Category: Lancient History

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Lancient History, Philosophy

Epicurean Spartan

the outside lane

I have too many clothes.

What is too many?  More than I could wear in a year.  Yep.  If I took all my clothes out and wore everything I own, I could wear something different every day for a year–or better.  A year is a conservative guess.  I probably wear a tenth of it.

I don’t have room for the clothes.  My (shared with Thor) closet was maxed out before I had unpacked two of my six giant tubs of clothes (and I think there are 6 more in the storage unit, which will go directly to Goodwill without passing God, or collecting any dollars when we open that up again), and my dresser didn’t stand a chance against all my belongings.  I’m like Empress Elizabeth, for heaven’s sake!  And no maidservants to clean up after me.

I got tired of feeling overwhelmed by laundry (and who wouldn’t?!) and I am very tired of not being able to put things away–not because I’m too lazy to do it (hello! have made my bed and kept my kitchen clean for a year straight now!), but because I just don’t have room enough to receive it all.  Thus, my Spartan Resolution to strip my wardrobe down to [what I consider] the bare minimum, and start life over as someone with Enough, not Too Much.

Tonight, I sat down and made a list of what I need.  I was very generous with myself (An Epicurean Spartan, if you will), allowing as though I were going on a long trip, and needed to pack for Career, Casual, and Evening, with alarming shifts in weather from Dead-of-Winter to Hottest-Day-of-Summer.  I gave myself enough Career Wear to go 20 business days without repeating an outfit.  I gave myself enough Casual to go 10 days without repeating an outfit.  I gave myself enough Evening/Cocktail to go to three parties–y’all are just going to have to live with it when I show up at the fourth party, wearing a repeating dress.  I gave myself miscellaneous items that are Winter or Summer only–enough to supplement the rest–and I gave myself three aspirational items (that one dress that doesn’t quite squeak by, that one pair of trousers, and that skirt I can’t bear to part with from 1990), two investment items (a couple of designer things I probably won’t ever wear, but like owning), and my workout gear.  Then, I went to work.

I’d already started culling out for Goodwill last weekend.

Tonight, I pulled aside the items that were To Keep, and just started bagging the rest.  The two tubs in the closet, which I haven’t touched in about 8 months…  Not even going to open.  Just taking them to Goodwill.  If I haven’t missed what’s in them, I don’t need what’s in them.  And, if I do end up missing something, I will consider if it merits replacing, and which of my Spartan Wardrobe Pieces it will replace because once I’ve gotten myself out from under this tonnage of clothing, I’m not going back under it.  And I estimate it will be this Sunday that I’ve dropped off the last Goodwill offering.  Lord unwilling and the creek rises, then next Sunday is my go-to date.

The resolution does extend to my shoes.  That’s going to be the hardest part for me.  I love my shoes like little sculptures, but if I’m not wearing them, they aren’t doing me any good.  Someone else could be putting them to use. Someone else might genuinely need them.

At this writing, I have two fully loaded tubs I haven’t touched in 8 months, another tub of that size I loaded tonight, two smaller tubs that are overflowing, one laundry basket full, and one full-to-bursting Hefty bag.  I’ll get my workout hauling these things.

Why am I doing this?  Because I want control of my things.  Because I am no longer emotionally attached to Things.  Because I’d like to do laundry and hate it like a normal person, not like a person who feels afraid and ashamed of the piles.  And because I’d like to see if I can.

I know I can.  I guess the more correct statement is that I’d like to see who I am, when I do.

I think to myself what a shame it is that I didn’t learn this at 20,when it could have made a difference in those fresh years–like Molly Grue accusing Amalthea in her unicorn form of coming to her too late (I understand and identify with that scene like I never could as a child.)  I think, “It’s a shame to be 41 and only learning it now.”  But that’s not a shame at all.

The shame would be in refusing to change because I wasn’t this awesome as an ingenue.  I’m not going to punish Current Me for the shortcomings of Former Me.  Former Me didn’t know any better, did the best she could with what she had, and acquired some really unique and beautiful wardrobe pieces that are going to make another girl feel very, very pretty.

Family, Lancient History, School

Queen of the Damned Elementary school

the outside lane

I like the November trend of people posting their daily thanksgivings on Facebook.  I started mine today, and I’ve decided to go a full year with it.  It is healthy and healing to be thankful, even for the smallest of things.

Today, walking home from Thor’s school after a lengthy conversation with him about migration patterns and why geese honk (a whole flock flew overhead and buzzed us like Maverick and the Control Tower and all I could think was, “Please!  No goose poop!” have you seen the size of goose poop?!) I was struck by the weather and the wet grass and suddenly remembered waiting for the bus in elementary school.  Since we weren’t on the bus route after second grade, my mother had bribed paid the bus driver (who lived about a mile from our house) to pick me up and drop me off.  I would hang out in our front yard, waiting, twirling, dancing, singing, whatevering at the top of my lungs.  I had a self to entertain, you understand.

Our neighbor across the street took pity on what he perceived as my boredom, and started coming out every morning to let down the wooden swing that hung from a huge oak tree in their front yard.  I would swing until the bus arrived, then hop on board and watch Mr. Meadows tie the swing back up to the branch.  When they were in season, he would allow me to pick one pomegranate from his shrub every day, and I would carry that to school in my backpack, pretending I was Persephone and the school bus was taking me from my place as Princess of Spring in mother’s fields into the Underworld of elementary school, where I was Queen of the Damned.  Clearly, Thor’s dramatic tendencies are genetic.

I loved our neighborhood in Virginia.  Trees and water, and a hundred elderly people for me to visit and have dote upon me.  It was funny–I was talking to my therapist about growing up in neighborhoods with no children, the other day.  Then, I realized I had grown up in neighborhoods with plenty of kids, I just wasn’t allowed to play with any of them!  I couldn’t play with Michelle, who lived 2 houses down, because she had called Mr. Landing an old bastard.  I couldn’t play with Jenny G because my parents were unsure of her parents.  I couldn’t play with Jenny J (whose grey gingerbread house had actual heart cutouts on the shutters–I loved her house) because she was allowed to play with Jenny G.  I could play with Lisa and Tina until they walked into our home unannounced twice, and my mother put an end to their desire to come near our front door.  Chester and Darren were out on my terms.  Darren had held me down while Chester put caterpillars in my hair–I wasn’t going to play with them ever again.  Boys!  Although, Darren had an awesome swingset and would play Underdog with me.

There was also a neighbor at the end of the block, who had something like 8 kids.  I can’t remember why I didn’t play with them, but it probably had to do with Jenny G. or Michelle (who I secretly loved, and who snuck me into her house to watch Saturday Night Fever.)

I wonder how much of elementary school Thor will remember?  If any of our walks to class will register in his memory.  At the very least, I hope the impression of how much fun we’ve had will remain, and he will have a blanket feeling of goodness surrounding this period of his life.

Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, Lancient History, Women Worth Knowing

Why WWK Is Supporting the Rape Crisis Center

the outside lane

I’ve made no secret about the fact that I was date raped when I was 21. That’s actually how I lost my virginity. You want to talk about awful first time experiences…sheesh.

To this day I have a lot of confusion about what happened and what to call the events that transpired. My own intellectual knowledge that “no means no,” and “NOOOOO means NOOOO,” gets muddied with the common response to the call of rape: What was she wearing? Had she been drinking? Where was she? What time of night was it? Did she struggle? Was she a tease?

I was wearing a black velvet catsuit and a gold smoking jacket with black velvet lapels and some really, super cute shoes. I’d had a glass of wine. I was in the boy’s bedroom. It was close to 2am. Once I realized it was going to happen no matter what I said, or how loudly I said it, I think I must have quit struggling–I don’t know. I’ve blacked that out. I do know Information Society was playing on the radio–maybe that’s why I blocked it out. I never liked that band.

Was I a tease? No. I’d been very frank about what I would and would not do. I was perfectly happy to do anything that could not result in pregnancy, and was precise about what acts that might include. The boy seemed quite pleased with the deal.

I didn’t tell my mother because I was afraid she would kill the boy, and then I’d have a mother in jail. I did not go to the police because of the above. I didn’t figure anyone would believe me. I am exactly the kind of girl This Cop was talking about. Maybe I wasn’t dressed like a “slut” but we can all be realistic about how I would be viewed based on dress, drinking, and willingness to do some if not “it”.

My Great-Aunt is a different story. And her story is much more to the point.

Aunt N was in her 80s when a man broke into her house to beat and rape her. He accomplished his goal.

I have no idea what she was wearing at the time, but I’m pretty sure it involved Granny Panties, not a visible thong. I highly doubt she’d been drinking. She was in her own home, in bed, in the middle of the night–right where she belonged. And she fought as much as an octogenarian can. Given her nature, I can assure you that she was not a tease.

Rape has nothing to do with what you wear, your state of mind, where you are, what time it is, whether you fight, or whether you’ve ever had sexual relations with your attacker.

Rape has nothing to do with YOU.

Rape has to do with the Rapist.

Rape isn’t something you bring on yourself.

Rape isn’t something that you do to yourself.

Anyone who has been raped will tell you how unpleasant it is–it isn’t something anyone would court.

Rape isn’t flattering.

Rape isn’t a compliment.

Rape isn’t a judgment.

Rape is an attack, a violation, and a crime–it is nothing positive, and it is nothing you can force anyone to do to you. You cannot MAKE someone RAPE.

Rape is not a reaction.

Rape is only an individually driven action. It is a purpose driven action.

I support, and have put the WWK project’s support behind the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center because I’ve been there and I know. And because women and men, girls and boys who are hurt need help. They need to know there is a safe place to go, where people will believe them, and help them. Help them understand that the problem isn’t THEM.

The problem is, and only ever will be the Rapist.

Raise your kids to respect themselves enough that they would think it beneath them to take something not freely given. Raise your kids to respect other people enough that they wouldn’t dream of taking what wasn’t clearly offered. That’s how you deal with rape.

Lancient History

Friday, Rebecca Black, and Lyrical Comedy

the outside lane

In part because I can’t stop watching this video for Friday, by Rebecca Black, much as I could not stop watching the honey badger video, in part because it is actually Friday, and also because I was once thirteen, I bring you another nostalgic post.

Back in my day, if a kid wanted to make a music video, she had to be Debbie Gibson. There was no such thing as The Ark Music Factory, and I won’t lie, had there been, I would have saved up my allowance, my babysitting money, and maybe learned to hustle just to gather up the funds to star in my own production. And if I had been offered the song Friday, you can bet your favorite pair of legwarmers I’d have been smacking the honey badger shiz out of those lyrics and imploring you to help me choose a seat in the car, like Celine Dion telling you her heart will go on.

I started writing music pretty early. My father writes music, so it was just a natural part of life that I would write melodies and lyrics. Now, I can’t score for peanuts, but I’ve written some okay tunes that sounded pretty fantastic with a choir behind them. Those came in my 20s, though. The songs I wrote in my tweens and teens? Ha! I fancied myself the wee version of Tammy Wynette and Billie Holiday, so I concentrated my efforts on overwrought Country or Blues songs about my man cheating on me.

I was ten years old when I penned this chorus of a particularly twangalicious ditty:

You been doing Odd Jobs
in her neighborhood.
Odd Jobs
I should’a known that you would
You got tired of me, but I was too blind to see
that you were doing Odd Jobs.

Yeah. It would be seven more years before I got my first proper kiss, but I was writing about my man going up the block to help out the super hot, newly divorced neighbor. I’m not sure what it says about me that even at that age I knew “mowing her lawn” could be a euphamism.

By the time I hit high school, I had decided Country music was for morons, and I was going to write like Morrisey. That’s when I got sent to the counselor’s office because a teacher thought one of my tone poems (later turned lyric) was a suicide note. No. I was just emo before Gerard Way’s parents had met (I just learned his name, by the by.)

As a junior, I wrote this:

Once, I was someone’s everything
And tore it all apart
the words did not mean anything
I’d eaten out my heart
Where once there was “I love you”
now it’s “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye”
The hole in me is howling
To kiss
To touch
To die

Again, yeah. Funnily enough, by high school, I had forgotten euphamism and double entendre or I’d never have written that chorus!

But, I never took my music for a walk, so it never went anywhere. I do have a couple of writing credits on a couple of dusty songs from a kid’s show I did, but outside of that, I had no real interest in pursuing my “art”. What I did have an interest in doing was going to 6 Flags and getting in the recording booth to belt out my version of Gloria Estefan and Kim Carnes songs. And later, when they added the video booth…Oh Em Gee! My little heart was full!

What I’m saying is I can’t knock Rebecca Black or her funny little song. She’s a kiddo who got a chance at fulfilling a fantasy, and it’s working out for her.

And honestly, how can you not love a song that tells you half the days of the week? I can’t get enough of this song. It’s like comedy crack. Much like mine would have been.

Lancient History

Little Girls Understand

the outside lane

Because some things are too funny not to share…

Of course, you have to have been a child who was as invested in writing stories as I was. And I was. I wrote my first fanfiction in early elementary school. It was a crossover between Battlestar Gallactica and Star Blazers. Starbuck (original Starbuck–the male version) was going to marry Trelaina of Star Blazers. I had just read Forever, by Judy Blume, and I made sure to include a blow job. That’s right. I was writing smut as an eight-year-old. My older friend ratted me out, concerned that I might have been heading down (ha-ha, head-ing!) the wrong path, so I kept my fic to myself until junior high, when a friend and I used to write Duran Duran fanfiction back and forth for each other.

You see, I would write out her scenarios with Nick Rhodes, and she would write out my scenarios with everyone else, and sometimes Nick. I was an equal opportunity fan. I have had a crush on every member of that band, for at least five minutes. The Warren crush lasted five minutes. I announced I had it, Kim sent me a picture of him with his hand down his pants, and that was that. I went back to lusting for Billy Bob Thornton, who seemed the cleaner choice.

Most of our fiction was very, very dramatic and usually involved at least one, if not three, near death scenes, and even a gang fight. We were both into Westside Story and The Outsiders. Now try to imagine John Taylor in a gang fight. Now come back to me. Stop laughing.

Oh, and we always wrote ourselves as being 21…because that was OLD and WORLDLY.

Darice, who is going to have to do a WWK Q&A soon, and I were laughing about our fourteen-year-old selves, and I shared the former information with her. Not five minutes later, this is in my mailbox:

LANE: “I’m… dying….” ::coughcough::

JOHN: No! Lane, don’t… you can’t die!

SIMON: We haven’t fulfilled our love yet!

NICK: Well, I did —

SIMON: — you what??

JOHN: But she’s mine!

ANDY: What about me?

EVERYONE: NO.

LANE: ::coughcough:: now, boys… you mustn’t… fight about me… ::coughcoughLaTraviatacough::

ROGER: Oh, Lane, we’re sorry… at a time like this!

::everyone gathers around Lane’s bed. Except Andy::

LANE: That’s more like it… 😉

It’s as if she had access to my old Composition notebook. And I laughed so hard that B came in and insisted to know what was so funny. I tried to explain that he wouldn’t find it so amusing, and he was very disappointed. But as Darice quoted Jim Morrison, “The men don’t know, but the little girls understand.”

If I were 14 right now, I would probably be writing Beiber fic. He would cut his hair for me, in the only act that could save my life, showing his true love.