The Man Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks

Lately most of my mornings are spent at a leisurely pace. While in the summer I might rush through my morning routine just to get one of those coveted early golf tee times, come winter I am free to sip my coffee and idle over my online New York Times subscription. I also check out articles from, not in any order, the Chicago Tribune, NPR, BBC, The Guardian U.K., The Huffington Post, The Wall Street Journal and The San Francisco Gate -because it has my favorite puzzle game, Jumble Jong.

On occasion a storyline or topic may catch my eye, so that I may read more than one version of it. For a few days now something been bothering me. What is that?, you ask. It is the response of a few of the NFL’s players and other personnel to Michael Sam's announcement that he is an "openly, proud gay man."

The words of Terrell Thomas, a NY Giants player in response:

This “…could be difficult for some people in NFL locker rooms to accept Sam because they aren’t sure how to act around an openly gay teammate. I think society is ready for it and  America’s ready for it, but I don’t think the NFL is.
...because when you’re going to war, you’re going to battle you have to believe in that person, you have to love that person like a brother.”

So? What? You can't love your gay brother on the battle field? I don't get it.

No one, least of all me, can speak to this issue with any more pragmatism than Dallas sportscaster, Dale Hansen did, so check out his blast on YouTube, if you haven't already seen it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VSsmqJ-dzs

At first I couldn't put my finger on what exactly was bugging me about this whole matter. Frank Bruni's (New York Times, Feb. 11, 2014) article Panic in the Locker Room! came the closest to helping me figure it out. (And by the way, I loved his, "woman-up" comment.)

When did the locker room become such a delicate ecosystem? Is it inhabited by athletes or orchids? And how is it that gladiators who don’t flinch when a 300-pound mountain of flesh in shoulder pads comes roaring toward them start to quiver at the thought of a homosexual under a nearby nozzle?

***

Why is that, I continued to wonder. Why is it that big, tough macho guys make such a big deal about gays? I couldn't count the whopping number of anti-gay lambastes I've heard in my 60+ year lifetime from males. Yet I could count on one hand any anti-lesbian reproaches from females. I can't  fathom female athletes fretting about sharing a locker room or team spirit with lesbian women and I'm pretty sure I've not heard of it in the media. Are men naturally more homophobic? If so, why?

Meanwhile, I pondered Terrell's words. What will have to happen to prepare, to ready the NFL for an openly gay teammate? Hello! Exactly what Michael Sam just did. The NFL is as ready today as it's ever going to be and Michael Sam has just given them the uncomfortable push that is needed. It won't be easy for Sam from here on out, (no pun) but if you've read his story, you'll know that Michael Sam's pretty well accustomed to won’t be easy.

“I just want to own my truth.”

These are the words of a brave young man.

***

Stadiums now feature state-of-the-art facilities, so NFL'ers can quit whining about being uncomfortable about walking around naked in front of an openly gay man. Cover yourself up if it bothers you. You are a paid professional. Focus on your job. Remember, football isn't supposed to be about comfort anyway.

So, what is eating at these big tough guys, (again, no pun). I finally figured it out. And it wasn't in any news or sports article that I read. There is a deeper reason that some men are so darned homophobic, and it doesn't have to do with their religious beliefs, as some would have you believe. It is because way deep down in their souls these guys realize that, when it comes to sex, most men can be coerced into just about anything, methinks.

Clap Along

Some people call it an epiphany. Oprah calls it your "Aha! moment," the moment you figure something out.

Back in the late 1950's, my older sister and I would fight over which television program to watch. My mother, her hands full with tending to an additional three-year-old and one-year-old, made a rule that my sister and I could each pick a half-hour show to view, while she prepared dinner. I would choose my program, probably something like Lassie or The Lone Ranger. My sister would say, "Oh, wonderful! That's my favorite, too." Annoyed, I would immediately get up and change the channel to something else, to which she would fawn even more. I'd run through the available 5 or 6 channel options with her making ever more specious comments until I'd found myself watching ABC's Evening News featuring John Daly. Then it hit me, "I've been duped." I turned to see the smug smile on my sister's face.

If you can't beat them… I began to watch her programs with a new eye. I notice an alluring edginess to the programs my sister favored, such as The Twilight Zone, 77 Sunset Strip or American Bandstand.

***

If you think about it, "American Bandstand" is kind of a forerunner to reality television, minus the scripting, that is. It was amusing to watch some of the white kids really let go and "dance like nobody's watching," even though everybody was watching. Plus it featured the first multiracial cast.

There was a portion of the show where they would play a new song and have a panel of three kids, of whom two would rate the record on this random 35-98 scale. The third kid would write down the ratings, add them, divide by two and come up with an average. I have this memory of a time when the host, Dick Clark, turned to the third kid and asked for the average and the boy replied, point blank, "84 and a half." The host did a double-take, stunned he said, "What? A half!? That can't be right." He turned to look out at his production staff and said, "That can't be right. Can it?" But, every kid watching knew the boy was right. After that kids stopped rounding it off when the divisible total was an odd number and giving a song a "? and a 1/2" rating became the new rage.

In addition to giving a numerical rating to the song, the contestants were asked what they liked or didn't like about the song. The comments were very basic. Like I said, they were unscripted back then. So, the infamous refrain became, "It has a nice beat and it's easy to dance to it."

***

Back in my young, before parenthood, days I had a subscription to Rolling Stone Magazine. I enjoy all kinds of music. On weekday mornings I might listen to the Eric and Kathy Show, partly so I can hear local news from my former hometown, Chicago. In the car, I prefer Coffee House on XMRadio which features acoustic music. In the afternoon I favor a local NPR station that plays classical music. In evenings, when preparing dinner I may go to a podcast program that does old-time jukebox blues.

I watched part of the Grammys recently, before I fell asleep, that is. That is where I saw this energetic young man, be-bopping all around the stage, wearing a huge Smokey Bear-type hat. I reserved judgment. After all, who am I to comment on what is possibly au courant? The young man's group won a grammy for Best Pop Duo/Group, I think? Anyway, I was moved by his humility when accepting his award. Humility is a nice virtue.

The very next day I hear Eric and Kathy talking about him. And now I had a name to go with the young man, Pharrell, Pharrell Williams. I didn't know much else about him, except that he is a singer/songwriter. Then they played a song performed by Pharrell, which he co-wrote. It's called "Happy." It's from the movie, Despicable Me 2, and it's an Oscar nominated tune for Best Original Song.

I listen to the upbeat lyrics, "… clap along if you feel like a room without a roof, clap along if you feel that happiness is the truth…" It has hints of swing band and early Motown and yet it retains a completely modern funkiness. The song just makes you feel, well…, for lack of a more appropriate word, happy, happy to the point of clapping.

I give it a 98 on the rate-a-record scale. It has an infectious beat and you can't help but dance to it like nobody's watching."

Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Timmy Come Over

The doorbell rings. We're not expecting anyone. It's the middle of winter, in a rural area, where many of our, already sparse, neighbors are off somewhere warm, "wintering."

It's Mike, our regular UPS delivery guy. Mike's a fair-haired, wiry and energetic fellow who has a perpetual smile on his face. He delivers to all the local businesses and you get the sense by his interactions with people that, like us, they can't help but like the guy.

I get a kick out of the fact that until the first snow falls in December, Mike will be dressed in the brown UPS summer outfit, of a short-sleeve shirt and shorts pants, no matter the cool outside temperature. I joke with him that I know winter has officially arrived when he finally sports long pants.

Mike's toting a large, heavy package. "You know the package has your name, but it has the wrong address. You might want to check on that."

My husband thanks Mike, hauls the package in, closes the door, turns to me and says, "Now what did you buy?"

"Me!? Nothing"... that I know of… my brain is scrambling as I put down my cup of tea, walk to the front door and glance at the package. I smugly say, "It's addressed to you, my friend."

"Well, I didn't order anything."

Then it hits me. "Wait! Didn't Notre Fille say she was going to ship dog food to us?"

***

We are dog sitting two dogs for six weeks. In addition to the food Notre Fille shipped to our home, she also sent herbal supplements for one dog and eye drops for the other.

One dog is "legally-blind." She can see shadows and forms in the bright daylight, but in dim light she often walks into doors and furniture. The other dog has "anxiety-induced irritable bowel syndrome." Oh, that I were making this up, but I am not.

Can you see the scrapes on her nose from walking into furniture?

We are not novices with canines, as my husband and I have had three different dogs over the years. A baying, pinheaded pocket beagle, who never quite figured out that it was dangerous to repeatedly chew through plugged-in electric cords. Next came the rat terrier, Ti-Ti-Mo, acquired when in-laws passed away. Except for her distrust of the mail delivery persons, which sent her into a complete frenzy, Ti-Ti-Mo was a pretty good dog. And while she never actually caught a rat, she did catch the occasional mouse that tried to move in with us come the cold weather. Lastly, we had our Cujo-like water spaniel, who was fine around the immediate family but had to be locked away when anyone else visited. It's been just over ten years since our last dog so, I looked online for some tips on dog-sitting:

The dog-sitting room should be light, airy, warm and dry. It should look nice and be comfortable for the dog. If you live in a cool climate, it is a good idea to have thick curtains and a rug or carpet. -Apparently the person writing this has never had a chewer, nor a non-barker who would scratch doors and shred drapes to signal she needs to go outside.

If you are planning on tending more than one dog at a time, the best idea is to place the dogs in separate dog crates at night - you don't want them to attack each other. -The only time the dogs fight is when the blind dog accidentally steps on the sleeping, anxiety-prone dog. 

Don't forget to have a fully stocked canine first aid kit. - Seriously? A canine first aid kit??

Have suitable grooming supplies. A bath area with a non-slip mat, a movable shower nozzle, and lots of dog shampoo, conditioner, sponges, rubber and wirehair brushes, nail clippers and towels. -It’s more like, ‘I’m going to watch your dog, feed your dog and let your dog out to eliminate and that about covers it. And while I'm at it, there will be no snuggling in bed with us.

Exercise the dog(s). Take the dogs on one or two long walks per day to keep them sane, healthy and happy. -I'm happy to report that we don't mind walking the dogs, but only because it keeps us sane, healthy and happy.

***

What happened to the "good old days?"

When my first grandchild was younger, I would tell him about the television shows I watched as a child. He got a laugh out my description of the show, Lassie. If you are young or a non-USA reader, Lassie was a long-running show about a boy and his dog. The boy, either Jeff or Timmy, depending on the season, would get into some kind of danger. Like falling off a cliff, falling in a river or getting stuck in an abandoned mine shaft or such. Lassie would then either save the boy's life all by herself, with a rope or plank of wood, or if that failed, she would run back to the farmhouse and get help. After the boy's rescue, the family would then hug the boy, give Lassie a biscuit, and caution the boy about avoiding, in the future, the peril into which he had placed himself and Lassie. I think the network thought this was a good lesson for children about safety matters. Campbell Soup was the sole sponsor for the show's 19 year run.

When my grand-dog dog, Maya, would bark, I could always get a smile out of my grandson by calling out, "What is it, girl? Is it Timmy? Where's Timmy? Is Timmy in trouble?"

June Lockhart, who played Timmy's mom, called the show, "...a fairy tale about people on a farm in which the dog solves all the problems in 22 minutes…"

You're right, June. It's a fairy tale.

***

It has been the 3rd fiercest winter on record where we live. We can barely walk the dogs a few dozen yards outside before they are picking up their paws in obvious distress. We tried those dog booties, but really the snow is so deep that it just seeps down into the boots. We bought some paw protection cream, but the dogs lick it right off. One dog likes it so much she will attempt to eat it right from the container.

Starting to pick up her frost-tender paws

You can't imagine my husband's delight when DirecTV offered us a timely free, week-long trial of DOGTV.

DOGTV provides television for dogs as a 24/7 digital TV channel with dog – friendly programing scientifically developed to provide the right company for dogs when left alone. Through years of research...  special content was created to meet specific attributes of a dog’s sense of vision and hearing and supports their natural behavior patterns. The result: a confident, happy dog, who’s less likely to develop stress, separation anxiety or other related problems.

Come on, you can't make stuff up much funnier than that.

Immediately my husband set up the DVR to record the week's worth of free shows. "What the heck does a dog know about whether it's a repeat show or not?" was his reasoning. I chuckled as it reminded me of back when hotels used to offer a free 10-minute teaser of porn, before they figured out that was all that most guys needed, and thus there was little hope of them actually purchasing the entire show.

Here are some of the DOGTV features:

morning relaxation -soothing, calming music, scenes of a child swinging, trees swaying - the music sounds not unlike human meditation tapes

playtime stimulation - scenes of balls bouncing, play sounds from humans and dogs

midday relaxation -more soothing, calming music, scenes of egrets and herons wading in water

afternoon stimulation - sounds of whistles, and other sporting dog sounds, I  glanced at the visual, it might have been a goose

evening relaxation... family stimulation... nighttime relaxation… - remember it's 24/7

dog stars - you can submit your own videos and possibly view your own precious pup on television and already I'm anticipating a reality dog show to appear at a future date

exposure - special sounds and visions to sensitize dogs to various stimuli. Might this work for anxiety-prone dogs with irritable bowel syndrome?

My husband records only the relaxation portions, oh and, dog stars, just in case. I'm sure someone needs that "stimulation" stuff, but not us.

Here are the dogs' reviews: The anxiety-prone dog could not be less interested. But, the blind dog seems to enjoy the music and whatever shadows she can see on the screen. In other words she has about as much interest as she does when watching Oprah's OWN channel.

Not Once! Not Even One Time!!

Oh, Sr. Beata, Sr. Beata… I can't  tell you the number of times that I think back to the lessons you taught me and how right you were. Okay, maybe you were a tad off on those constant warnings you delivered on the danger of the Russians infiltrating our country and turning us against our parents and religious beliefs, but after all no one can always bat 1.000.

***

My seventh grade Catholic school teacher, Sr. Beata, loved to give us heartfelt warnings on the dangers in the world. On one occasion she touched on the dangers of drugs. Sr. Beata delivered her lessons with dramatic passion, and nowhere was her passion more enlivened than when she was trying to save our souls. She was a small woman, older, I used to think. It's hard for a kid to gauge the age of a nun-in-full-habit, but back then, I took her for around 70+ years of age. I was shocked to meet her more than 22 years later when I was then married with children. She and I had both volunteered to assist a family with a profoundly disabled son. She was no longer in habit, times had changed that. I ran the math in my head. She should now be 92+. But, she looked exactly the same. Maybe there is something about living the good life.

This weekend I recalled Sr. Beata's lecture on the dangers of drugs. I could perfectly picture her, small in stature, standing before us. Her eyes widened, the pitch in her voice changing from whisper to a near shout as she raised an arthritic finger at us and wagged it before our eyes, "I warn you!..." Because of her full habit we couldn't see her neck, but I just bet the veins in her neck were bulging. "Heroin… euphoria… withdrawal..." were some of the words I heard that day. I don't remember much else, except that, as she finished, her face became somber and her voice again softened as she said, quietly but earnestly, "Young people, not much older than you, have died because of drug use. Nothing can be done to change that. It's too late for them. For to be an heroin addict is to be imprisoned until that prison eventually entombs you. But, you, you have a choice… Don't try it… NOT EVEN ONE TIME..."

I was flipping through the television channels one day, looking for something that could hold my interest for more than a nanosecond. I came across an episode of NCIS (I think). The staff's director's wife was talking to her children, pre-teens, who were preparing to go somewhere, maybe a party or something? As she kissed them and hugged them she asked, "How many times does it take for something to go wrong when it comes to drug use?" (I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something like that.) The kids rolled their eyes and said in unison, "One time, Mom." Like a drill sergeant she repeats louder, "How many?" They say again, "Just once." Again, even louder "How many?" "Once!" they yell back. She smiles, "Okay, you may go."

I wish every mother and father would warn their children in such manner, each and every time they leave their parents' watchful eye. I wish every kid had Sr. Beata in junior high. I wish Philip Seymour Hoffman and those too-many-to-count people from Pennsylvania, Kentucky, North Carolina, Nebraska, New Hampshire... who've died recently, had that NCIS mom and Sr. Beata in their lives.

***

"yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, she would not hear" 

***

It will cling to you like an obsessed lover... just waiting in the dark for that one weak moment…

Having a Grand Time

"I hate my grandmother!"

Wide-eyed and with incredulity the companion's head whips sideways to look at the person saying this. She then responds, "Really!? I love my grandmother!"

That first sentence pierced my heart. It was the conversation of a couple of junior high kids I overheard walking to my car one day. That poor child. That poor grandmother. An opportunity of a lifetime wasted...

I occasionally find myself wishing I could redo my parenting, but I have few regrets as to my grandparenting.

After infancy passed I dug into parenting with one main goal. (If you don't set your sights too high it's easier to meet your goals.) My goal: To be a more involved parent than my mother was in my school life. As a child I'd been envious of those classmates whose parents seemed eager to volunteer and attend school events. These parents seemed to be on a first name basis with the teachers and as a result, I told myself, their children seemed to have a more confident connection to the school. If a kid wants to feel a sense of belonging anywhere, beside their own home, school is as good a place as any, I reasoned. My mother only came to school for the mandatory parent-teacher conferences and upon my graduation.

So gung-ho, from Pre-K on, I signed up as a teacher's aide or volunteered every chance I had. Spending time giving one-on-one tutoring to students, helping out on field trips, making copies on the Xerox, or even toasting pumpkin seeds down in the school kitchen. Okay, maybe I took it too far, as our eldest once asked me to not sign up for his eighth grade school trip, "It would be nice if, just once, I could go to a school event without my mother being there." Poor kid. Now here, the pendulum had swung too far in the opposite direction. I eased up a bit with the volunteering, but my husband and I continued to attend most of the extra-curricular sporting events in which our children participated.

My other parental regret was that I put too much emphasis on rules and discipline and did not choose my battles more carefully. I was kind of a "because I said so" parent.

Despite my shortcomings our three children turned out well, graduated from college and became productive citizens. I give much credit to my sweet husband. What positives I lacked, he had aplenty and together we made a decent enough team.

I may not have been a perfect parent, but it turns out I'm pretty darn good as a grandparent. The nicest thing, for me, about being a grandparent is you kind of get an opportunity for a second chance. And who doesn't dream of a second shot at something? 

Being a parent is different than a being a grandparent.  Parents must worry about nurturing the child, providing financially, disciplining, teaching… why, the very state of a child's soul is dependent upon good parenting. A grandparent is not hindered by such trivial trivialities ;). We get to shower them with love and attention and the occasional piece or two of surreptitious candy.

I learned from my grandchildren that they possess the purest love. They know nothing about lineage and such. Their love is based solely on the relationship. I might look at my grandchild and automatically love him or her because I know them to be my descendant, but that same child would love you in return without yet knowing the physical science behind ancestry.

As a grandparent I found the perfect symbiosis. It turns out that the endless patience I developed late in life is a perfect match for babies, toddlers and kids. (I once allowed my eight-month-old granddaughter to pull each tissue from a 500 tissue pop-up box, tissues, that, I later carefully folded and replaced, just to watch the smile on her face as each removed tissue caused another to pop up in its place.) My grandson and I would build spacious towns on the playroom floor that would rival anything seen on SimCity. His sister would then toddle over knocking down houses and all but obliterating carefully laid train tracks, houses and roadbeds. To keep him from wailing in anguish I would yell out "Oh oh! Here comes the Sheba-beeba monster. Look! She's plundering and destroying the whole town! Who can stop the Sheba-beeba monster!?" He would fall to the floor laughing. When she took her nap, he and I would carefully rebuild and restore the town, joyed that we had overcome the devastation of the Sheba-beeba monster. Later I learned to split time between my grandson and granddaughter, not unlike parallel universes I thought, as I would pilot a spacecraft to some intergalactic planet and have my hair styled all in one sitting.

Oh and they are so totally different in personality. If I'd ask my grandson, "How was school?" he'd say, "Fine." Only an hour or so later would he quietly mention something that happened in school about which he'd been ruminating. If I'd ask my granddaughter the same question, by the time we'd walked the four blocks to their house, I'd have her revamp of the whole schoolday, names, verbatim quotes, the outfit the particular person was wearing...

They've moved over 900 miles away and I still miss them so that my heart aches. My granddaughter gave me this note at Christmas.

I looked under the note (oh, great now she's sneaking candy to me! And a pretty jewel.)

That's the way she expresses herself. My grandson is not as verbally expressive of his feelings. But when I sit beside him, just for a minute or two he will rest his head on my shoulder and then I know that he, too, has missed me.

I look up the word "grand" in the dictionary. There are seven definitions. I go through each.

1) a: foremost, having more importance

    b:  having higher rank than others bearing a similar designation <the grand champion> - no, neither  fit quite right

2) a: inclusive or comprehensive <the grand total>

    b: definitive or incontrovertible <grand example> - no, neither of those

3) chief, principal - no, no

4) large, striking in size, scope, extent, or conception <grand design> -no, but getting closer

5) a: lavish, sumptuous <a grand celebration> 

    b: marked by a regal form and dignity

    c: fine or imposing in appearance or impression

    d: lofty, sublime <writing in the grand style> -not even close

6) a: pretending to social superiority : supercilious

    b:  intended to impress <a person of grand gestures> -not!

7) very good: wonderful <a grand time> Yes! That's the one.

With grand joy this weekend I hold my brand new grandson in my arms and welcom him to my life. I am grateful for yet another opportunity of a lifetime.