Paying for "human giving"

I'm tired of the idea that people (i.e., women) should do good things for the sake of doing good. The idea that you can't put a dollar amount on the desire to help is a load of horse manure. Social workers, teachers, nurses, and other fields that have been female-dominated are all said to be staffed by people who care. People whose concern for the well being of others trumps their need for monetary gain. Nurturers, direct service professionals, nursing home aides. These are viewed as people who are giving out of the goodness of their hearts, money be damned! 

The worst part?

It's true. So many of these individuals in these professions are seen as altruistic if they stoically go through their day, exhausted after working with yet another traumatized individual, helping yet another person deal with physical pain, chasing yet another group of kids around. After all, they are doing it for the good of mankind. 

People talk about the good people in these professions do - they help people learn and grow, they make real changes in the world on an individual level - until the person points out that they can't afford to feed their family, that their own kids don't get enough time with them because they're too busy with other people's children, that they are exhausted and ready to quit.

"Oh no! Don't quit! You're doing real good in the world!"

Ok, then how about compensating them for the value of what they do, prove that we respect what they do and that what they do matters?

Nope. We can't do that because then people will just do it for the money!

I call bullshit. If social worker jobs paid better, more people would, indeed, go into, stay in, or go back to being social workers. However, people who couldn't handle these professions? They're not going to jump on the bandwagon saying, "OH!!!!  Look!!!  They're making $50k per year, I wanna join them!" These are not glamorous jobs. They are painful, exhausting, and dangerous. Oh, they are also rewarding for people who want to be there, but the reality is that teachers get puked on, social workers get lashed out at, nurses watch people die, direct service professionals get shot.

No, I'd never survive as a teacher. I would have no idea what to do as a social worker when sitting with a five year old child who's been severely traumatized. I'd probably pass out if I had to stick my hands in someone's guts to hold them from falling out.

The only thing that paying people for doing these jobs will fix is the idea that doing good is worthless.

Last In, First Out: Dating Poly and Single

Created by and available at http://tacit.livejournal.com/346761.html. 

If you follow the link to the Tactit's LJ post that contains their Polyamorous Secondary Relationship Card, the first commentor pointed out the part that hits me the most:

"Being a single poly person, even in "non-hierarchical relationships" it isn't uncommon to be treated like this. Even after the other person has sworn they wouldn't treat you like this."

The moment you meet someone in a poly relationship, you know they already have established relationships that will come first. Their reasoning makes perfect sense. They don't believe in hierarchies, or they don't believe they're in a point in their relationship where they'd create hierarchies, but they already know the person they are involved with. They already know that person is important to them. If push comes to shove on time, whether it be time constraints, fears of exposure, convenience, jealousy on the "first" partner's part, discomfort over friends and family knowing the truth, difficulty juggling two or three relationships, whatever, you are the unknown. You will be the piece they give up.

Consent Tastes Like Entenmann's!

So apparently some people think consent talk ruins the mood. These are obviously folks that I don't get down and funky with. Of course, consent talk can definitely be done with a throaty voice whispering, "May I kiss you?" in your ear, but sometimes it requires a bit more finesse. There might be topics involved that require more of an ability to think clearly and not be distracted, and lets face it, even when consent conversations take place in a non-sexual environment where you aren't touching or talking dirty, consent conversations rock - no whispering or dirty talk required!  

Stay Open on Thanksgiving, Please!

I'm working from home on Thanksgiving, and I'll be doing it from a local coffee shop that's staying open because I live in the Boston area. This means I can't afford to rent my own apartment and have a roommate who has her family coming over for Thanksgiving. Rather than hide in my room in my pajamas afraid to be forced to eat with them if I dare walk out to pee or grab a sandwich for lunch, I'm going to a local coffee shop.

I can't get back to my hometown for Thanksgiving, and even if I did go back, my mother and grandmother have passed away. My sister goes to her husband's mother's house for holidays, so I'd drive down in the middle of the night, eat a bird at a stranger's house, and then drive home so I can get back to the office and work on Friday. My office is open Friday, but I'm working Thursday because I had an invite for post-Thanksgiving hanging outs on Friday :-)

There are a lot of companies getting flack for being open on Thanksgiving, but being open on Thanksgiving isn't necessarily a bad thing. If fat Aunt Martha drove three hours to get here and you immediately dumped a pot of coffee on her outfit, she can run to Sears for a new blouse (since nobody else's clothes are large enough for her). When you realize you forgot to buy cranberry sauce you can send one of the kids out for the cranberry sauce that comes out of a can. While they're at the store, you'll probably text them to pick up extra stuffing, some celery, and butter without salt (because you forgot that Grandpa's heart problems require a low salt meal).

All the screaming about how people shouldn't have to work on Thanksgiving and stores should be closed pisses me off. Here's some of the reasons why:

Rescued Film

Per their website,

"The Rescued Film Project is an online archive gallery of images that were captured on film between the 1930's and late 1990's.  Each image in our archive was recovered from found film from locations all over the world, and came to us in the form of undeveloped rolls of film.  We have the capability to process film from all era's.  Even film that has been degraded by heat, moisture, and age.  Or is no longer manufactured."

I've been looking at the photos for over 30 minutes, and I can't stop looking through them. What if the next photo has a picture of someone I know? What if there's an abandoned photo of me in there? My mom? A kid I went to school with? I know that I lost film and disposable cameras at times in my life, and other people have as well.

What if some of those photos are of my grandparents? I wouldn't even know if the young woman in the 1940s was my grandma or her sister or someone else. Would I recognize a photo if it was of my mom as a toddler?  Nope!

These lost moments in time, who are they, and what does each photo mean. I stare into each person's face and look for a recognizable quirk of their eyebrow, I look at the background for signs that they were taken someplace I know. Is that the same knick knack that Julie's mom had near the tv? Did I just see the hallway at my old high school? No, that's somewhere else. Wait, that wedding, I've seen that wedding dress before. No, I haven't, it's one of a million wedding dresses that looked alike in the 1980s.

What memories are captured on this site never to be seen again? They developed a stack of film from an unknown WWII soldier. What are the chances that the people in these photos are even alive, let alone going to take a look at the website.

What will happen to my photo albums when I die? My pictures are largely unlabeled, and I don't have kids to pore over the albums like I went through my parent's albums and yearbooks as a kid. They'll be tossed in a rubbage heap somewhere when I'm the only person left who even knows they exist. My dad would recognize that photo of Gloria from back in high school, but my niece has never heard of her; I doubt my sister even remembers her. I've no idea whatever happened to her once she moved away.

In another 50 years, everything I know now will be gone. The photos I took as a kid won't mean anything to anybody but me and maybe a few random people in the world who I may or may not still be in contact with (or may not even be alive). I don't even know who that dark haired girl is in the background of that photo I took of Melissa when she was rolling her eyes at me on a Girl Scout trip. By the time I'm 90, no one around me will even know that I took that photo of Melissa or who the photo is of.

Heck, if she saw photos today of me ten years ago, she probably wouldn't recognize them if they weren't labeled. Like this unlabeled photo of me taken in 2006.  Heck, my own father wouldn't even know this was a picture of me or why it's so important to me!

Weird.

Loquaciousness

I was an angel!

Of course, I was a darling little angel in what appears to be an old bed sheet, but I was also a talker. The nuns apparently taped my five year old mouth shut and later begged my mom for forgiveness. Mom loved to tell me the story because she'd always laugh and say she wasn't angry because sometimes she wished she could tape my mouth shut, too.

My dad used to offer me a quarter for every ten minutes I'd go without talking on the way to the bowling lanes.  The joke was that some weeks I'd make a quarter on the ride.

Chatting with one of my best friends in high school, she stood up and started walking away. I stopped talking, and she said, "Oh, keep talking. I'll be back in a minute. You won't even notice I'm gone."

Goody two shoes, but my only after school detention was for talking in class.

One of the biggest things I remember about my childhood is being told to be quiet, to shut up, to stop talking. I remember being yelled at that nobody could get a word in edge wise. I remember the joy of spending time with a few people who let me blather on happily because it was so very, very rare.

I don't remember anyone ever sitting me down and explaining why I should talk less. I realize I was a kid who was constantly moving and talking. My mind was always whirring, so my voice tried to make sure everybody knew what I was thinking. I wanted to share all the things I thought about and didn't really understand the concept of privacy.

I did eventually learn some conversational skills and techniques, but it was hard work, and I floundered my way through it alone. Even then, hell, even now, when I realize I've been talking for a little while, I start to feel guilty, I apologize to the person, I let them know that they are always welcome to jump in and ask me to please stop talking because I understand they may want some quiet time, or I might have spoken too quickly for them to get a word in edgewise.

So I've always known that people want me to be quiet. As an adult I fell in love with someone who always wanted me to be quiet. I spent so much time attempting to remember to not to talk because he needed quiet time, and he spent so much time trying to not be angry because I was talking. I assumed this was normal life. After all, I always talk too much and my entire life I'd been told to be quiet.

I learned his body language over time, but I didn't always catch it. It has helped me learn other people's body language, though, and I'm better at knowing when to end a conversation, but I still miss the queues a lot. I know that the majority of people who talk to me need me to be quiet, and I do try, but I don't know why I can't. I read books about how to have conversations, but when I get excited or upset or happy or really any emotion other than exhausted, I want to share. So if I'm in a coffee shop and someone sees me writing with a fountain pen they might stop to chat with me about it. So far exactly two types of conversations have ensued:

1. The person shows interest, but I get so excited about sharing the details about styles of pens and why I like them and how they react with different inks that they grow bored, and I don't realize it until they walk away.

2.  This is much less common and hasn't happened in a couple of years, but they'll pull out a fountain pen catalog they just received or bring out their favorite pen so we can admire each other's pens. We'll chat and chat and chat and, if it's a man, he'll ask me on a date. With men interested in fountain pens this ALWAYS ends in being asked out. Not one woman has asked me on a date in similar circumstances. These folks humor me and let me blather on and they blather on and we both go on and on and then they get tired of listening to me and leave.

In both instances, the same results - I got too excited, and they didn't want to continue the conversation, and I missed the queues until they were annoyed (except the guys who think that a fountain pen is a symbol that someone's looking for a date - why on earth has that only happened one time when I was almost in a position to accept a date?)

So I get that I talk too much. I really do, and it doesn't seem like it to the folks around me, but I spend a fairly large amount of energy working to be quiet. If I'm not talking, I'm humming or singing or tapping or in some way creating a noise that annoys people, so when you see me sitting quietly, you know I'm either exhausted or working hard at being the quiet person you deserve to be able to spend time with.

The thing is that I've learned over the last two years that not everybody always wants me to shut up. There are people out there who enjoy listening to me chat, who like having conversations with me, and who actively start our conversations by telling me that one of the things they like is that I'm chatty and will carry a conversation because they like to listen but aren't very good at finding things to say.

Let me repeat that. There are people who enjoy spending time with me BECAUSE I TALK. I had to repeat it because that's one of the things that drives most people crazy - as a talker, I will often repeat myself. At work I spend a fair amount of time editing my emails to make sure I don't repeat myself in a few different ways. Ironically, as a proposal writer, re-stating the obvious over and over is a handy skill because they'll ask the same question in five different sections, and I'll have to answer it in five different questions, and I need to add a bit of a spin so that each time the information sounds fresh and new and not like a cut and paste job. See, being a repetitive talker has one real life application.  Ok, it's only one, but that's better then none!

So here's the deal:  I'm 40 years old and still attempting to learn what an appropriate level of conversation is and how to find the balance between sharing a conversation and overwhelming it. I

I am responsible for doing my best to grasp the social queues the people around me send out. However, the people around me are responsible for making sure their needs are met and should let me know when my conversation is overwhelming them or too repetitive or just annoying because they need quiet time. Hopefully by surrounding myself with people who work within the concept of letting each other know their needs, I can continue learning to be a better friend and talk a comfortable amount for both of us.

But damn I wish someone had sat me down and helped me learn all these things when I was 10. Having people around me point out what type of restlessness means that I've blathered on too much and how to find the place in conversation where I pause for someone else to jump in would have helped me so much more than just telling me to be quiet. I wish people would just tell me now. I've actually got some new friends who have told me they like our friendship because I talk a lot, but that still doesn't really help me know when I'm overwhelming them, and if I've only known someone two years I'm probably still incapable of figuring out their non-verbal queues.

Farmer Boy

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder

There is something oddly satisfying about sitting at my friend's loom weaving while she reads Farmer Boy to her son. I have always loved the Laura Ingalls books, but I have never heard them read aloud. It seems right that I weave yarn she spun while she explains to her son about how people made clothes back then and couldn't just go to the store and buy new clothes if their shirts were ripped.

I used to live near the Wilder Homestead in Malone, New York. I always meant to visit, but I never made it. I always assumed there would be more time. Ah well, maybe one day I'll go to Minnesota to visit the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Little House, Minnesota instead. Minnesota is not in my near future, though.

I think I should start seeing and doing things I want instead of waiting for some unknown future date. It's not good to assume that something will remain the same or good. Whole lives can change in seconds or minutes, and then when we do, we're left wondering why we didn't do or say or enjoy that thing that we were thinking about. I don't want to have so many of those "why didn't I" and "what if I'd" moments.

In the meantime, I'll listen to my friend read this book and other books to her son while I sit at the loom and weave or sit at the sofa with my embroidery or whatever it is that I choose to do. Maybe one day I'll even finish the embroidery project I started over a year ago.

Weaving

I am learning all sorts of new things at my friend's house. The coolest one is weaving. She set-up her loom with yarn that she wove, and I am making a scarf!

Weaving a scarf!

The warp is what's stretched on the loom, and the weft is what's woven back and forth. On this picture, the warp is a darker pink than the weft. It's a shame the picture doesn't show all the subtleties of the weft.

Bag and Yarn

My dad isn't one for picking gifts out for his daughters. He generally provides gift cards. However, he occasionally picks out a gift for one of us that he is very proud of. He bought me this beautiful bag.

Bag and Yarn

Bridget spun that beautiful yarn that is a perfect match for the bag. Ohhhh... I have been having so much fun choosing what to do with that luscious, homespun yarn.

Got Milk?

Boston is a very large city. Imagine my surprise when I discovered milk is still delivered to your doorstep one morning a week!

I have been using real half-and-half in my coffee because delivered-in-a-glass-bottle creamer is far cooler to use than my regular soy creamer. In fact, I have been drinking coffee all week just so I can have the half and half. Hmmm.... I think I need to switch to black tea...

So Hot and Busy!

Today I drove through some scary parts of town trying to find a coffee shop to take refuge in during the six year old birthday party at B's house. I finally gave up and came back here.

I did get a little knitting done.  Isn't it gorgeous?

B's gorgeous homespun on the multidirectional scarf.
The foam dinosaur sticker is from the birthday party. 

It's slower than I used to knit, but I'm being careful to only knit for short periods of time to avoid aggravating anything. I wasn't sure how I felt about this yarn. It's not the colors I generally use. The zing on this particular scarf is really amazing. Gotta love short rows. Ok, you don't have to, but I do.

The dinosaur stickers are for future use. I might use them for mail art. I might use them for something else. I haven't decided yet, but I've got 10 and have access to more if I want them.

I'm also learning to play ukelele! N is letting me play around on his instruments, and I've been using his banjolele (it's the shape of a banjo with the strings of a ukelele. I can play three chords and 2.5 songs (I'm still a bit slow on switching into the chord that requires three fingers).  I am so excited - and N is planning to bring me to his ukelele group on Thursday.

Of course, ukeleles make me think of Jonathan Coulton. What else could they remind me of? After watching a video of someone playing Code Monkey on a ukelele, Nathan said that I can totally learn that soon. I already have several of the chords. So he's going to transpose it for me, and my plan is to be able to play Code Monkey on ukelele by August 1! It's what all the cool kids are doing.

You can skip to 2.50 if you want to miss his introduction to how he ended up with this ukelele version.

The humidity has been very difficult for me to adjust to. It seems that heat and humidity are making me lightheaded and dizzy. It also leaves me so exhausted that walking down a flight of stairs leaves me needing to sit down. I thought I'd have some adjustment time before a heat wave like this!  I'm sure that I'll be adjusted by next summer, but I'm hoping to be able to handle it this summer by the time they have the next heat wave. Or I won't even try. I'll just sit in A/C at every given moment until the temperatures are not in the 90s.  This isn't me being whiny. I'm just surprised at how strongly it's affecting me. I expected an adjustment. I just didn't remember how bad it was last time. I've been telling people that it was so humidity that it hurt me to breath. And now I remember what I meant by that!  

But hey, I can breath and sit in a house where someone might randomly pick up and start playing an instrument. I can knit handspun yarn and look at a loom and listen to kids play. I am not happy about how I got here, but I have ALWAYS wanted to live in a house where people might randomly start playing an instrument and folks crafts were all over the place. Somewhere that creativity was just a part of life and not a hassle. Playing bass clarinet and bassoon I couldn't create a musical home. And knitting became such a chore for me after a while. Now I am with people who love me, who give me dinosaur stickers and ice cream, who share homespun yarn, who open their home to me during the absolute worst moments of my life. Plus, they have one of those keurig machines so I've been making ice coffee each night (decaf for me) to drink in the morning when it starts to get miserably hot.

Ctrl Z, how did we live without it in the 80s?

Tomorrow is my last day of work, and I was supposed to go for lunch with my office mate, Woop Girl. We didn't get our long extended goodbye, but that's probably for the best. She did surprise me, though. I have been admiring a card she had on her bulletin board, and she gave it to me! I can't wait to get back to the North Country, paint my office, and hang this by my desk.