A conversation on FaceBook (modified for clarity)
Them: If someone’s entire ideology is based around the idea that people like me and people of color have to be violently expunged from existence, even a violent response is self defense. To say otherwise is gaslighting.
Ergo: bash the fash.
Me: What do your peers say is the reason they don’t vote?
Them: “if it were possible to vote away their wealth, the rich would never allow you to do it.”
Typically it’s a pretty in depth analysis of how utterly broken and vile every elected official has been, and how their time is better spent organizing their own communities, and exemplifying direct action.
Me: Do they not know they can do both? And that who they vote for locally is significant?
Them: They despise the government on an even local level.
Me: They will never change it without using the voting booth as one of their tools.
Them: Tbh they’d rather have an actual revolution. Changing the system from within is a joke.
Voting for who is going to not represent your interests bc the other person who won’t represent your interests to a marginally noticeable degree more seems pointless to people who want to burn the entire system down.
Some more literally than figuratively.
Me: This does not give me hope.
Distilleries I have visited in 2017:
Fainting Goat Spirits in Greensboro, North Carolina (Lovely herbal gin and very smooth vodka)
Broad Branch Distillery in Winston Salem, North Carolina (The blueberry flavor of the Smashing Violet whiskey isn’t nearly as strong at the color suggests)
10th Ward Distilling Company in Frederick, Maryland (We brought home lovely applejack)
McClintock Distilling in Frederick , Maryland (We went to a party they hosted. The cocktails were lovely. We didn’t, however, bring any home.)
Dark Corner Distillery in Greenville, South Carolina (Tasting room, not the actual distillery. We brought home Mountain Peak Espresso flavored rum.)
Copperhead Mountain Distillery in Traveler’s Rest, South Carolina (Brought home their “Scotch” which tastes more like Irish because there is no peat.)
Dragon Moonshine in Charlotte, North Carolina (I brought Apple Pie and Amaretto rums home.)
My liver may be in danger.
The other day, I got to pondering the words we use for meals. I was on my way to my favorite wine bar where I intended to have an early supper/late lunch and the fact that American’s don’t have a word for that meal got my brain spinning around the ways we talk about dining.
Breakfast, break fast, is just the first food of the day. A light breakfast is light in weight and doesn’t usually last very long. Toast, maybe an egg. Granola. Hot cereal like oatmeal that you can eat standing up. A big breakfast has a load of protein and is meant to stick with you. Frequently there are vegetables, too. Potatoes in the form of hash browns. Sliced tomatoes in the summer. Onions, peppers and mushrooms in the omelette. Fruit on egg bread, waffles and pancakes. A big breakfast isn’t a meal that you grab as you run out the door.
Brunch is a word that means garnish and, frequently, alcohol in your fruit juice. Brunch is languorous. It also means I’m not doing anything that takes effort before noon.
Lunch is the middle of the day meal. Big lunch means you will wish for a nap, later. Lunch happens anywhere from 11 AM to 3 PM.
Supper is the evening meal. Dinner is the biggest meal that is not breakfast. So, lunch or supper could be dinner. Sunday dinner is almost always lunch. But, a work day dinner is usually supper.
So, the question that came to my mind was “what is the afternoon equivalent of brunch?” Turns out, it’s afternoon tea. My Canadian friends tell me that tea is served around 3:30 or 4:00, there is tea to drink and something light to eat. We chuckled over a young acquaintance who had fussed at her sister to “eat your tea.” But, I think I want to adopt that usage. It’s a handy definition. And while a cream tea is one that includes jam and clotted cream in the snacks, I think a wine tea may become my occasional earlier-than-supper afternoon meal.
And, according to my English friend, high tea is a heavy meal served as workers come in from their labors ready for serious eats. I expect it comes from afternoon tea that waited a little too long and needed to be more filling since you were ravenous by the time you finally got have food.
Another word I am going to adopt is “fika.” It is a Swedish word and it means to have coffee and a bite and a chat with friends. It is a thing I love and now have a word for. It is not time specific. It is activity specific and it an activity I enjoy immensely.
I learned another meal word from my Spanish friend. “In Spain, there is an actual meal between lunch (which for them is always the largest meal of the day), and dinner, which is a lunch-sized portion late in the day, like 8 or 9 pm. I was always offered this meal, each day, even in the hospital! “Merienda”. It corresponds to the “tea” idea, but without mentioning tea. Coffee or tea might be offered, or beer or wine, and deli slices, bread, cookies, fruit. Oh, it happened around 5 pm. Very confusing.”
It’s been a strange time at our house. I’m training for my new position and working 8-4:30 M-F. Being off work on the weekends is really weird for me. Last weekend, we went to Kerr Lake with a couple of friends who have a house there. When we came back, we found out about the Charlottesville debacle.
There were posts on FB about vigils in support of the protesters and I went to the one in our county seat. Our state senator and representative were there. There were half a dozen speakers who talked about supporting each other and caring for everyone in our community for an hour. And they had us introduce ourselves to the people around us, with the intention that we would discuss what we intend to do going forward.
When we were dispersing, someone announced that they hoped we would show up at the Orange County School Board meeting on Monday where the Board was expected to make a decision about Confederate flags on campus grounds. I didn’t go back to check the time because I expected that I would be able to find it online. I was wrong. So, we just went out for dinner and I didn’t have to try to get my fumbling thoughts arranged into something coherent.
I found out on Tuesday that they have banned Nazi, Confederate and KKK symbols on school property. Hallelujah. Why did this even need to be discussed?
I despise Donald Trump and I am enraged that our political system allowed that buffoon to be elected to the highest office in our country. I kept waiting for someone to put a stop to this farce and they haven’t yet. Instead, things get worse and worse. How far down do we have to go before people say “Enough! Too much! This has to stop!” loudly enough, with enough conviction, to be heard?
I keep thinking of Maya Angelou Tweeting “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” These people are saying “I hate you and I am dangerous.”
“‘[Gender violence issues] affect women at every level, but I am here to say that the very fact of just calling these issues ‘women’s issues’ is in itself part of the problem.'”
I have been unhappy with the word “feminism” for as long as I have known there was a gender-caused imbalance in the world. In my mind it makes issues related to gender only the problem of women. And men are as constrained by gender stereotypes as women. It usually (often? sometimes?) expressed differently, though.
It is expected that women will be raped and the victims of domestic violence. Men who are raped or beaten by a domestic partner become feminized by the very fact of having the act perpetrated on them. And “feminized” means weakened. Particularly in this context. So, they may be less likely to do something about it. You know, something like report it and get it prosecuted.
Parents doing childcare is a whole other bag of worms. Women are asked if they intend to come back to work after giving birth. Staying home to tend to children is a valid option for us (as a group, not necessarily individually.) Men who choose to be the one giving up a paycheck to do the homefront heavy lifting are often (usually?) required to justify it. Men who actually participate in parenting are praised, as though that isn’t something that should be expected. Who would say to a woman “Aren’t you a good mom bringing the kids to the playground?” Or to a man “Does your wife help with the kids?”
That’s not fair to anybody. Everyone should be allowed to care for their family, Everyone should be allowed to feel safe and to speak up if they aren’t. And language matters.
Racist, homophobic and sexist language is hurtful. Reducing someone to a body part is hurtful. Words like Nigger and Bitch and Dick are slap-in-the-face verbal violence. They all say very clearly “You are less than human. You are a lesser creature than me.” Those are obvious and easy to call out. There are more subtle microaggressions in our language that need consideration and adjustment, too.
I am a gender communist. From each according to their abilities to each accord to their needs. This, until a better word is devised, is what a feminist looks like.
This is gorgeous, rich, lovely mousse. It is made from avocados and organic cocoa. You know. Healthy stuff. 🙂
One of us skims from the top, slivers, slices, layer by layer. And the plastic protector is stretched across the top without risking the loss of any of the tasty, tasty treat.
The other one eats in from the edge and covers the part that is being saved for tomorrow (because it is very rich and luscious) with plastic wrap that is tucked in, blanket-like, around the little mound of delight.
This is us.
My friend has a son who is 10. I have been in a room with him. But, we haven’t actually been introduced other than “This is my friend, Kitty.” directed to his grandmother, who was in the room at the same time. I have no clue what he is expected to call me. It will be interesting to see if he ever actually calls me by name.
When I was growing up, I had an Aunt Nel and Uncle Carl who weren’t actually related. But, they have known me since I was a year old and are still good friends of my mother. I, also, had Mr. Jim, Mr. George and Miss Esther, who were friends of my grandparents. Also, no actual genetic connection. But, close enough not to require the formality of last names.
An African-American friend once told me that her parents taught her never to Miss This or Mr. That to anyone because it was a slave time holdover. And I can see that. But, that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the names we used for the older family friends. I told Diane about Miss Esther and Aunt Nel and she said “Hm. That’s interesting. I’ll keep it in mind when I hear those used in the future.”
My sister works in a daycare. The children there call all the teachers Miss Firstname. So, my sister is Miss Amanda to her 3 and 4 year olds. I’m not sure why the school chooses to do that. It is surely no more difficult to say than Miz Whoever.
Because I am called “Kitty” (birth certificate says “Katherine”), I get the extra silliness of Miss Kitty. If you are of a certain age in America, you watched Gunsmoke on TV. Miss Kitty was the madam working at the saloon in Dodge City. Even the director of my department at work adds that superlative to my name. And that feels odd. “Miss Kitty” from someone under the age of 20 would fit my family’s traditions. But, from people my own age or older, it is just peculiar.
Lalochezia lal·o·che·zi·a (lāl’ō-kē’zē-ə) n. Emotional relief gained by using indecent or vulgar language.
One day, I was at my parents house and needed to store some kind of food. (I’ve forgotten what.) I had a container and was sitting on the floor going through all the lids that had accumulated in the cabinet trying to find the one that fit. And, as is my habit when I’m doing something that’s frustrating me, I was swearing to myself. A kind of sotto voce “shit, damn, hell, fuck, hell, shit, damn, damn, damn, shit fuck, hell…”
My father came in the kitchen, heard me and started laughing. I said, “What? It’s funny that I’m sitting on the floor look for a lid for this damn bowl?”
He said “No. I came in your room one time when you were about 4 years old and you were looking something in your toy box. And you were talking to yourself saying ‘shoot, durn, shoot, durn, heck, shoot, heck.’ It’s funny how somethings don’t change even though the language is more mature.”
I work in a medical lab and our work space is called a bench (even though it is a long table). And the benches in my department are about 3 or 4 feet apart. It is possible to be facing someone else while you are minding your own business doing your own work in your own space. Also, there are days that are a little stressful and my lalochezia kicks in to help me deal with it.
One day, my manager called me in to tell me that another employee had complained about my language. I asserted that I had not been swearing at my coworker. I had simply been doing my work and talking to myself as I did. “Also,” I said, “if she has never heard those words, how does she know what they mean? And if she does know what they mean, clearly she has heard them before and I haven’t been giving her an accidental education.” I thought about it a minute and said “And another thing. If we were that close to each other that she could hear me, why did she need to come complain to you? Why didn’t she just day ‘Kitty! Shut up! You’re bugging me.’? I probably would have.”
Sometimes, I add an extra “fuck” to my conversations at work when she’s around, now.
When I was 14 or 15, a frequent habit in my family was to go to church on Sunday and then have our big meal, usually in the dining room instead or the breakfast nook off the kitchen. It wasn’t always a huge feast that my mother had spent hours over, just the biggest meal that was getting fixed that day. It could very well be chicken salad and pimento cheese with choices of bread or crackers and some chips.
But, one Sunday when we came home, she got stirring around in the kitchen and shooed me out when I came to help. I didn’t argue. I didn’t get let off that hook very often.
After a while she called us into the dining room, where there was nothing on the table except napkins, some silverware and glasses of tea. She was clearly pleased without herself as she told us to sit down and whisked into the kitchen.
She came back with salad plates holding steamed artichokes. And she brought little dishes of melted lemon butter.
We were baffled. She sat down and showed us how to gently pull the leaves off and scrape the tasty bits off with our teeth. My sisters and I had a blast dipping in the butter. My parents seemed to think it was fun to enjoy their artichokes and to watch us having a big time. Eventually, we got down to the choke. She showed us how to scrape off the fuzzy part and cut the heart into bite sized pieces to eat the best of the artichoke.
When we had all finished, she whisked the plates and artichoke debris off the table and banged around in the kitchen for a couple of minutes. Then she brought in bowls of Campbell’s soup and a plate of peanut butter and honey or jelly sandwiches (which was a fairly usual lunch for us).
I looked at my soup and said,”I’m not complaining about the meal. Soup and sandwiches is great. But, it’s kind of anticlimactic after the artichokes.”
She almost looked sheepish and said, “I rarely see fresh artichokes at the grocery and when I do they usually only have 2 or 3. The other day they had 5! One for each of us. So, I got ’em. And if you ever find yourselves faced with one, you’ll know what to do with it.”
So, that’s my mother.