I am sitting on the train, minding my business, reading a book when I notice a hand waving slowly to get my attention. I look up at the smiling woman standing before me.
“Hi!” “Good morning.” I return the smile. “I just wanted to say I love your outfit. It looks really nice on you.”
Before I could finish saying “Why thank you!” we hear someone just off to the side.
“You would look better if you had on heels and not sneakers.”This comes from a guy standing beside her.
“Who the hell asked you?” The woman glares at him.
“I was just paying her a compliment.”
“No you were not.” I shake my head, bookmarking my spot. Not that there is ever a good time for such nonsense, but it’s early in the morning and I haven’t had coffee yet! It’s a bit not good.
“I love your outfit is a compliment. And thank you again by the way.” I smile again at the woman, then turned back to him and continued. “You would look better if you had on heels is a completely unasked for critique designed to shame me into dressing the way YOU feel I should look for your acceptance and viewing pleasure. Neither of which I consented to. I guarantee you that when I made my clothing choices this morning my prevalent thought was not oooh let me put on some stilettos so I can be the objectified personification for some guy’s possible shoe fetish ideal of how I should look.”
Because I whisper like a fog horn, my voice carries. A few snickers verifies this, but obstinate, he presses his point, “Still, you have to admit it would look better.”
And now I’m annoyed.
“Even if I agreed with you, which I do not, do you expect me to run home and change just for you? Are you my…? Actually, wait…” I make a show of lifting my sunglasses as I look him up and down carefully assess him. “No, I’m right, you’re not.” I shake my head, having made my decision.
I let my shades fall back into place as I return to reading my book, mentally dismissing him.
“I’m not?” he asks, understandably confused, “I’m not what?”
The man sitting beside me face palms and shakes his head. The woman who complimented me is snickering lightly, both having gathered the point which has clearly sailed over the wannabe Project Runway‘s fashion guru Tim Gunn’s head.
“I took off my sunglasses to be sure, but I was correct in my initial assessment.” I explained with the exaggerated patience one reserves for speaking to a misbehaving child in which they are in no position to discipline. “You’re not my physician. You’re not my children. You’re not my best friend. You’re not a deity. You’re not any of my lovers.” His eyebrows rise at lovers, but I ignore him. “Not that it would necessarily change my opinions in regards to my wardrobe choices, but when it comes to the very select few whose opinions I would at least take into consideration, you’re not one of them. So sod off! But since we’re putting in opinions where not asked, let alone wanted here’s mine: you looked so much better with your mouth shut, can you go back to that look?”
I stare at him waiting for a retort. After a moment of annoyed silence from him, I don my best Billy Crystal impersonation:
“You look, MARH-velous dahling!”
I guess the next station was his stop, at least that is where he got off. It as better than my telling him where he could get off. <>==========<>
I am not going to lie, I have been relatively blessed health wise. Much to my doctor’s semi-joking chagrin I am proof that not every fat person has diabetes, hypertension or cholesterol. I am not running any marathons, but I can haul ass to catch a bus from a half block off, if so inclined, and not feel like I’m going to keel over for it. I’ve been to a hospital five times for my own health: the births of my two sons, the first time I had a migraine, when I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my ankle and when a pharmacy misread pain medication for said sprain that had me feeling so off forty-eight hours later I went back. So yes, I’ve been blessed up until now. And that is the caveat – up until now.
I am fifty-six and I am beginning to feel the first signs of my body’s seemingly inevitable decline. I know it well. My right knee goes in and out of aches of its own accord. I can go months without a symptom, then bam! it’s back for a few weeks or so.
I went to see National Theatre’s “Cyrano de Bergerac” with James McAvoy a couple of weeks ago. It was a cold, cold, blustery a work day, which meant a long day as the event was after work. Worse it was a training day, so I was on my feet for a good portion of it. I had on my comfortable boots, and thought I was ready!!! At least I was ready until about 4pm when I felt that first twinge that told me there was going to be a problem.
Now add to that when nearly twenty ago I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my right ankle badly. I was fine, or thought I was, until about 2012 or so when it manifested itself as arthritis in that ankle that seems to flare up only on damp days under 30 degrees. It took nearly three winters and springs for me lock down the pattern. When both aches are in active session it is a trial to simply stand some days, let alone walk or run anywhere.
At something to midnight when the event was over, my sassy strut had devolved to a sorry stumble. I took it in (painful) stride and had a great time regardless.Two days later, the pain had abated as if it never existed, but yeah it happens just like that sometimes.
I am a long way off from it, but there are days where I have taken the possibility of lack of easy mobility into consideration. Naturally, I hope, wish, and pray it does not comes to that, but I’m telling you now, I will crutch, walker and scooter, should it become necessary, and sally forth. There’s still far too much I want to do and the more things I do, the more things I find to do, so I’m going to do as many of them as I can.
And any words to the contrary will get this response:
Characters from “LOST” exclaiming “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
Because as painful as it can be sometimes to decline physically – I decline to let it stop me until it, well, stops me.
For the past couple of weeks when I stepped out the door to head to work, I’ve been mostly greeted with the dawn. On the clear days it has been wonderful seeing seeing the warm twilight colors on the way to the station of the elevated train I take. I have enjoyed it through the above ground stations until the train plunges into the ground below becoming subway. When I emerge at my destination the sun has fully risen and it is officially day time.
The weather was lovely and the girly in me won out: I wore my white. yellow and black graphic print skater skirt, a black lace blouse with yellow underlay, my black leather boots with gold trim and my short leather jacket. I was looking and feeling so good as hell, Lizzo would have been proud.
Thus I was quite taken aback, and truth be told more than a little miffed this morning when I walked out into darkness. What?
I mean hello?, all this goodness I had going on needed the spotlight called El Sol. Never mind that in another hour and change I will emerge from the subway like the phoenix in all my glory; that was not the point. My four block strut to the train station could not be equally enjoyed by the half-dozen faces encountered in passing. What was this sapphire sky nonsense?
I had forgotten about daylight savings that sprang me forward in the day, yet bounced me back into night skies for the next couple of weeks. Oh well, if some of the Venus Envy I observed was any indication, a few of my fellow train riders were honored by the privilege of seeing Le Raivenne feathered so gaily. I was a Rai of snark-shine in this COVID-19 environs, and knew it.
At least the strut home was more enjoyed, better luck next time morning peeps, see you in a couple of weeks where I will continue to be modest as I am petite. (Note: I am NOT petite.)
In a conversation with a female acquaintance yesterday, I mentioned that today will be International Women’s Day. The last thing I expected was a question of “What’s that?” from her. After a serious facepalm that actually hurt, I explained it. Since we women have come so far, yet have so far to go, I’ll grab my invisible lectern and give a mini essay here for others who may have a need to know.
International Women’s Day (IWD) is a global day celebrating the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women. The day marks a call to action for accelerating gender parity that belongs to all groups collectively everywhere. It is not country, group or organization specific. From the early 1900’s it was originally celebrated later in the month of March. International Women’s Day as we know it was officially recognized on March 8 in 1911.
The color purple was chosen, because it symbolizes dignity and justice, which are the two important goals which IWD aims to achieve for all women in all parts of the world.
Some from a younger generation feel that “all the battles have been won for women” while many know only too well the patriarchy is complex and still very much ingrained.
With more women in the boardroom, greater equality in legislative rights, and an increased critical mass of women’s visibility as impressive role models in every aspect of life, one could think that women have gained true equality. Yes, much progress has been made to protect and promote women’s rights in recent times. Still, nowhere in the world can women claim to have all the same rights and opportunities as men, according to the UN. The unfortunate fact is that women are still not paid equally to that of their male counterparts, women still are not present in equal numbers in business or politics, and globally women’s education, health and the violence against them is worse than that of men. Now would be a great time to learn some more about the problem and what is needed to reverse it.
The theme for 2020 is “I am Generation Equality: Realizing Women’s Rights” for a reason.
As I said when I began this slice: we women have come so far, yet have so far to go. How can you help?
Learn about more women whose lives have made an impact and helped moved us forward.
Support women – there will be a lot of the events that will raise awareness to issues involving inequality.
A global web of rich and diverse local activity connects women from all around the world ranging from political rallies, business conferences, government activities and networking events through to local women’s craft markets, theatrical performances, fashion parades and more. There are Women’s Day Events in every city.
Celebrate the wonderful, powerful, inspirational women in your for being just that: wonderful, powerful and inspirational.
And if you happen to be one of those wonderful, powerful, and inspirational women, don’t for get to celebrate yourself.
I found this on fellow slicer Elisabeth Ellington‘s page at The Dirigible Plum. I liked the idea and decided to use it (Thank you Elisabeth!):
The highlight last month was: I finally- FINALLY – stopped letting, and I do mean letting, all of the little things get in the way of me concentrating on the book of poems I had been working on forever and worked on finish the first draft.
This month I want to feel more accomplished with the book and so far I am feeling really good with how far it has come compared to where I was at the beginning of the year. Hell, I am feeling really good with how far it has come compared to where I was at the beginning of last month.
I’ll be over the moon if by April I have it back from the editor so I can move on to the next step.
One thing I’ll regret not doing in March is not having the whole process completed so that I could have a physical hardcopy in my hands by April 1 which was my original goal date.
I want to give myself permission to not shoulder what is not mine to bear. Sometimes self-care means saying no loud and clear and not accepting feeling guilty for it.
If I get stuck I’ll remember that I do not have to do everything on my own. I do have resources and it is not a failure to use them.
It is scheduled to rain this afternoon. It was overcast by my home when I got on the train early this morning to come to work. Thus, I was delighted to see El Sol was out and about when I came up from the subway near my job.
It’s the little things that bring simple joys.
El Sol giving me giraffe legs.
The Commons around my job have wonderful landscapers. There are seasonal plantings: various florals in summer and autumn, lights for the December holidays. Yesterday afternoon when I left work this plant box still held winter evergreens. This morning I am greeted by this unofficial but oh so important harbinger of spring: tulip bulbs! So come on rain and help out. I now look forward to seeing this and other plant boxes throughout The Commons ablaze in colorful tulips n a couple of weeks.
Fellow Slice of Lifer, and friend in real life, GirlGriot recent posted a slice that touched on how classical music once felt “forbidding” to her. I partially understood that sentiment from the perspective of my enjoyment of thrash metal music, something that many still that think I as a 56 year black is crazy for it.
Popular television and cartoon shows were my earliest experience of classical music. I imagine like most inner city Americans over the age of 45, we likely first heard classical music, jazz standards and big band from classic Disney (“Fantasia”), Warner Brothers (Bugs Bunny), and Max Fleischer (Betty Boop) cartoons. There is a reason that for many, many, many years most Americans knew a particular piece of music not as the finale of the William Tell Overture, but only as the theme to The Lone Ranger.
Other than television shows and cartoons as a black inner city girl, born in the early 60’s my exposure to music primarily came from very specific sources: my mother’s record player that only played black gospel music as she did not approve of secular music; my southern grandmother’s radio which only played country music, and the radio that mostly played what was popular at the time (classic and soft rock, and of course disco). Songs on the radio were only heard at friends and neighbors homes as it was not allowed in mine. Everyone regardless of color/ethnicity listened to the same stations for popular music because it was all we had. Sans those who eschewed most secular music of course, what would eventually be dubbed urban (aka Black), adult contemporary radio had become the thing. From the mid-1970s, when such radio stations came into existence until the late 2000s, whether as a political statement or as personal choice, if you were black you mostly listened to 107.5 WBLS (contemporary and traditional R&B), and the now defunct 101.9 WQCD (contemporary jazz) and WKRS (dance, hip-hop and rap) stations.
Yes, they exposed Black-Americans to more or our own music and to artists who may have been marginalized and not broken through the glass ceilings of other (aka white) radio stations, but at the same time it bred a subculture that made it all but verboten to listen to, let alone enjoy, anything else. I distinctly remember standing in queue at a department during the holiday store happily singing along to Billy Joel’s “A Matter of Trust” on the PA system when I was asked why I was singing that and told I should not be supporting their music because “Listen, we don’t do that”.
Excuse me? Yeah, that conversation did not go down well for him at all, and thus the point I wanted to make.
GirlGriot had once felt listening to classical music forbidding. Her story is her own and I will let her tell it. In my case, classical music, world music, and the early emergence of metal were not things I listened to because I was not exposed to them. Though artists who had massive crossover appeal like U2, Eurythmics, Blondie, The Police, Culture Club and Wham! were notable exceptions. While radio stations such as WCBS (music from twenty years ago), WKTU (dance), and WLTW (soft rock and adult contemporary) that crossed genres and remained popular enough, in my then insular world where everyone mostly listened to Anita Baker, Public Enemy, and Michael Jackson on the radio I did not have regular exposure to Bach, Mozart and Rossini. Why? Though the words were rarely so blatantly spoken, other than the guy at the department store, it was implicit we don’t do that.
Then the advent of personal music players and MTV happened.
A co-worker was listening to this relatively new band on his Sony Discman. He was clearly enjoying the music, I asked for a listen. I was told I wouldn’t like, but I insisted. This most definitely would never be played on anything “urban.” I had never heard anything like it, yet I it felt lyrically and musically on a visceral level. I replayed the song and then listened to the remainder of the CD and was shooketh as the kids say now. I bought a copy for myself that same day.
I had just been introduced to four guys whose names were James, Kirk, Kurt and Lars. The song was “Master of Puppets”, the band was Metallica, and I have been a devotee of them ever since.
Still, for a while I felt I had to hide this new love, because we don’t do that. Then I remembered just how pissed I was at the department store guy who deigned to tell me what I should be listening to and stopped hiding it.
MTV introduced me to thrash metal, death metal and grunge by god I loved it. Come 2000, in the middle of the night MTV introduced me to a then little-known group called Linkin Park and I was shooketh once again. By then WWE was popular and my sons were as much into it as I because many of the popular wrestlers of the time made their entrances to the ring with rock and metal music. Because I listened to it and their heroes at the time listened to it, it never occurred to them that they couldn’t. Their generation was not coming up with the subculture of we do don’t do that musically. Their musical choices were as diverse theirs and theirs alone because of that exposure and I for was grateful.
My late-husband came home one afternoon while our sons and I were head banging in different rooms as we were spring cleaning. Every window was open, and Metallica’s “S&M (Symphony & Metallica)” CDs were on blast. We lived in a mostly Caribbean and Latinx neighborhood, he was shaking his head and laughing that he heard the music half a block away and knew it was our house before he pulled up to the curb. He walked up to me and yelled “You’re Black!” Because the cosmos indeed has a delicious sense of humor, his timing was perfect with the song that was playing, and I paraphrased the incoming chorus as I shrugged and sang “Where I play my songs is home!” and continued cleaning to Wherever I May Roam. Unlike the guy in the department store oh so many years ago I knew he was partially teasing because while he liked some rock, he was never a heavy/thrash metal music fan at all but was is his choice that he did not do that, not my sons and certainly not mine.
I was in my forties when I went to my first opera and my reawakening to pieces I didn’t realize I already knew thanks to cartoons. I made me search for more and yet a new musical interest in classical was sprung. It is not my strong suit as metal and R&B. Still, I enjoy it.
Though my first musical love remains Rock and Heavy Metal, they have happily shared space on my iPod with Country, Soul, Video Game Soundtracks, Jazz, Rap, Trance, Classic Rock, 80’s Hair Bands, 70’s horns, Blues, Pop, Movie Scores, Broadway Show tunes, TV Themes and so much more.
And all I had to do was be willing to listen beyond the forbidding listenwe don’t do that.
Someone had posted several images that had text in Spanish. I was able to to piece out the sentences on my own to get get the joke. However one of the phrases threw me. “¡más fuerte!” in English technically translates to “Stronger!” That was fine and all for the joke, but I was reasonably sure the person meant “Harder!” Now, I know the word ‘hard’ in Spanish is duro, but because my Spanish is horrible I decided to run the words through good old Google Translate.
Yeah… About that…
Anyone familiar with Google Translate understands that while you will get the literal translation of an individual word, but the exact meaning of sentences, phrases and especially colloquialisms can sometimes get lost in translation. To combat such Google will often offer alternatives of what it thinks you may be searching. Thus today’s slice…
First, I tried a Spanish to English translation of fuerte and was given the translation of ‘stronger’ which I expected. The fun arrived when I then switched it to translate from English to Spanish and entered the word ‘harder’. You can see the alternate suggestions in the screencap below:
Screencap of humorous, to me, Google Translate where one of the suggested phrases of what I might be searching for the word ‘harder’ is “harder daddy.”
I know the suggestions come from Google’s algorithms. These algorithms are based on the phrases most asked for by users. That it is the next suggested thing offer after the literal item to be translated means there are a considerable amount of “daddies” out there being asked to display a show a strength.
I am among the first people to arrive at my job in the mornings. Usually, there are one or two others on my side of the floor when I enter and all the lights are turned on.
Not this morning…
I was the first person in on my side of the floor today. This morning only bright daylight, yay longer days at last(!), and the emergency lights greeted me. It was an eerie sort of quiet and I liked it.
Still, knucklehead that I am all I could think of was:
it looked like a first-person shooter game where all is quiet before the zombies pop out of nowhere at any moment,
the chorus to the old Eric Carmen song “All By Myself” and
clearly I was in serious need of coffee.
My loneliness, and potential active zombie bait imagination, lasted all of maybe seven minutes before the next person arrived, breaking the spell.
My penchant for Verbal Diarrhea has reached a new high. Or is that an all-time low? You decide.
The Scene: Where a lot of my early morning pre-caffeinated colorful commentary is created – my morning commute on the subway:
The cast: Two women conversing a little louder than they realized. One nosy Raivenne.
ACTION!
Even through I am heavy metal head bopping to Anthrax on my iPod, my smut monitor suddenly pings loudly – to quickly eavesdrops when the word phallophilia is heard.
Wait… Whaaaat?
I mean it is 6:45 in the blessed morning – who says that? – I must have heard wrong, right? I reach in my pocket, press pause on my music and listen.
Oh hush! Most of you would have listened also for a moment also – don’t judge me!
Sure enough, the two women were indeed speaking on the attributes of a specific person they both knew. I was about to turn my music back up when one asked “Is there a technical word for getting your rocks off looking at dick imprints in grey sweatpants?”.
And I’ll be damned if my not-so-inner Luci-fer and her minions (Sarcasm Siren, Dirty-minded Diva, Verbal Virago et al), did not simultaneously enter my throat and vocalize.
“Medectophalia.” Spews out before I can think to stop myself. Worse, I say it loud enough, that even though I am not looking at them, the two women know it’s addressed to them.
“Sorry didn’t mean to listen in.” I quickly say as they both turn and look at me. Damn my mouth!
“What’s the word?” the one sitting closest to me asks.
Naturally, once those chicks open my mouth and drop the bomb, they immediately depart en masse leaving me holding the detonator. Bitches!
Oh, well – in for a pence, in for a pound. – is one of my many mottos for a reason as I go into pseudo professor mode.
“Medectophalia is a fetish: It is the excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire for viewing the underlying shape of the penis/labium in the crotch region of another person’s clothing. Otherwise known as getting one’s rocks off on moose knuckle and/or camel toe in Urban Dictionary lingo. Whereas the opposite, medectophobia, is the fear of such.”
Now, when I tell you I have NO idea where that bullshit came from, I mean it. While I know for fact medectoPHOBIA is a word, I had no idea whether medectoPHALIA existed.
Naturally, I hear those conniving inner bitches reappear as internal Greek Chorus applauding my aplomb. As always, I am both awed and appalled with how my mind works.
The two women and I then have a lively discussion of technical versus street slang terms we know until they disembark. I immediately Google Medectophalia only to discover the term does not exist.
* My not-so-inner demons and their minions chuckle darkly. *
Raivenne-lations 