otherwise have access to it.  We help women, children, and the unborn when we support organizations like Planned Parenthood.  Which is why I have taken the amount of money I have spent previously sponsoring walkers in the 3-Day Race for the Cure and pledged it to Planned Parenthood this year.

*Focus has done a lot of good things.  I don’t want you to think I’m throwing any babies out with my bathwater.  I appreciate James Dobson on a personal level for giving my mother some parenting instruction she had lacked, and for giving me some tools to make it through my teen years.

Economics, economy, School

Bulls, Bears, and Toilet Paper Bits

the outside lane

I know it isn’t going to win me any fans to admit that I am really clueless about the stock market, but I am.  It’s one of those things that I know just enough about to be able to smile and nod with some confidence, but not enough about which to carry on any conversation beyond, “Wow…I can’t believe what a hit [insert the name of whichever company NPR reported taking a dive in the market] took today.”

I determined that I would learn about it.  And then, I found myself fixating on the shape of the font Wikipedia uses, and how much I like their logo, and not at all on what I was reading.  Try again tomorrow.  Or, if any of you care to enlighten me further than the following, please do!  I’m all eyes.

As I understand it (and I understand it only because David Bowie sold stock in David Bowie and I really wanted some–rock stars, driving my self-propelled educational interests since 1982), companies that are publicly traded allow investors to buy shares in their company.  It’s a bit like if a landowner had 4,000 acres and decided to sell parcels of land to ghost owners.  The Ghost Owners would profit based on the production of all 4,000 acres, regardless of which parcel of land they owned.  Worth would be determined by how many parcels of land you had purchased, based on the percentage of land made available by the Land Owner. 

Worth would also be determined by perceived value.  If no one wanted your land parcels, they wouldn’t be worth much, and you would have to offer them at a much reduced selling price to entice buyers.  If everyone wanted a piece of your action, you could charge out the wazzoo.

Perception would be determined by past and projected performance, and on speculation as to whether or not the land had staying power.  If the Land Owner hasn’t rotated crops in 4 years, one might speculate soil depletion and devalue the price of the land parcel, thus devaluing the shares.  If the Land Owner has taken exceptional care of his land, and has just invested in improvements that will increase his ability for output next year (even though the improvements cost some money) one might speculate a boom and value for the shares would remain stable or increase.

If too many people wanted out of their shares at once, the Land Owner could face financial doom–that’s his backing to run the company.  Shares are sort of a loan from the public, and the health of the stock has a lot to do with the health of full finances.

I have no idea the difference between Bull and Bear markets.  I don’t like getting animals involved.  I feel sorry for them.  Like what Republicans have done to Elephants–poor things!  But, I think Bull markets are good, and Bears are bad.  Yes, moneyinstructor.com confirms this.  I will remember this as:  When the market is good, take the bull by the horns.  When the market is bad…well, some days the bear gets you.  Or I will remember the toilet paper commercials with the baby bear, who frequently has bits of toilet paper stuck to his bum…bears are nasty.  Who came up with that?  That’s gross.  Ooh!  Or, I will think of the Snuggle Fabric Softener bear.  When the market goes south, you need snuggles.

Yeah.  So this is what it looks like when Lib Arts majors show an interest in the stock market.  Please feel free to fill in gaps, correct misunderstandings, or just agree with me that it is nasty to suggest that people who use Angel Soft go around with bits of toilet paper stuck to their backsides.

Advice, Explaining the Strange Behavior, hair, Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Thor

Bad Hair and Carrots of Shame

the outside lane

I do things for this child…

Tonight, I found myself apportioning 10 raisins a piece for 21 children before questioning whether or not that was in fact the instruction given by Thor’s teacher, who had asked for 10 pieces of each of 10 snacks she had listed on a quest to have fun working with the kids on counting to a hundred.  Brain-tired, I shoved a handful of raisins in my mouth and mulled.  Or chewed.  Whichever.

There was a tradition in the Sophomore year of my high school, for upper-classes to take on girls as Little Sisters.  We, the younger ones, were doled out at random to the older girls.  One of the bonding exercises was for the Big Sister to dress the Little Sister up in hideous nerd gear and parade them around all day.  It just so happened that I was growing out what amounted to be Annie Lennox’s haircut as that day rolled around, and I had clipped my shaggy bangs back from my forehead with a baby clip.  This was prior to the 90s, when baby clips became fashionable, lest you think to yourself, “I’ll bet that looked cute.”

I was standing in the school bathroom with my Big Sister, who was so not into me.  She had two Little Sisters, and had known one of them–the cool one, whose mother didn’t make her wear her skirt at LITERAL TEA LENGTH–from birth, and was just not up to having a dorky hanger-on.  Another Big Sister walked into the bathroom, took one look at me–not even having put on a single bit of nerd gear yet, just me and my baby clip, bare face, and tea-length skirt–and cried, “Oomeegeeeesh!  Her hair is so NERDEEEEEEEE!  OMIGOOOOOOOOOOOD!  AWESOME!!  BWAHAHAHAH!!11!!!!1!!!”  Yes, I could hear the 1s within her exclamation points.

There was this moment when my eyes met my Big Sister’s in the reflection of the mirror, and what I saw was her total revulsion, disappointment, and embarrassment at having to deal with me at all.  We both knew I had shown up looking like that.  She already knew I looked like a dork.  I was just finding out.

It was one of those John Hughes moments, and should have been followed up with Jake Ryan calling to take me to the prom–that’s how meaningful it was.  It was also a defining moment for me.  I smiled at my Big Sister, turned to the other girl and grinned as widely as I could and I said, “I know!  Ohmigod!  I look like such a nerd!  Like, I need a pocket protector, or, like some horn-rimmed glasses!  She’s done it perfectly!”

My Big Sister was visibly relieved, and I think that’s what embarrassed me the most.  I ended up with a beat-up cowboy hat made of straw, and a half-hearted makeup job, and I spent the rest of the day trying not to cry.

The next day, I wore my baby clip again as inoculation against the way I had felt.  That was my way back then.  If something I really liked turned out badly, I tried it again a) just to see if maybe I had played it to the wrong audience and a change of “venue” might help the problem, b) to show the people who made me feel bad that I didn’t give a rat’s rump what they thought, c) to pick at the scab because I was a bit of a masochist.

Thanksgiving, this year, was the first time I had been able to attend one of Thor’s class parties.  It was a Thanksgiving Feast buffet.  I volunteered to bring carrots, enough to serve 5 classes of 1st Graders, plus teachers, plus any parents who were attending.  I thought I was the only person bringing carrots.  I had also been advised that serving dishes would be provided.  So, I showed up with 3 large bags of baby carrots, and a large bag of carrot chips–for variety.  Some other mothers had also provided carrots, so by the time I arrived, my offering was overkill.

I got busy with helping and didn’t pay any attention to my carrots, and didn’t even see them again until I was in the teachers’ breakroom washing the dishes we had used for the buffet.  Another mom–this gorgeous, Charlie’s Angels looking mom, who is incredibly nice, and helpful–came in with my carrots and offered them to the teachers since we’d had overflow.  The teachers–y’all–the teachers sneered.  I was shocked.

I stood there washing my dishes, trying not to make eye contact with Gorgeous Mom, who knew the origin of the veggies, and who had extracted herself from the teachers’ conversation immediately.  That conversation among four, elementary school teachers went like this:

“I can’t believe how lazy some people are.  You don’t have time to even put the food on a tray?”

“Right?!  I would never show up with something that was so obviously from the grocery store.  You can’t make something at home?  You’re that busy?  Huh.”

“Homemade is always the best.  You know some people will just take the stuff they buy at the grocery store and put it on a platter?  That’s so rude.  I wouldn’t even take that to a friend’s party.  What do people think of you if you do that?”

“That you’re lazy!  And you don’t care.  And look–she didn’t even take them out of the bags.”

It went on.  And on.  And on.

I stood there, washing and drying, listening to these women talk about how rude, and tacky, and lazy, and disgusting I was for having brought food to the school, which I had purchased at Kroger, and left in bags so that they could be used as needed and otherwise shared if there were leftovers.  I had purposefully bought more than I thought was absolutely necessary, and I had thought people might like some fresh veg.  Uh…rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting.

I was fifteen again.  Standing in that bathroom, eyes locked on [redacted]’s, knowing I had fallen short.  Only, instead of being hurt, I was pissed the feck off.  Who were these harpies?  Seriously?  Rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting?  No, honey.  Rude is me saying I’ll bring food and then backing out without telling you.  Tacky is only bringing enoug’h for my child’s class and no one else, knowing it is a feast for all the classes.  Lazy is not bothering at all because some other mother will do it.  Disgusting is me spitting on the carrots before sharing them with you.

I seriously considered telling them they were talking about me, but I chose not to.  I was so taken aback, and disbelieving that by the time I had decided what I wanted to say, Gorgeous Mom had steered their conversation to kinder, gentler topics.  It seemed a moot point.  Besides, I could have outed myself, then the likeliest thing would be that they would tell the rest of the teachers that Thor’s Mom was rude, tacky, lazy, disgusting, and uber-confrontational.  For the child’s reputation, I swallowed my bile.

Tonight, I started working on those raisins and had such performance anxiety, I cannot tell you.  My packets weren’t pretty enough.  The Saran Wrap press-n-seal was too sticky.  There was no uniformity.  No aesthetic.  I started to panic.  Would Thor’s teacher think I was rude, tacky, lazy, or disgusting?  Was I even doing it right in the first place?  I had 10 packs of 10 ready to go.  I needed 11 more.  Or was I just supposed to send in 210 raisins by themselves?  Did there have to be 10 even for each child, or should I send one of those big boxes of raisins and let the teacher distribute at will?  OH MY GOD!  BABY CLIPS AND CARROTS!

So, I ate them.

I’ll work on it again tomorrow, after getting some clarification from Thor’s teacher, and having lived down my goofy hair and party tray shame through exhibitionism.

The moral of the story is: Be careful when you mock.  You may be mocking the person standing to your left.

 

“

Uncategorized

The Only Time the Words “SAG” and “BUTT” Are Acceptable in the Same Blog

the outside lane

Because I have lovely friends who are affiliated with the Screen Actors Guild, I got to attend the local SAG Awards party (and won some awesome SAG Swag.)  They trust me not to scare off the talent, so I also got to work the box office with my former colleague (and still friend) Sheila.  Thank goodness she was with me because I am terrible with celebrities.

Isn’t that crazy?  I know all the gossip-worthy ones, and the ones who are on the few shows I watch, but outside of that…  Listen, I’ve confused Spike Jonze for Spike Lee, and Terrence Malik with Terrence Howard.  That’s unforgivable.  Terrence Malik is a screenwriter and producer.  Terrence Howard is a spokesman for baby wipes.  I also have a really hard time with Guy Pearce and Christian Bale, Leighton Meester and Rachel Bilson, and–okay, ask my husband, I confuse everyone.  I’m excited when I get one right.  Like when Trinity from The Matrix showed up on Chuck and I knew it was Trinity, and didn’t think she was Xena, because yes, I have confused Trinity for Xena.

One gentleman came through and Sheila said, “Lane!  That’s [famous actor]!”

I said, “Who?”

“[Famous Actor]!”

“Don’t know him,” I shrugged.

She helpfully supplied a quick list of hits and I squinted and tilted my head.  He looked sort of familiar, but he was no Johnny Depp, you know?  However, THIS GUY, was Johnny Depp.

Fauxny Depp came in dressed in the distressed fedora and Buddy Holly rims we’re so used to seeing on Johnny, but unlike the swirling cloud of rumor that Johnny accessorizes with a body scarf of stink, Fauxny had no discernible odor at all.  That was my first clue that he was a celebrity lookalike.

Seriously, I thought to myself, “That guy looks a bloody lot like Johnny Depp.  I wonder if that is Johnny Depp.  I’m gonna play it cool.  Hmm.  Doesn’t smell.  That’s not Johnny Depp.  Why would Johnny Depp be at this party and not the one in LA?”  That was my second clue.  The third was when Alex Mazieri introduced himself as…Alex Mazieri.  Can’t fool me.

Glad I played it cool.

The other highlight of my evening was having a Butt Sketch made.

I’ve heard of these before and always avoided them.  I thought they were caricature style sketches of backsides, and the last thing I want to see is my tuckus in the fisheye lense of the caricature artist.  I walked up on the artist, Rhett, as he was sketching the backside of a zaftig woman in a fur.  It was actually lovely and I determined that I should have a portrait made of my own posterior.

Here it is.  As Dana Carvey-as-George Michael might say, “Look at my butt!  The worst thing you can do is try to ignore it.”

If you should ever have a Butt Sketch drawn, do not choose this pose. You will end up feeling like a swaybacked mule. Get comfy.

 

The front of me looked like this:

Alas, I have no career as a celebrity lookalike in front of me. You know I would.

It was good times all around.

Uncategorized

Crying Like a Baby

the outside lane

Of all the parenting questions and insecurity I have, childcare has been the biggest.  Having never had a kidney stone (which my mother says is a pain worse than the 36-hour, no drug labor she endured, up hill, both ways, in the snow, at a military hospital), the pain of childbirth (or at least the beginning of it) is the worst pain I can imagine physically.  Having never lost a child (thank God, knock wood, and all the other things), the pain of leaving my newborn with a stranger is the worst emotional pain I’ve ever felt.  I don’t really remember how much labor pains hurt, only how good that epidural felt, and how happy I was when Thor finally made his appearance, but I remember with awful clarity how it felt when I put that five week old baby in the arms of a stranger, making minimum wage to care for my precious, hard won son.

I am not ashamed to tell you that I broke down sobbing, and had to sit in my car for a long time before I could make myself drive away.

We have been extremely fortunate that we have always had a choice in childcare.  We haven’t had to make do with the bare minimum because it was all we could afford, and we haven’t had to rely on unpaid care.  We have been extremely fortunate.

This morning, I am thinking about mothers who are having to leave their babies in the arms of people they aren’t sure they can trust, hoping against hope that the worker is good to their baby, while they go to work to try to earn enough to keep that child in food and diapers.  I am thinking about mothers who don’t have a choice.  I am thinking about mothers who are trusting fate.

When I am Overlord, we will find ways to pay well for three things, and we will find ways to attract the best people for these jobs:  Childcare, education, and elder care.  No mother should have to be afraid to leave her baby.

Any idea how hard it was to leave this little guy with strangers? And he was 9 months old by the time this was taken. ❤