If it Quacks Like a Duck...

 

  

Inspired by a friend's recent post, urging people to speak up about harassment or abuse, I came this close (holding my thumb and forefinger about 1/4 inch apart) to finally telling my side of a story which happened over a decade ago (how can that be possible?)
 

I wrote it all down in my new blog (here,) then just saved it instead of posting it. Today, I deleted it. The thing is, cathartic as it was to pour out the sordid details, it also took me back to a time I have tried so hard to forget. People who let me down and events that were on par with getting a diagnosis of terminal cancer or finding out your lifelong favorite football team hired dog-killer, Michael Vick...
 

They're supposed to be the "safe" ones. The people who have taken a vow to "do no harm" or follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. But history has proven no vow or white collar or robe ensures that person won't morph into a demon when their human frailty is tested. Just ask a Catholic altar boy.

Even worse - those who hire or support them. The ones who don't want to get their hands dirty. People who claim to be "merciful" yet surround themselves with henchmen to do their dirty work are, in my opinion, despicable hypocrites.
 

Sounds dramatic, huh? Actually it was, but even more so, it was sad. The upshot is, my life was turned upside down by a mentally diseased human, who carefully calculated and acted out a scenario worthy of Shakespeare. That it took nearly a decade to come to fruition shows how devious a mind can be. For me, it was like watching my life's work go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. There I stood in my little yellow raincoat; helpless to stop that barrel.

 

This particular person was very calculating. He had a lot of people fooled. If only I had paid attention when something (God, the Holy Spirit, the ghost of my dead grandmother) tried to warn me when we first met. I remember that day vividly.

 

Church members, who were on a personal campaign to bring as many people as possible into the fold, like it would ensure them a good table in Heaven, stopped me in the hallway of our church office one Sunday morning. They wanted me to meet their newest recruits - I'll call them Fred and Wilma. Now "Wilma" was very sweet. When I shook "Fred's" hand, however, and looked into his black eyes, a chill ran up my back and the hair on my neck stood up. I had a visceral reaction that this person was evil. Turns out my gut (or grandma) was spot on.

 

Over the years, it was like he made it his personal mission to infiltrate my life and work. I hated him but that's not "Christian" now, is it. So, I did something I have repeated with several similar situations in my life; when my gut told me a person was trouble, but my heart wanted to prove otherwise.

 

In every single one of those situations, rare though they've been, my darn gut was right. The "something" I did, which came back to haunt me, was to try and befriend the person. Like the persistent door to door salesman, sticking his foot in your open door, that was all this man needed to gain entry into my life. It was all downhill from there.

In the end, I just had to confront the demon. I was not going to let him into my life. He could not control it or me. Because he had wormed his way into a position of power in the church, it was him or me. The good old boy's club sacrificed me. I mean, this guy had managed to get ordained! I was simply a long time, faithful employee who did not have the necessary appendage to win: a penis.

 

Oh, but a year later, a more powerful penis brought him down. The husband of the young woman he seduced when she came to him for counseling. When the husband caught them he went straight to the the District Superintendent and, not wanting to risk scandal, they promptly defrocked and fired him. To this day, no one has offered an apology to me. Probably for the best because I wouldn't accept it anyway.

 

Folks, if you're listening out there - trust your gut!  If it quacks like a duck, it's probably a sociopath in a duck suit.

 

  

Things that Keep me From Achieving a Zen State

Category: "I'm in the bathroom; not on a spaceship to Mars!"
 

What is it that sends those with whom we live into a state of panic whenever we are out of sight? When my children were little, I couldn't go to the bathroom without one or both of them running through the house yelling for me like I had abandoned them.
 

These days, it's my cats that panic whenever I go to the bathroom - and they either squeeze through the partially open door or stick their paws under it like if  they  just  reach   a   little farther...they'll make contact - hopefully not with my dead body.

And to add insult to injury, the same guy who forgets to call to let me know he arrived at his destination when he goes on a business trip, freaks out when I am out of sight longer than three minutes. I swear he has an egg timer app on his phone. Does he think I've been taken up by the Rapture?? Surely he knows that is as likely as me going to Mars...

Category: "Why do people feel the need to make everything about themselves?"

While putting laundry away this morning, I walked into the corner of the wooden footboard on our bed. Now, my knees are bad on a good day, so when the unyielding wood stabbed into one, the pain was blinding. As I hunched over muttering expletives, my hubby, who had been in mid-shave, walked out of the bathroom and asked what happened. Through my pain I managed to stutter out, "I hhhit my kkknee on the bed."

His next words, "Oh, I've done that a million times," caused the blinding pain in my knee to morph into blinding rage. On the upside, if he wanted to, he couldn't have picked a more effective way to make me forget about my knee.

Now, I suppose he figured it was his way of commiserating with me, but it struck me as dismissive. My reply was pointed, "Well, I'm sorry this happened to YOU a million times - cause it HURTS LIKE FUCK!" As he turned away, I could hear him mumble under his breath, "Why do you have to be so cantankerous?"

In one fell swoop I went from victim to mean old shrew. That I felt the need to apologize for snapping at him in my time of agony added even more insanity to the scenario. Not only did my knee still hurt like hell but now I was struggling with a moral dilemma: How are we supposed to react when we're injured - bodily, emotionally, spiritually - and the person with whom we share our distress makes it about them?



Category: "A Life Lesson is Coming Your Way"

I spent nearly twenty years ministering to those in pain or need. I even trained countless others in the "Art of Listening." One of the pitfalls we warned of was internalizing someone else's pain. Tempting as it may be, it really isn't helpful to say something like, "Oh, let me tell you about my (fill in the blank) and how I came through just fine. "Well, bully for you. What if I'm not so lucky?"

When our son was five years old he required heart surgery. It was a vascular anomaly which, thankfully, did not involve open heart surgery. We were a young family; new to our church. I felt comfort in knowing others would be praying for our little boy.

One day, I received a phone call from a very sweet woman who wanted to let me know her daughter had the surgery as a preemie and she came through with flying colors. My heart knew she meant well, but all I could think of was how my son's odds of having an unremarkable surgery were now decreased. I wanted to scream, "Good for you and your child! But what if something goes wrong for my child?!?"  I learned then and there to not ever compare my experiences, or that of my Aunt Alice, to anyone else's.

It's not easy. We so desperately want to take someone's pain away from them. We tell ourselves it's because we care, but truth be told, it's really because we are uncomfortable with it. We want everything in our world to be copacetic - even the lives of a relative, friend, coworker or church member. People who are "fixers" are the worst. If they can't fix a problem, they can't deal with it.


A much better response when someone is in pain - from a loss, illness or having a wooden stake impale their knee - is thus, "I'm so sorry this happened to you. I can tell you're in pain." Then shut up. That's right, stop talking. You do not need to fill the space with your similar experience or ways in which you can fix the problem. And, unless they are bleeding from a sliced artery or having a heart attack, there is little you need to do. You'd be surprised how grateful a person is to talk, uninterrupted, about their pain - or just sit in comforting silence with a caring (silent) person.  

Well, I went off on a Patti Tangent there. Hey, maybe you learned something. Maybe not. Anyway, my knee still smarts but I'll live. Hubster wisely kept his mouth shut and has left on a business trip. Let's see if he lets me know when he's arrived at his destination...

A Rude Awakening

Today's rant - uh - I mean blog entry has to do with two pet peeves - golf and hunting. So, if you are into either or both of those, you may want to stop right here. On the other hand, if you are on the fence about either or both, please, read on. You may change your outlook...

Golf - I am a fan of CBS Sunday Morning. I love Charles Osgood. I even got used to his signature bow ties - just when it appears he has stopped wearing them. (sigh)

Today's topics had to do with design - as in skyscrapers, fashion, art, etc. One of the feature stories was about Jack Nicklaus. Beloved among old, white, golfers everywhere, in his seventies, he is making his fortune designing golf courses. When asked why he felt the need to work so hard at the age of 76, his response was, "Played golf until I retired and now I'm working." Okay.

The Hippie in me rails against the waste of beautiful land accessible to an elite few - AKA golf courses. The Proletariat in me believes the beauty of the Earth should be available to all. It sickens me to see such opulence amid such poverty. I'm sorry, but this sport has always represented wealth, misogyny and exclusivity. That signature Masters' green jackets have been worn by men only since the 1950's.

The Vipingo ridge golf course. Photo/FILE 

By EMMAN OMARI

One of the wonders of the new Kilifi is the Vipingo Golf Course Estate.
For that is where big money will be spent – bringing the benefits of tax revenue for the new regional government.
The estate will become home to the world’s millionaires who are expected to troop in with the potential to transform the region’s economy.
The paradox is that it will be an island of millionaires amid a sea of poverty

The sport is expensive, which keeps it exclusive. Very few people have access to the accoutrement needed to play golf - clubs, shoes, gloves, those little wooden things, clubs, more gloves, sun visor, clubs, ugly plaid pants, golf cart, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Oh, and the cost of playing is exorbitant. I mean, somebody has to pay for all that landscaping - which, by the way - is an environmental disaster the care of which involves massive water usage and the dumping of pesticides, weed killer and fertilizer into the soil.

The upshot is, while my husband looked at the various scenes of Nicklaus golf courses up there on the big screen - with that expression I've only seen when he was looking at his newborn child, or a steak - steam was pouring out of my ears and my eyes were turning red. He turned to glance at me with that stupid enraptured look on his face, saw the fury on mine then jumped up and ran into the kitchen muttering something about how quickly I can ruin his good mood.

I do not care. In my opinion, golf courses are the quintessential raising of the wealthy's middle finger to the poor. Can you tell I hate golf? Good.

Hunting - On to another topic - hunting. Contrary to what hunters like to tell people, there really is no need for people to hunt these days. For the cost of a hunting rifle(s), gear, an obligatory truck or 4-wheel vehicle, camo, camping gear, etc. one could feed a family of four for five years. No, people who hunt simply enjoy killing animals. It is another human thing which makes me sick.

And when people take children hunting - well - I think they should be arrested for child abuse. Teaching a child that it is not only acceptable, but honorable, to kill another living creature is tantamount to teaching them murder is cool.

My sister's cretin husband is a hunter. He used to sit in his back yard, hidden under a blanket, and toss bird seed around. When the poor, unsuspecting, hungry birds would land, he would shoot them. Nice guy. When he encouraged our very young nephew to hunt, I was sick inside. He was at the age when he should be learning to respect and care for animals - but instead he was holding a bow and arrow or a rifle designed to kill a living creature. When he "bagged his first deer" - while the others celebrated - I cried. All the excuses about culling and conservation I heard as white noise.

Here in Florida, the blood lust is focused on bears. Instead of people learning to live with the bears - by not feeding them, using bear-proof trash bins and keeping pets on a leash - the "solution" was to let people kill them. It turned into a blood bath. Mother bears were killed, leaving cubs orphaned. Even cubs were shot. Protests have for the most part, fallen on deaf legislative ears. 

The only way we should be shot is with a camera.

On the upside - there are wonderful parents, relatives and guardians who are teaching children to respect and care for nature. They are taking them camping so they can enjoy nature without destroying it. Instead of "shooting" an animal with the intent to kill, they are using cameras to capture them in their natural environment. Those are the parents and influential adults I want to applaud.

And this summer, my husband and I spent our Saturday morning outdoors, under the trees of Lake Como Elementary field, watching little folks play soccer. It was the highlight of my life. We made it a family event, complete with snacks, and I loved every minute of it. Watching those little people run around the field, learning teamwork, made my heart happy. And it was available to all walks of life. There were boys and girls from every ethnic background and socio-economic status.  

One moment I will always remember and cherish was when a little boy got knocked down and a boy from the opposing team helped him up and off the field, then gave him a big hug. The grownups watching this were in awe; many with a tear in their eyes. I want to add, while they were of different races, it didn't make one bit of difference to either of them. Children. Our hope.

Please, teach your children and grandchildren; nieces and nephews, to value life. All life. Show them how to care for animals and the environment. Encourage them to see the beauty of the Earth should be shared by ALL. And tell them to love each other. We will all be better off if you do.

Shouldn't I Be Smarter at My Age?

This is my second attempt at blogging. I don't know why they don't call it what it really is - ranting - but they don't, so here I am blogging my heart out.

I spent one whole year making a daily entry in a blog about living with animals entitled, "Apple Tree Pets." I even threw in some pictures.

To be honest, I challenged myself. You see, I never thought I could stick with anything that long. Well, I have been married to the same guy for over forty years so maybe I'm not a total slacker. Anyway, I never missed a day.

When the year was up and I closed my laptop on that project, I immediately went through withdrawal. I found myself writing long Facebook posts to get my fix. I started noticing family members looking at me askance, like they were deciding whether or not it was time to commit the old broad.

Facebook friends would dutifully read my rants then give me the "thumbs up." But I knew in their hearts they were just being kind. Some actually commented they missed my daily entries about the escapades of living with a wide variety of animals.

This blog is going to be about getting to the age of sixty plus. How I made it this far; what I have learned; what I would do differently if I could; what mistakes do I continue to make; who really cares anyway?

You see, the people I would have listened to when I was young didn't make it this far and the ones who did were so screwed up, I wouldn't have taken their advice on a bet. But it's important to learn from people who've been there. Even if it's to learn what not to do.

Let me give a little background info. I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the 1950's. That's as specific as I'm getting to the actual date. My parents were Depression Era, WWII, middle class folks who knew one thing - the war was over and they were going to live the American Dream if it killed them. Oh, and there is a strong German line in my ancestry. (That plays a significant role throughout my life.)

I was the oldest child - or so I thought (more later) - of two. Mother wanted a boy, so I was a disappointment from the moment those forceps yanked my poor head out and the doctor declared, "It's a girl. Sorry."

My mother spent most of her time trying to pretend I was a bad dream from which she could not wake up. My father, on the other hand, tried to make the most of the gender thing by telling me it was not a problem - I would grow up and take care of him in his old age. That prediction ended up coming true - with a vengeance.

My younger (by nine years) sister was not a boy either, but my mother was okay with that. She doted on her and actually said the following to a young, impressionable me, "You are your father's daughter and (bleep) is mine." Like we were his and hers bath towels.

Let me pause here and speak to young parents - your children will remember crap you say for the rest of their lives, so be careful. Well, that is unless you're okay with raising potential serial killers or have tons of money for therapy down the road.

I spent the first seventeen years of my life fantasizing about escaping. I was only present in my home in body not spirit. I hated the town we moved to when I was twelve. I hated the fact my mother was always either depressed, sick or pissed off - usually all three.  And I hated myself for not ever making her happy. I will go into details later.

My entries will hopefully provide inspiration, cautionary tales and insights into life lived over six decades. Oh, and I hope to make you laugh. You see, I was raised in that German philosophy of laughter being the devil's trick. It is not. Laughter makes even the scariest, saddest, sickest trials more bearable. If you take away nothing else from my ranting, let it be that.

To be continued...