Linda Robinson's Blog, page 16

Trust Your Gut

Yesterday my neighbor and I were walking from the car to our favorite eating spot when an SUV stopped in front of us, the passenger window rolled down. "Can you help us please?" the woman driver asked. We both walked toward the car. My busy brain started observing. The car was in good shape, the woman and the girl in the passenger seat appeared approachable. Leery of the 2 chihuahuas on the girl's lap, I stopped outside lunging range. The woman explained, "I am $8.40 short to get my daughter her eardrops. She has an ear infection. The ATM here is broken. Can you help us please?" My brain sped up. Flash 1: me with an ear infection, laying in the back seat of the car in terrible pain. 8 years old. About the age of this girl. The girl's face, expression downcast, spins this memory to the top. The woman is waiting. Flash 2: would a woman use a little girl in a scam? Flash 3: good set-up to approach so the passenger side with the girl in pain is in immediate view. Flash 4: aren't 2 dogs an extravagance? Flash 5: aren't there other ATMs nearby? Flash 6: why us? There were men walking into the restaurant. Flash 7: what pharmacy is around here? Blimey! I opened my wallet. Because my gut told my brain to shut up. Would I have the courage to ask a stranger for money I needed to help my daughter? Don't know. Here in front of my nose was human drama, real or well-written. I only had $8, so I turned to my neighbor who was quietly observing, and asked her "do you have $.40 please?"

Shoe Love

A friend posted a picture of high heel bakery confections. Mules with flounce frosting. As a lifelong shoe fancier, it was delightful to see another way to express shoe love. I am happy with shoes in any artful form. My mother had nice shoes - classic styles - being a practical woman as well a tasteful woman. She had a lot of shoes. My sisters love shoes, too. Two of us keep shoes a long time. I wore these orange sandals when I first got them and the trendy sister said, "wow, shoes that are stylish in the decade they're styling!" Heels are heels to me, and never go out of style. Thin, thick, high, higher still. Men have an opinion on shoes which they share out loud sometimes. One podiatrist I dated briefly pummeled me with all the medical reasons high heels are bad for me. He went, the shoes stayed. One reasonable man thought I was tall enough without heels. What's tall enough? I could afford shoes when I could not afford clothes to go with. Shoes changed an outfit in my mind. One suit-5 different shoe looks. And I could see the shoes all day, unlike a blouse or a dress. Taking care, (and having a vast footwear wardrobe) shoes last for years. And I usually found a fabulous sale. I paid full price for a pair of shoes only twice. Shoe shopping was a shared experience with special friends. I knew Beckie liked Steve Madden and Mootsie's Tootsies. She knew I liked Ann Marino and Enzo Angiolini. Our mission on one outing was to get me a pair of black pumps. All those shoes and I owned no black. That was our deal for the day. Just black. Just pumps. I came out with orange sandals and purple mules, and she got in the car with Steve Madden denim platforms. The last time I moved I donated... a lot of shoes. Now I can't wear high heels without suffering calf cramps at night. When I switched to low or no heels several years ago, my calves would cramp because my muscles were evolved to high heels. So, yes, high heels are bad for the body. Yes, at 5' 10", I'm tall. I still love high heels! Elegant shoes are good art. Friends share shoe art now: bakery shoes, eraser shoes, doll shoes, business card holder shoes, shoe cards, picture books of shoes. My niece got me Christian Loubotin shoes for my doll for Christmas. I love new ways to appreciate shoes And my fabulous friends!

Teach Me How, Please

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Great-Aunt of a Black Man
Teach.
What to whom?
No fucking idea.
His great-grandfathermy fathermade his mothermy niececry.
“Does grandpa hate me too?”
She was 5.
Now she’s a mother.
Of a black man.
Teach the haters.
Deny them the comfort of ignorance.
And imagined strength in numbers.
Take their fear.
And teach it to my great-grand nephew.

And not shoot anyone.

How Women Work

Turning into the dollar store yesterday, I saw a car stopped with the flashers on in the exit lane. A woman stood near the driver's door, and I slowed, thinking she needed help, rolled down the window. She pointed to the cement. A big snapping turtle was parked in the drive. I said "Don't pick it up - I've got a shovel. I'll park and be right back." While I was retrieving the shovel, another woman drove in, rolled down her window and said "I'll get a box from the dollar store." The young woman and I talked to the turtle, shuffled our feet to get it moving. The turtle didn't like any of this. We found out quickly that if we walked slowly on either side of the head, the turtle would move. We were herding it to the grass. Meanwhile, the other woman, now with the box in hand, ran up, set the box down, shoved it at the turtle's face. The turtle snapped on the edge. Wow! Now I know why you're not supposed to pick up snapping turtles. She jiggled it a little, and the turtle was in the box. She said she'd take it to the pond by her house. We all thanked each other for helping save a turtle. As I walked by the car, the woman's daughter was freaked out "Mom, what if it comes out? What am I supposed to do? Doesn't this thing bite?" The mother said, "OK, you drive, I'll watch the turtle." We all waved (not the turtle, who was obviously still pissed off.) That's how women work. We rescue turtles. We work together to solve a problem. We think about each other and all of nature. You hear that, guys that just drove by, around and away? That's how women work. This picture is of a snapping turtle I rescued a couple summers ago. An SUV had sped by, flipped it on its back and the turtle was still spinning when I pulled over, picked it up and put it on the grass. That's how women work.

Dress for Success

The suits I can no longer wear (or want to) came out of the closet. Finally. When I moved in 2004, I donated armloads of business suits to Secondhand Rose in Mt. Clemens, keeping the vintage designer suits. I took the remaining suits to the local resale shop last week. The young woman said the shop wasn't taking long-sleeved items. I didn't comment. Maybe I was wondering how many short-sleeved business suits are out there? If you keep quiet, people will fill in the empty space with something, because people don't like quiet. So while I thought about next steps, she offered, "And these are dated." I laughed. One person's dated is another's vintage coutiere. Asked around to find a local shop that will allow women reinventing their lives to choose outfits for free. Dress for Success in Catherine's House on the Saint Joseph Mercy Health System campus in Ann Arbor, Michigan does that. I talked with a woman (and lost the note with her name!) who started as a volunteer, and now does interview training for women job seekers. Dress for Success will take donations of business suits, accessories (not jewelry), make-up (new), shoes, handbags and briefcases. She said their success rate at getting women hired is about 85%. For those women who are clothed and trained in business schools, the job acquisition is in the 90th percentile. Dress for Success is a national organization, and one I am going to support wholeheartedly as best I can. Women helping women. What a divine concept! The website's tagline is Going Places. Going Strong . Yes, ma'am.

Movie Torture

Be careful what you ask for. I've written about women in film and the need for more. Linked below are a few blog posts about women in film. Filmmaking is a man's world, although it didn't start out that way, and needn't continue that way. Women have made some progress, and then that progress was squashed. It's uncommon to have a woman screenwriter, director, producer. Katherine Bigelow has directed two box office hits recently. Both involve war. The latest film riled people about torture as a means to an end.  I was looking forward to seeing Olympus Has Fallen. I like action adventure, hero journey epics, rescue operation movies. The reviews I read this morning changed my mind. I will not be seeing the movie. Torture is featured again. And a woman screenwriter is involved. Is this now what it takes for a woman to get a job in Hollywood? Some whacked version of traumatic bonding/Stockholm syndrome? WTF? And how do we fix this? Fairy Tale Princesses, Boomer Anxiety About Aging?!  Women and Film 2011: Sexual Violence. The Throwaway Woman Plot Device.

Lean In, Push Back, and Then Get You Some

The last Christmas my mother had, she gave me a pair of purple gloves. I didn't figure out the entirety of her message until 10 years later. She was giving me a nod to run my stick along the public railings, and learn to spit as in Warning by Jenny Joseph. Over the years I've dropped many of the behaviors that make up the sobriety of youth. I swear in public and I've worn slippers in the rain. I do not always set a good example for children. I call managers out of their back offices to solve my problem. And I'm not waiting to be an old woman to do what suits me, and not do what doesn't. Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg is the flavor of the month. Women may take a seat at the table. Then raise a hand. Then say something. So 60s. Push back , writes Maria Shriver. So 80s. This is the second decade of the 21st century. Women are fighting the same bloomin' fights we fought for all of the last century. Fights I fought in the last century. Michigan's most invasive species is our legislature. Many states are harboring the same invaders. Why? Because women lost our voices again. And the women voices we're hearing are disturbingly reactionary. We have a 21st century woman COO telling us: ladies, it's okay to raise your hand. We have a 21st century woman CEO's edict that employees may not work at home. What is this? The 50s? These woman head up Facebook and Yahoo, monstrously cloudy social networks. And this is their schtick? I feel aprons and pearls making a fast fashion comeback. As if Mad Men wasn't enough. So, I walk by the TV and some egocentric politician is spouting for the cameras, and I casually say "he must clank when he walks." I have been known to say "he's got the balls of an ox." I do not remember if it was in mixed company, or through which decades. I accidentally said it in front of my father once, but that's another post. A couple weeks ago, talking with a friend about the latest male directed preferential ass-kicking, I said what we need to do, what we must do, is get some balls. Big balls. I said this again later to another friend. And so on. From the dim outback of my memory, I looked for a glass necklace I thought was in the jewelry supply storage bin, found it, took it apart. Big balls. Big shiny glass balls. Earbobs. One friend wants brass. Another suggested color - blue balls anyone? The message is self-directed. And it makes me laugh, laugh, laugh. Yes, by all means, sit at the table, raise your hand, use your voice, push back. Then get you some balls. Own some. Sit at that table pushing back, with your big balls on. I can testify that once you have the image planted in your brain, you've already changed. You might even learn to spit.

A Three Story Life: Medical Advocate

Nice doesn't get a damn thing done. Civil is good. My mantra these days is "I don't have to get mad, I just have to get what I need done." As caregivers, especially as live-in caregivers, we know the level of need. We know it like we know how high our blood pressure is, but we do something about other people before we do anything about us. That's for another post. Dad's blood pressure is really high. He has a medication in the cupboard that was prescribed by his VA doctor. He got confused and stopped taking it in December. December. His BP is dangerously spiky. He calls in his BP to their "blood pressure monitoring" answering machine. and Nurse Kelly will call and ask "why is your blood pressure so high?" to which I want to reply, well, never mind. Nurse Kelly told him to hold off taking the medication prescribed by his doctor until the results of his vascular tests are in. Ridiculous, but he waited. The results are in. But my father misunderstands what he's told, too. I told him to call the doctor. She's not in. Leave a message. A message just goes into a message center. Yes, that's where messages go. Leave a message for the doctor. He called Nurse Kelly. I used his phone to call VA Doctor. Message person asked if he's reporting to that monitoring bullshit. Yes. They will call, message person said. No, I said, I want to talk with VA Doctor. Okay. I'll leave a message for her team. No, a message for VA Doctor to call. No response. Please repeat the message as you entered it, back to me, I said. Think dog/bone. Think tick/ankle. Think clearly about what you need, and then insist the entity at the other end of an exchange repeats back to you what you want. Be clear. Be specific. Use short sentences. One word responses. If you need to write it down first, do so. And repeat what you need until the other party agrees you need it. Every office you call has a Flat Alice who is the front person supposed to move you away ASAP. It's your decision whether a doctor needs to be bothered, not the gatekeeper. No one bars the door for me any more in medical situations. Use please the first time, but not onward as the conversation ages. Say thank you , only after you are sure you were understood. Nice doesn't get a damn thing done. Civil insistence does.

A Three Story Life Separate

I'm sitting here in the dungeon wondering if the pain in my chest is physical. If I don't finish this post, you'll know it was. Just had another quaky conversation with our father about Scott going to the grocery store. We disagree on whether Scott is comfortable going. My brother is Dad's legs. He claims it helps Scott to fetch things - keeps him alert. Perhaps. Dad offered as evidence that Scott hurries to carry out tasks assigned. My brother has speed issues. His awareness of where his body ends, and how fast it's traveling, is compromised by Alzheimer's. Scott said no to the store the other day. That's major involvement for him, and I'd like for his choices to be honored. Later I heard Dad tell Scott to get his coat on: they were going to the store. Tried to talk about it today because Dad's sitting upstairs waiting for Scott to come home from an outing and he'll take him to the store. I tried hard to be reasonable, thoughtful and respectful. I said I would go to the store. Dad said he himself wanted to go out. Fine, I said, I'll pick up most of it and you can go mosey later. Dodging and weaving around the issue. Dad was lulled into confessing that he is still focused on discipline. This is our primary difficulty in the house. While our father may mildly grasp the realities of Alzheimer's disease, he deeply believes that Scott's behaviors can, and should be, controlled. Curbed. That's the word he used. And my heart started aching again. I have no more strength for this situation. So discussions will commence with the rest of the family about alternatives. I cannot help either of them, and I cannot help myself from here. 

The Gift of Self Esteem

I don't know how it got here, but I know the day it did. I tweeted its arrival. An early and unexpected Christmas gift from the universe on December 22, 2012. For the last half of 2012, I was fascinated by a call for entries from an Eastern Michigan University senior fine arts major named Felicity Baker. She is double minoring in psychology with women and gender studies. The exhibition, during March (Women's History Month) will be head and shoulders renderings of what contributors understand about the looking-glass self. Presented by Charles Cooley in 1902, this theory purports, as Baker quotes, "I am not what I think I am and I am not what you think I am; I am what I think you think I am." Twisty, huh? It took a handful of weeks to even understand the concept. I've had several ideas of art to submit, but I am thinking in three-dimensional art, rather than flat art asked for submission. And I am thinking about whether this theory is true. For me. In the long years of the past. Today. The art I imagined is a discarded frame hanging in my workroom. Around the edges I would paint "I have a framework. It is constant and divine."  True. All the wiggly bits and electricity and chemical compositions that make a human are there at the beginning. Centered in the frame on fishing line is a light. Small, bright. This is my essence. Powerful, as significant in every way as anything else in the cosmos. As mighty, as miniscule. True. In front of this incredible light would be transparent panels representing what has, and is, obscuring that light. 1st layer: painted with the parent brush. 2nd layer: painted with the peer brush. 3rd layer: drawn with the teacher pencils. And so on. Bosses, coworkers, lovers, enemies, circumstances. True. And understanding emerged. We have no way of knowing what others think of us. But we make it up. We absorb what our culture feels about us. We suffer for it. We do it to ourselves. For the last several months, I've been removing the painted layers from my mental work of art. When these obscuring layers are abandoned by me - because I am the person who keeps them installed and effective - when I remove the layers, what remains is my light. Small, powerful, steady, calm and bright. So bright. And on December 22, 2012, when I subconsciously reached for the veil, it wasn't there. None of them were. Self esteem. "I am what I know I am."