Think. Just Think.

It's too bad more people don't read this blog, not just for the sake of my ego, but because maybe if they did, they'd have caught the post from February 19 and let #9 sink in. (I think I've referenced #9 at least once since, and there's a good reason for it.)

Every once in a while if I feel like being really pissed off, I'll read the comments on an NPR article posted on facebook. One of today's was a whopper, and, as I read each contribution, I was dumbfounded by all the dumbness.

First of all, if one person other than you has already expressed the same opinion (let alone, say, 50 others), then why leave yours? You aren't sharing anything new, you're just, what, letting the rest of the world know you had a thought, too?

Second, if you're dead set on sharing your comment, anyway, then at least check your work before you hit post. Vomiting is involuntary. Stuff comes out before you have time to stop it. Not true with the ideas in your head. If you are so careless that you would type an indecipherable message that could be made decipherable by reviewing it first, you've not only achieved nothing, you've just proclaimed to a far-reaching audience that you are a sloppy idiot. (Yes, we all make mistakes. That's why they gave us a delete button.)

And, finally, back to my introductory point: all of this arguing is pointless. Especially with strangers. And even more especially with people whose beliefs are of so little consequence to themselves that they can't even give them the attention to detail they require.

No matter how valid your evidence, or how persuasive your argument, you rarely, if ever, can change another person's mind. 

Onward, But Not Upward.

There's a house that I drive past frequently in a more affluent part of our city that's on my way to here, there, and everywhere it seems. The property and gardens are meticulously manicured, including two shrubs out front near the drive that are always dressed (yeah, I said dressed) for the season. It's part charming and part eccentric, but I can't fault the person for getting down to the details.

I always assumed that the homeowner (a woman I've seen from time to time) had a lot of free time to work with. A lot. It never entered my mind that she had help, until the other day when I noticed a golf cart outside the home and an elderly Hispanic man crouched down plucking, primping, and pruning anything that was sprouting or blooming.

As I passed him, I thought: he is exactly who I want to talk to. One of the small people behind the big people. One of the ones who is moving and shaking in a completely different way than those celebrated as leaders in our community.

As I go in to my last week of writing for this blog, this new project is on my mind. I can't wait to get started, but that is in the future and I am in the now.

This Is Not Normal.

We just returned from Festival of the Arts in downtown GR. We go almost every year, despite the crazy crowds and questionable entertainment. It's the 25+ food tents that entice us, and while much of it is pretty tasty, it's not really the ideal way to have a meal: on foot, with paper-thin napkins, and ill-behaved humans of all ages stepping on our feet and elbowing us in the plates we're trying to not to spill.

Of course, the people watching is prime, if not somewhat disturbing. I know I'm weird. And most of my friends and loved ones are weird. But the weird we see in this crowd is in a different family of weird. I can't help but think: who are these weirdos and where did they come from? I don't know any of them, and yet Grand Rapids is not a big city. Do they hibernate all year and only come out for the first weekend in June?

I don't know the answer, but I'm definitely a little weirded out right now. 

The old guy dancing up front? He's good weird. The rest of you? Hmmm.

Ave Marie.

Today we heard the news that a loved figure in our community died. Because I didn't know her personally, I was a bit surprised by how profoundly sad I felt about it all day. I fought tears several times and choked on my words when I tried to talk with others about her.

She owned Marie Catrib's restaurant where she created inspired dishes made from fresh, whole, locally grown & raised "everything." Like everyone else in town, I never minded waiting for a seat, which was pretty much every time. 

But the food will live on, so why such sadness over a near stranger?

The thing was, she treated everyone she met like a dear friend. She remembered each individual. She connected with her customers personally at every spare moment. And, once, she was remarkably kind to us when our lunchmates' child went into a frenetic meltdown. 

She was special. And, I'm telling you, we could taste her heart and soul in every item on the menu, even if she didn't cook it herself.

Those of us who are so moved by her passing are so because she made us want to be better humans. Want to be motivated from a place of love and compassion, instead of all those other emotions. 

Yeah, I'm making a pretty big deal about her, but that's because she was.

Farewella!

Tonight we had a goodbye celebration for a co-worker whom I love in real life, but am not all that sad to see go in my other real life known as work. I won't go into the gory details; it's enough to say that I had an extra reason to give cheers tonight than the rest of my colleagues (as far as I know). In all fairness, I suspect the feeling is mutual.

For her final farewell tomorrow, I made a Nutella fondue, which turned out spectacular enough to share. Here is the recipe:

1 cup of heavy cream
8 oz. 70-80% cacao dark chocolate, chopped
1 cup of Nutella

In a medium saucepot, heat the cream on low heat until steaming but not boiling. Remove from heat and add the chocolate and Nutella. Let sit for a few minutes, then whisk until smooth. Transfer to a fondue pot set on low and serve. As far as I know this will  keep overnight and can be reheated the next day.

That was easy, but it's still about all I can handle this evening.

Nighty-night!

Do-Over #1.

In my final days of this year of blogging, I thought I might go back and request a few of do-overs. My first blunder happened on July 10, when the hour turned late and, after losing time floundering over the content of my post, I finally decided to confess that I had nothing satisfactory to share.

This is the offending post, with a few edits:

In class tonight, my instructor pronounced for me the Arabic names of the 22 countries in the Arab League. I giggled when she got to Palestine, as it is more enunciated: phelisteen. I thought, thankfully not aloud, hehe, 
f­ucking philistines.

In my house, this is a favorite way to express disgust for the artistically, culturally, and intellectually bankrupt. I also like knuckle draggers and mouth breathers. Sometimes in combination, depending on the severity of the case; always with that same modifier.

I couldn’t wait to get home and see if I could find the connection between Palestine, Philistia, and Philistinism and learn whether my insult had its founding in racial bigotry. Not because wanted it to, but so that I might figure out where its roots came from, and stop using it if I discovered it evolved from an ancient ethnic slur.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve concluded after reading this, this, and this.

I'm inclined to believe that it was originally born out of groundless intolerance. Which is a damn shame because my use of it is entirely justified.

**6/17/2013 update**

Aggg. I just re-read this post in the light of day and, despite my efforts, it still sounds a bit to me like I'm saying something horrible about Palestinians. Palestinians are fine, as far as I know. Remarkably, I have two friends from Gaza: one who lives here in Michigan now and one who is over there. I like them. But I dislike philistines.    

Buzzed.

Last night I undid the tight bun my hair was twisted into (a look reserved for Sunday trips to the grocery store and the occasional weekday when I've snoozed an extra 20 minutes too long) and started finger-brushing through the snarls and curls. As I tried to tame the serpentine mass, a thought popped into my head: maybe I could shave it all off...?

I indulged for a few minutes in a fantasy in which I was not only bald and beautiful, but also sporting a different pair of earrings for every day of the year. I would need to invest in more sets, but that was a fixable problem.

When I felt sufficiently convinced that this was a brilliant idea, I interrupted Game of Thrones to ask, "Ben, would you still love me if I shaved my head?" And he replied, "Of course, I would love you just like a sister."

Though he was teasing, I suspected a hint of truth to it. But, then, he has stuck with me through other hair-related fiascoes, really bad eyeglass frame choices, and more than one drastic weight gain. I had a pretty good sense that he could handle it.

It's not like I need his permission, anyway, but I did feel like it would be fair to get some input from the person who wakes up next to me every day. Knowing he didn't really care was all I needed to put some more momentum behind my scheme.

But then I told facebook what I was thinking and (I should not be at all surprised) got an onslaught of opinions, including one not in favor emailed privately to me. What my friend said made a lot of sense, and I realized that shaving my head is not like changing my shade of lipstick. Does it need to be that extreme to be a liberating change? Probably not.

Of course, this morning, a friend who once had a star etched in the hair on the back of her head said she had been thinking about it for 10 years. We ended up talking for quite a while about why we would want to do it. And all that made sense, too.

Truth is, this is a big deal in my small world. But really it is just a pointless battle between embracing vanity and making a symbolic gesture to reject it. It is, in short, a silly thing to put so much brain power to. 

Good night, friends.