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Well, I just lost my entire Glass House post while trying to edit it.  Nice.  I was being pretty sanctimonious, so maybe it’s for the best?  The gist of it was blahblahblah–don’t make fun of people’s looks or take pictures of strangers and post them online, especially not children–blahblahblah.  Word count reduced from over 600 to under 100.  Maybe I should always write gist only.

[Jamie Anne and Amy sent me the original text, so it follows.]

Ever taken a bad picture?  I have.  I’ve learned how to pose and work my
lighting over the years, but they won’t let you do that at the DMV.
And, as I said earlier today, I have mugshots out there somewhere.  All
I know for sure is that my hair and nails looked fantastic.  The rest of
my close-up probably resembled Alice Cooper after a really physical
show.

I like to look good in photographs.  It is my preference to look
fabulous, but I gave up on attaching emotion to bad ones.  I mean, good
or bad, the photo is still me.  Hate to think I look like that some of
the time, but if I do, I do.  That’s that, and that’s me, and I’m happy
with myself.  Besides, I can find something to tear apart in every
picture of me.  We all can.

I am fairly blase about my image, but I can afford to be.  For the most
part, I control when and which images you see of me.  Even if I am going
to post something that isn’t the most flattering, chances are I won’t
ever post something I think is grossly unflattering.  For example,
you’re probably never going to see me in my leggings and wife beater,
when my hair is yanked back, and I’m wearing last night’s makeup.
However, if you go to any number of websites dedicated to making fun of
what people look like, you could probably find a fair facsimile.  I
don’t visit those sites because I can’t help but think of how I would
feel showing up on one.

Listen, I’m no saint.  I swing wildly between, “Oh my god, Becky!  Look
at her butt!” and “If you can’t say something nice, then shut your damn
mouth.  That’s a person who has feelings inside those ill-fitting hot
pants.”  I like to think that the needle wobbles nearer my closed mouth
these days, but even as I type I am recalling that I have been guilty of
forwarding photos that have been sent to me after adding my own
commentary.  Usually saying something like, “Christmas on a cracker!
Why would she even SEND this?!  Has she no eyes?!”  Obviously, I need to
get better before I knock all the windows out of my glass house here.

Still, I’m going to throw a couple of rocks.

One:  Don’t take pictures of strangers and post them on your website, or
your social networking page, or email them to your friends.  I worked
for a company whose customer service philosophy was Imagine It’s You.
It is a simple philosophy, but covers a lot of bases.  Imagine that
someone took that picture of you and used you as a jumping off point for
their entertainment.  Or your sister.  Or your best friend.  Or, God
forbid, your child.  Imagine that.

Two:  How about not making fun of people’s looks to begin with?  Good
rule of thumb is that if someone was born with it and/or it would
require surgery to change it, it is off limits.

Three:  Especially not kids.  And listen, this is where I have been
chief among sinners.  If I thought you were making fun of my child, I
would happily pull your lower lip over the back of your head.  You
remember Mrs. Jumbo’s freak out when the other lady elephants laugh at
Dumbo?  You would wish you were dealing with a mad elephant.  So why
would I ever think it was okay to do it?  That’s just being a yotch.  I
expect you all to hold me to this.  Print it out.  Roll it up.  Slap me
across the nose with it.  I’m ashamed just typing this, but I ought to
be, so that’s okay.  Some shame is healthy, and confession is good for
the soul.

I have been bullied, and I have been a bully.  Either way, I lost sleep
at night.  Better to lose sleep in innocence, right?

Woo.  I’m feeling a draft.  I’ll catch you guys tomorrow.  I need to go
board up these holes.

I write a weekly style article for That’s What She Said, Arwen Bicknell’s how to blog about management.  The hook for this blog is that Arwen ties all her excellent advice back into television shows or movies, offering easy to find examples of the work in action.  When she invited me to play it was with the caveat that I do the same.  That’s hard!

I do own a television, and I do watch television, but my taste runs to shows like Doctor Who, Top Gear, Big Bang Theory, Glee, and Little Miss Perfect.  These shows don’t usually have much utility in the management style in action arena.  Alien fashion is, well, alien to the workplace, and the only thing I can tell you about Top Gear is that all three of those presenters (Jeremy Clarkson, James May, and Richard Hammond) are big professional-wear don’ts.

Yesterday I was researching for an article on hairstyles for women in management.  It wasn’t a cakewalk to find female management characters, but I was able to score five decent examples in half an hour.  Then I looked at what I had.  Five white women.  Well, that just wasn’t going to work.

A little more thought and digging, and I found two good examples of African American women in leadership positions on scripted television shows, and one African American woman in a leadership position on unscripted television.  (I didn’t use Oprah.  Oprah isn’t a boss.  Oprah is the boss.)

I looked at my work again.  Better, but still not what I wanted.  I couldn’t think of a Latina or Asian woman represented as management, or in a leadership position on television.   The closest I could get were characters on medical shows, but medical shows aren’t the best places to find real world style.

I started thinking about casts with good visual diversity.  The Office.  Ugly Betty.  Doctor Who.  Grey’s Anatomy.  Glee.  That Zach Braff show I dislike so much.  Firefly (may it rest in peace.)  Defying Gravity (another dead sci-fi show.)

And I started thinking about shows I watch that are so white they may as well be pickets in fences.  How I Met Your Mother.  Big Bang Theory (one stereotype of an Indian man does not equal a diverse cast.  I’m looking at you, That 70s Show.)  House (one stereotype of an angry, black man does not equal a diverse cast.) 

Obviously, it isn’t hard to build a diverse cast.  It’s been done and done well.  So what conclusion do I draw?  I don’t know.  I need to think about it some more.

In the meantime, if you can think of some Latina or Asian women in powerful positions outside of medical dramas, will you let me know?  Thanks!

I was hashing out a new post in my head (or fantasizing about being on Oprah talking about the Women Worth Knowing project that had swept the nation in a wave of positive feeling, you decide which) when I noted the motorcycle policeman noting my expired inspection sticker.  I nodded at him and smiled, hoping that if I looked friendly and harmless he might just keep driving instead of whipping around behind me and turning on the lights.  I should have known better.  The last time I tried to be accommodating and sweet to a police officer, I ended up in a jail cell, wearing a hideous orange jumpsuit after a strip search.

In college, I was driving on an expired registration.  I got pulled over and took my ticket.  I paid for my new tags and forgot about the ticket.  Five years later, and I’m not even kidding about the timeline.  Five years later, I came home on a Friday to a letter stating that there was a warrant out for my arrest for failure to pay that ticket.  It was Friday night, so there was nothing I could do.  I resolved to take care of the issue on Monday, and went to bed excited about my Saturday hair and nails appointment, and getting to visit an out of town friend.

The next morning I got my hair done, had a fantastic manicure, and was on the way to meet my friend when I heard the familiar cry of a police siren.  There was an officer behind me, lights on, siren on, pulling me over.  I panicked.  I had a warrant!

Over the next several minutes the very young officer took his care arranging for someone to tow my car away, while he had me spread-eagled against the side of his car for a pat-down.  Assured I wasn’t packing, he handcuffed me, wrists together behind my back, and kind of heaved me into the squad car, where I rode crying.  Without a seatbelt, and off balance due to my bonds, each time he put on brakes or hit a bump I ended up with a face full of that screen between the driver and the criminal.  And I fell over twice.  This dude could NOT drive.

Eight hours after being liberated from all of my clothing (except my panties–I was crying so hard, the officer took pity on me and let me keep my panties), and having been terrorized by Big Mean Annie, my cell mate, and after fingerprints, mug shots (for which I would pay to see), I was finally allowed to leave.  In those eight hours I learned that inmates can’t just ask for a cup of water, and have no privacy for bodily functions. 

Given that using the toilet meant taking down a jumpsuit to sit on the toilet behind the metal screen with baseball sized holes punched in it from top to bottom, which was equivalent to getting totally naked in plain view of Annie (who had already quizzed me threateningly about whether or not I had panties, since she didn’t) and the male officer patrolling the hallway, I opted to hold it.  And since said officer told me if I wanted water, I could get it out of the bidet function on the toilet, I opted to remain dry.  This probably helped my resolve toward the former.  That, and I had cried so much, there could not have been any moisture left anywhere in my body.

Since that time, I have been terrified of police officers.  I approach them with the same caution I reserve for strange animals.  I know not all officers are as rough and/or unecessarily mean as the ones who handled me that day, just like I know not all pit bulls want to tear off my face and wear it while they eat the rest of me, but until I know exactly which type I am dealing with, I am treating every cop like he might be pistol whipping me for rolling through a stop sign.

I have done my best not to transfer my fear to Thor.  When we see officers, I tell him what a great service they do for us as a community, and I’ve tried to teach him to respect the uniform*.  B tried to teach him to say, “I smell bacon,” and he’s never even been arrested!

Anyway, I got a ticket this morning, and the officer thanked me for my courtesy as he handed it over.  I just avoided shrugging away with my arms crossed over my head in a defensive motion as he passed his hand through my window to give me the ticket.  I think I have PTSD.

*I respect the uniform.  I appreciate the men and women who are willing to service as officers.  I just think they can smell my fear.