What is it about old men. Not only do they grow long ears and bushy eyebrows, they also get stuck in their ways and cannot stand it if a woman might know a tiny bit more about a subject than they. Or even if she has a different opinion about something than they do. Are we to have no thoughts of our own? Are we to be considered ‘communists’ or ‘fascists’ if we take another ‘side’ than that of a man? The one I am most amused by is the guy who said that I was a ‘fascist’ because I had said I was a Socialist and after all, Hitler’s party was called a “Socialist’ party. GOD! Cannot a woman disagree with a man? And if she has plausible proof that what she said is true, is she still to be called a ‘liar,’ simply because she has disagreed with the ‘more intelligent’ man... well, more intelligent simply because he is a man, i guess. Surprise, guys... I read several news magazines (two present ‘both sides; of U.S. politics -- two or three don’t), have gone to school my whole life, listen to radio and TV and assiduously avoid ‘commentators’ from either ‘side.’ I love the BBC for its lack of ‘side.’ So I think I know whereof I speak. I do have an opinion... everyone does.
I think of ‘the men’s table’ in the cafeteria of a college in SF where I took classes. Bunch of scowling old men muttering to each other about their money (their ONLY lives so often). I saw a friend sitting at the table one day, with an empty seat opposite him... so, for a laugh I went over, said hello, put down my tray and pulled out the chair and sat down. An alarming growl went up and the men on either side of me slid their chairs away from mine. I sat down to silence and even worse scowls than usual. My friend, who was as amused as I, and I talked brightly about classes and world politics (more growls... we were the WRONG party). When I was finished, I arose, said, “Goodbye boys, nice seeing all of you!” and left to final growls.
Makes me remember both my younger sister’s and my grandmother’s admonitions: Georgie (after I told an engineer friend of her husband’s he was wrong about some territory, and finally went and got the encyclopedia to show him: “Come help me in the kitchen...you NEVER tell a man he is wrong! How COULD YOU! Now he’ll NEVER ask you out!” (Like I’d have gone... the guy was a jerk.) Grandmother: “Now Peggy dear, tha shouldn’t hae told your cousin he was wrong, e’en tho he were, no mon likes to be told when he is wrong.”
Well, I know, but I forget. After all, I had a wonderful GROWN man friend who could argue with me and admit when he was wrong and I was right, and I could admit when I was wrong and he was right. We were actually equals and I loved that. Unfortunately he went back to the wife who didn’t want to be touched, and a very dysfunctional family... I guess they needed him more than I did. (He always said he admired the way I could take care of myself... if he only knew how tough it was, particularly with men other than those like him.)
Well, there is one thing I have learned even though I am still told I am wrong. It is getting easier to make men disappear. There is no longer “As god is my witness,” today it is “As Google is my witness.” If it ain’t in Google, well, it jes’ AIN’T! And yet another man runs for the door. They are all cowards toward the ends of their lives. Strange, as when I was young and working in advertising, because I had ‘a man’s job’ it was OK for me to sit in the living room and argue with the guys and not be told I didn’t know because I was a woman. If I had a cogent argument, I was allowed to express it and it was accepted. Of course, the crowd I belonged to was young and we pretty much agreed with each other. However, I really must adopt a new rule: Never talk (or, particularly, argue) politics with an older man.
“I looked it up in Google”... great folk song material, “Oh, I looked it up in Google and what did I see/ big drum roll and a fol de rol, rol/ a band of republicans comin’ after me/ big drum roll and a fol de rol, rol.... Fol de rol rol, fol de rol rol/ republicans, republicans acomin' after me!! (obviously they were going to waterboard me until I told them what it was I couldn’t find in Google.) I love Google, but it is the biggest time waster in the Universe.
My poor old cat is winding down at the ripe old age of eight. She wasn’t interested in playing with any of her old toys (kept in a paper bag she was more interested in than the toys), so I went to the ancient Christmas stocking she got from a friend one year and got out a new tiny green mousie and tied it to a piece of red yarn. Then I flew him around a few times and she almost went mad. She’s been dancing after that mouse for half an hour, and just lay down to rest, but I now have the damned thing hooked onto the file drawer so she can play without me and she’s up and after him again, as now I am worn out from throwing him in the air.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Notes on nothing... notecards and nonsense...
I just spent my evening in the silliest way possible... writing notes to put on the face of a note card. I have decided that I really need to have note cards to write snail mail to my friends. They don't read my blog, I am not that into Facebook, and I get carried away on my emails, so I figured I would order some nice stiff notecards that I could use to write shorter notes. Anastasia (my Wednesday 'helper'... she 'shops' and belongs to CostCo.) got me some more 'forever' stamps also. I'm sticking with the 'purple theme' like my hair... and found one just like my cards, but I may use the one with the girl reclining on a purple sofa, behind a book. I'm taking them to poetry group to see which they think is best. Oh dear, I suppose I should write a poem.
Anastasia also brought me some dark chocolate Bliss, which Ms. Katt cannot have as it is bad for kitties, so I had to search for some 'Kitty Gourmet' which is what we call anything in the way of cat snacks. All I have to do is say 'Kitty Gourmet' and she lights up in anticipation and wolfs down the little morsels. The ones I gave her were very dry, so she want in and had a long drink of water, then came back and grabbed my arm and asked for more, as usual. She's not getting any more, however, so she's gone back to trying to get the insects who bounce against our window because of the light. Sylvia loves to eat flies and any other bugs that manage to get inside. I was surprised that she simply played with the teeny grey mouse that came in through the heater along the wall. She brought it over to show it to me, played with it for a while, then just let it go and the poor little thing raced back to the corner and disappeared into the heating unit. I guess it goes down to the basement. Everyone has been complaining that they have mice. I don't think I will have them ever again.
Christmas seems such a pagan festival to me... after all, that's where it came from. And all the other celebrations are silly, too. All made up, but I suppose the winter has to be broken up somehow. Good old Jack had bought himself some skis and is off skiing like all the LA people I knew... rush off to Tahoe ... Heavenly... somewhere in the mountains and ski down. Not me... you couldn't get me on skis, and I do not ever want to see snow again. My grandchildren are reveling in it at the moment and Mel has put pictures of them on Facebook, playing in the snow, bundled into their snow suits. I wonder if I ever liked snow. I do not remember. I do remember moving from Memphis (where the snow melted as it hit the ground) to St. Paul, where one walked through almost tunnels of snow to get to school, and I had all sorts of problems with the cold and snow and mean kids who teased me about my "Mimphis accent," which no one could understand. The nasty little northern kids poked me and said, "Talk, girl, listen to her talk funny!" and laughed at me. I really despised everyone for the couple of years it took me to learn 'to talk Northern.' It trained me well, though, for I now have a good ear for accents, and take on whatever one I am surrounded by now. When I was in England, I sounded just like them, and particularly when I was in the Netherlands I sounded rather 'posh English' as all of the deBrauws had gone to school in England and most of the time I was simply introduced as "Elsie's husband's cousin from England, Peggy Bentnick, the niece of the Duke of Portland. My 'cousin,' the present Duke of Portland is a very good looking actor and I have been tempted to write to him and tell him about his lost American cousin. Elsie, the oldest of the children in the family I lived with was married to Rolfe, Baron Bentnick van Schoonhaten, a very tall, good-looking man also, with a lovely deep voice who could easily have been an actor, but who worked in the family bank in Arnheim. I adapted so well in Holland that when we were getting together with a group of young people to go to a festival, one of the boys spoke to me in Dutch, and when I said I couldn't understand him, said, "Oh, you're the English cousin then, right?" So that's the part I played, except when Mrs. deBrauw wanted me to tell about my childhood in the South, one of her favorite things. I think she had read "Gone With the Wind."
As usual, this seems themeless and silly. It is... ah, well..... rather like the notecards.
Anastasia also brought me some dark chocolate Bliss, which Ms. Katt cannot have as it is bad for kitties, so I had to search for some 'Kitty Gourmet' which is what we call anything in the way of cat snacks. All I have to do is say 'Kitty Gourmet' and she lights up in anticipation and wolfs down the little morsels. The ones I gave her were very dry, so she want in and had a long drink of water, then came back and grabbed my arm and asked for more, as usual. She's not getting any more, however, so she's gone back to trying to get the insects who bounce against our window because of the light. Sylvia loves to eat flies and any other bugs that manage to get inside. I was surprised that she simply played with the teeny grey mouse that came in through the heater along the wall. She brought it over to show it to me, played with it for a while, then just let it go and the poor little thing raced back to the corner and disappeared into the heating unit. I guess it goes down to the basement. Everyone has been complaining that they have mice. I don't think I will have them ever again.
Christmas seems such a pagan festival to me... after all, that's where it came from. And all the other celebrations are silly, too. All made up, but I suppose the winter has to be broken up somehow. Good old Jack had bought himself some skis and is off skiing like all the LA people I knew... rush off to Tahoe ... Heavenly... somewhere in the mountains and ski down. Not me... you couldn't get me on skis, and I do not ever want to see snow again. My grandchildren are reveling in it at the moment and Mel has put pictures of them on Facebook, playing in the snow, bundled into their snow suits. I wonder if I ever liked snow. I do not remember. I do remember moving from Memphis (where the snow melted as it hit the ground) to St. Paul, where one walked through almost tunnels of snow to get to school, and I had all sorts of problems with the cold and snow and mean kids who teased me about my "Mimphis accent," which no one could understand. The nasty little northern kids poked me and said, "Talk, girl, listen to her talk funny!" and laughed at me. I really despised everyone for the couple of years it took me to learn 'to talk Northern.' It trained me well, though, for I now have a good ear for accents, and take on whatever one I am surrounded by now. When I was in England, I sounded just like them, and particularly when I was in the Netherlands I sounded rather 'posh English' as all of the deBrauws had gone to school in England and most of the time I was simply introduced as "Elsie's husband's cousin from England, Peggy Bentnick, the niece of the Duke of Portland. My 'cousin,' the present Duke of Portland is a very good looking actor and I have been tempted to write to him and tell him about his lost American cousin. Elsie, the oldest of the children in the family I lived with was married to Rolfe, Baron Bentnick van Schoonhaten, a very tall, good-looking man also, with a lovely deep voice who could easily have been an actor, but who worked in the family bank in Arnheim. I adapted so well in Holland that when we were getting together with a group of young people to go to a festival, one of the boys spoke to me in Dutch, and when I said I couldn't understand him, said, "Oh, you're the English cousin then, right?" So that's the part I played, except when Mrs. deBrauw wanted me to tell about my childhood in the South, one of her favorite things. I think she had read "Gone With the Wind."
As usual, this seems themeless and silly. It is... ah, well..... rather like the notecards.
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