A Modest Proposal

Another shooting incident. An enraged, delusional or just angry spouse killing his wife and her co-workers and other innocent bystanders. It just happened this past week. But that does not make for an unusual week.

Meanwhile we have male candidates for the United States Senate who state they will outlaw abortion even in the case of rape. Either because pregnancy does not result from rape because of miraculous female powers. Or because the pregnancy is “God’s will.”

 The latest bozo to make this type of proclamation, Murdoch in Indiana, says he has struggled to come to this conclusion about God’s will.  I suppose his thinking process has been a struggle. But I don’t imagine he has struggled as much or in the same way as a woman pregnant from rape has struggled.

I have no problem with Murdoch or Todd Aiken, the Missouri candidate who believes in miraculous sperm-killing vaginas, having their own opinions. Or their religious beliefs of any kind. So long as their beliefs do not impact other folks who do not have the same beliefs. I do have a problem with them trying to impose their non-science-based opinions on the rest of us.

Meanwhile, men have been running the United States for its entire history. And men have overwhelmingly been in control of most governments around the world since men began to write history. I know, that’s why it’s called “his story.”

Think about the facts. Helen of Troy notwithstanding, men start wars. Gun violence in this country overwhelming is propagated by males. Most violent crimes, rape, murder and mayhem, included, are perpetrated by men.

Men are about ten times more likely than women to commit murder. According to Bureau of Justice Statistics homicide trends (1976-2005), the vast majority of murders (felony, 93.2%: sex related,93.6%; drug related, 95.5%; workplace 91.3%; gun homicides, 91.%; multiple victims, 91.5%; multiple offenders, 91.6%) are committed by men. Rapes, violent robberies, assaults and mayhem overwhelmingly are committed by men.

When is the last time you read or heard of a disgruntled 58 year old “loner” female who decides to go on a gun shooting spree? Or a 20 year old schizophrenic woman shooting up a mosque, a movie theater or a market filled with families?

Occasionally a new mother with post-partum depression goes off the deep end and tries to kill herself. Maybe even her child. But she doesn’t try to take out the whole neighborhood. And violent women of any stripe are still an anomaly.  Despite some claims of a phenomenon of increasing numbers of “mean girls,” factual analysis demonstrates crime and violence among girls has plummeted. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/02/opinion/02males.html?_r=1

And also consider this factoid:  men are no longer necessary to the continuation of the human species.  Greg Hampikian, a professor of biology, and, incidentally, also of criminal justice, asks, “...does ‘mankind’ really need men?” His answer to that question is a resounding “no.” However, without women our species would be a goner. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/25/opinion/men-who-needs-them.html As the author points out, women not only are “necessary but sufficient for reproduction, and men are neither.”

So why are men making most of the decisions for the entire human population? Why are they toting the guns, deciding whom to bomb, and when and how to go to war?

Not for any rational reason. Women would be much more judicious in their use of force if statistical and past behavior is any predictor. Women also are more likely to look out for the family, the community, the rest of our species.

Consider a few examples. Women who are given control of family finances put their families, not their self interest first.  For example, in third world countries where families are living in extreme poverty, it’s not uncommon for many of the men to squander the little money they have on alcohol or drugs rather than food and education for their families.

I doubt Nicholas Kristof ever  advocated giving loaded guns to women. Nevertheless, he has written of a number of cases in which a family’s prospects turn around when women, given micro-loans or participate in micro-savings, are suddenly in charge of the family’s finances.

In an example he gives from Pakistan, a woman, whose husband had spent the family savings on narcotics and regularly beat her, started a number of businesses, one of which employed her husband. She then bought a home, and “put some of her children through high school — and a son, the brightest student, through college. She has just paid $5,800 for a permit for him to move to London to take a health sector job.” http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/opinion/14kristof.html

In a Kenya slum, where some estimate one third of the men spend what would feed and finance their children’s schooling, instead get drunk every night, a mother forced into prostitution by the husband who took a younger wife, turned her family’s prospects around by starting a sewing business. She then bought her family a small home and kept her two daughters and son in school where they excelled. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/15/opinion/kristof-sewing-her-way-out-of-poverty.html

You may think these are just anecdotes. But science supports that women’s responses to stress are not the same “fight or flight” often attributed to our species. Women’s responses instead appear to be “tend and befriend.”  And that difference is based in female vs. male biology.

http://www.nytimes.com/2000/05/19/us/scientists-find-a-particularly-female-response-to-stress.html

Women are inherently more concerned, both through body function and hormones (oxytocin creates bonding) with the greater good, protection of the family, the community and the species.

As the scientists found:

“…oxytocin, one of a cascade of hormones released in response to stress, appeared to play a central role in females’ response. Studies have linked oxytocin, which is produced during childbirth and nursing, both with maternal behavior and with social affiliation. And animals and people with high oxytocin levels, researchers have found are calmer, more social and less anxious.”

So why should women allow men to continue to call the shots, literally and figuratively? My modest proposal is that all weapons and decisions on dangerous armaments be handed over to the “fairer” sex around the world.

No, I’m not advocating women shoot all the men. Or that all women have guns. Rather my proposal is that women collectively take over control of weaponry. Together they can delegate gun toting and other weapons control and decisions to calm, trained peace officers. All of whom will be female.

The next time a man beats his wife, rapes a woman, or tries to start a war, a woman will be in control of the weapons, whether that means holding the  gun to bring the offender to justice or having their finger on the red button as the peace is negotiated.

I know this sounds a tad like an early “Star Trek” episode. The one where William Shatner is surrounded by beautiful Amazon women who have locked away most of the men and turned them into helpless slaves kept for the she-leader’s amusement and sexual gratification.

Locking away the men is not what I’m proposing.  The men in charge currently have done a good enough job of that to a disproportionate number of their own kind. I’m just suggesting men no longer be in control of weaponry. They have amply demonstrated many of them are not suited to the responsibility.

So next time weapons are to be wielded who do you want doing the wielding, someone with testosterone, the hormone often associated with aggression, coursing though his bloodstream in response to stress? Or a woman who is more likely to have oxytocin predominating in response to stress?

By the way, we may need biometric controls on the weaponry so that only females or persons with a preponderance of oxytocin are able fire that weapon.

NOTE: The author would not choose a world without men. She has many wonderful men in her life, including a loving husband of so many years she has lost count, two beautiful, strong and intelligent grown sons, a handsome and talented grandson (not to mention a beautiful and smart granddaughter) and also an amazing brother whom she is proud to call a best friend. I haven’t asked them, but I suspect they all would be happy to turn over any gun-toting obligations to responsible women.

Metamorphosis

Waking up after rotator cuff surgery is like nothing I’ve experienced. The doctor had told me I was a good candidate for the surgery. No major health issues. Otherwise strong and hearty. “Piece of cake,” he’d said, compared to other surgeries I’ve had: hysterectomy, and not the minimally invasive kind. Spinal surgery—that was the minimally invasive kind.

I’d also had bi-lateral carpal tunnel releases and a right elbow tendon release. Are you beginning to see a pattern here? Had I not listened when my mom said to go sit quietly with my hands folded in my lap? Actually she had never said that. It was my grade school nuns. And I guess I did not listen. Or else my body is just determined to wear out faster than a Fiat in the early days of manufacture. Maybe that’s it. When they were doling out tendons, muscles and spinal what-nots I got lemon parts. The bottom line though is I’ve had a few surgeries. Some major. And even some where I had to adjust to single-handed and left-handed living. So why did the recovery from rotator cuff surgery seem so different?

First, is the waking up feeling like a cockroach, on its back. Ah, Kafka must have had this surgery.

Strapped to my right arm was a contraption I’ll call it. That included a sling, which I’d expected. But Velcro-ed to the sling was an oblong pillow, with a blue tennis ball at the end. What’s up with that? Was that to tantalize me so I’d be motivated to follow instructions and recover enough to hit a killer overhead serve? Or was that the Doc’s “get even”? I’d made some bad joke on the way to the operating room about my overhead serve. Doc must not have thought it funny. OK. I’ve never had a killer overhead serve. Mostly I just tried to lob it over the net. And not in a long, long time.

Back to the contraption connected to my arm and upper body. Straps around my neck, around my waist and everywhere else. The pre-surgery instructions had said bring a big, loose shirt. I brought a men’s XL dress shirt. That was not big enough to put the sling-contraption through. So it sort of draped over my shoulders, with no bra underneath. Luckily I was sufficiently drugged I didn’t really care. But when I woke up enough to realize how I was dressed I was a bit horrified.

And then I realized the contraption, if I kept it on 24-7 as directed by the Doc’s instructions, would not allow me to actually cover my chest unless I resorted to a Halloween ghost costume:  a sheet with a head hole cut in it. We experimented with cutting up some of my husband's old t- shirts. They left big gaps. But they had the advantage of being in style as “oversized boyfriend wear.” Finally I could say I was on trend.

Then there were all the other rules. My husband had listened carefully to post-op instructions. While I had laid in a stupor of drugs after the surgery. I was supposed to always have my hand higher than my elbow. Except for the three times a day I was supposed to bend over and swing my arm like a pendulum. And my shoulder was supposed to always be at least at a 30 degree angle.

So I was supposed to sit in a recliner which created the correct angles and support. But the recliner was designed for a right-hander, with the handle on the right side. With the contraption on my right hand and upper body, my left hand could not come close to reaching the handle. And though I have reasonably long, strong legs, with the contraption and significant pain (did I mention the pain?) I could not maneuver the recliner open or closed. Of course, my husband was willing to assist but that meant he could not leave the room in case I needed to get out of the chair, say at any time over the night. Which is where the instructions suggested I sleep.

At some point I discovered I could hop out of the open recliner and then hop back in. the instruction sheet did not have any prohibitions on hopping. But I imagine that's only because they had not thought of it. 

So why was I so poorly prepared for this cockroach-like existence after surgery? Well, for one thing I had thought I was only having a bone spur near my rotator cuff removed. Not a tear in the cuff itself repaired. I had been experiencing pain in my right shoulder for over four years.

Here’s how it began. Several years ago, on a fateful, fall day I was walking our two dogs and they both spotted squirrels to chase. In different directions. I’d gone to the Doc who dutifully examined my shoulder and listened to my tale. And recommended an MRI. Since my insurance had changed to, what is it you call the Cheapskate Plan? Oh, “consumer-driven”.

So as the consumer, driven by cost-saving, I decided I knew better than the orthopedic specialist whether I needed an MRI. Instead of an MRI I consented to the much cheaper x-ray. Which showed a large bone spur sitting right next to my rotator cuff.

I tried cortisone shots, physical therapy, new dog leashes, and a lot of aspirin. Nothing made the pain go away. After about four years of consumer-driven cost-savings, I opted for surgery to remove the bone spur, not knowing the spur, plus dog pulling, already had torn my rotator cuff.

So I went into the surgery, as a result of my own stupidity, ill-informed of the extent the surgery, the pain, or the recovery would ultimately involve. The pain I’ve been able to handle much better than I’m handling the contraption.

I’m grateful the Doc was able to fix the cuff at the same time he removed the spur. I just wish he had told me about how awkward and uncomfortable the contraption would be. And that his office had provided some post surgery clothing guidance that did not leave me as uncovered as women who get paid to show off their chests.

But I May Be: Over the Hill, That Is

Sorry for the silence from here. I've been working on left-handed typing, and all things one-handed. Following rotator cuff surgery this week.

I promise a complete report on latest developments as soon as I master some one-left-hand techniques.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:Did you know left-handers are the last minority still discriminated against with virtual impunity?

Not Yet Over the Hill

Bob Dylan is as much a part of the background music of our life as any musician. He regularly plays on our iPods, satellite radio, computers, and even on old-fashioned record albums in vinyl or on CD. On Sunday night we saw Bob Dylan perform at the PNC Pavilion in Cincinnati. Hearing his music and vocals on any of those media does not match his live performance.

But first, I must mention the icon, Leon Russell, who to the delight of the crowd, opened for Dylan. Russell energetically sang and played piano from his extensive repertoire.

Unfortunately, the PNC Pavilion suffers from acoustic problems and Russell’s excellent renditions were muffled by the time they reached us back in section 202. We have experienced the same musical muffling at this venue with a variety of other musicians. The sound seems to improve only outside the Pavilion, near the restrooms where you can no longer see the stage.

Dylan and his band were in good voice and performed with enthusiasm and clear sound. Dylan even sang with a surprisingly clear, non-guttural voice.  The highlight of Dylan’s 17 song performance, including one encore, for me was “Blind Willie McTell.”  My husband, a true Dylan fanatic, while also happy to hear “Blind Willie,” thought other highlights were “Visions of Johanna” and the revised lyrics to “Tangled Up in Blue.” He, and much of the crowd also relished shouting “No” when Bob sang, “You think I’m over the hill. You think I’m past my prime.” Indeed with Bob’s posturing and prancing throughout he proved he was neither.

The crowd was the usual Dylan-mix of aging baby boomers and young folks, who gave every indication of enjoying the show. But one baby boomer, gray-haired and attired in casual, yet dapper clothes, caught my eye in the midst of all sorts of behaviors and dress. Apparently he simply was unable to contain his dance steps while the music was playing. At one point, the gentleman, while standing in the wide corridor in front of our section was asked by security to return to his seat. Channeling Gene Kelly, without the rain or umbrella, he gracefully danced his way back to his row.

Dylan’s sound technicians evidently have mastered the acoustical challenges at the Pavilion. His performance was excellent, with none of the muffled, shushy sounds we have heard previously. I only wish the PNC Pavilion sound technicians would find out Dylan’s solution so in the future other performers too might avoid the annoying muffling sounds associated with that venue.

Dylan, singing and playing the harmonica, was joined by the McCrary Sisters, four female vocalists, as he ended with “Blowing in the Wind.”

All told, the evening was a delightful way to remind yourself just how talented Dylan, the so-called “Prophet of his generation,” actually is. We had a “whoppin’ good time.”

Not a Crotchety Doctor But Still Brilliant

So here is the first follow-up to how we were surprised by two of our “family room acquaintances.”

We’ve had Hugh Laurie on our TV so often over the past few years as Dr. Gregory House on the now-ended TV show named for the crotchety, but brilliant medical diagnostician that we hardly expected him to sing or play music. So it was a delightful surprise to hear how well he sounded when we heard him perform.

Friday night we saw and heard Hugh Laurie and the Copper Bottom Band, his six person back-up, perform New Orleans-style jazz and old-time music. What a treat. Laurie demonstrated not only his musical and vocal talents but also comic timing and the ability to captivate a live audience for well over two hours on stage at the Singletary Center at UK in Lexington Ky.

The stage was set as if it were your Great Aunt Nelly’s living room.  With lamps covered by shades askew, cloths draped over the pianos and tables, and an old-fashioned chandelier, you immediately felt as if you were in Nelly’s living room. That is, along with a few thousand of your closest friends and family.

Laurie sang, played piano and guitar. He was supported by a vocalist, an upright bass player, a percussionist who gave a fair impression of a one-man band, a keyboard player, as well as one musician, who, in Laurie’s words, played “blowy instruments” and another who played all manner of “plucky instruments.”  The music brought the audience members to their feet numerous times in delight.

Laurie also told tales of his motorcycle ride earlier that day from L’avul (the only time he departed from his native British accent) to Lexington, complete with a wrong turn where he found himself in a self-storage complex with gates that locked behind him. He credited his escape to the motorcycle dealer in the audience who had lent him the Harley.

Laurie also delighted the audience with reminiscences of his piano lessons as a child. Lessons focused primarily on posture and practices of songs “intended to destroy” any child’s incipient love of music. Except for one song, “Swanee River” which the teacher decided to skip. Thank goodness Laurie and his band did not make the same mistake. They rocked a wicked boogie-woogie version to the sold-out crowd.

If you have an Aunt Nelly in Louisiana who invites world class musicians to her parlor by all means skip Hugh Laurie’s tour. Otherwise, check out the tour’s schedule and get to the next performance anywhere near you. That’s as close as you will get to having Hugh Laurie and his world-class band perform in your living room.

You can read in Laurie’s own words about his inspiration to immerse himself in the music of the American south at http://hughlaurieblues.com/about.htm

 

A Couple of Familiar Faces

When someone regularly is in your family room you tend to take them for granted. Then when you see them out and about you may either remember, or discover, just how talented they are. In the next two posts I will tell about two concerts by  performers whom I recently saw with fresh eyes.

Time for a Change: Pink Paws Anyone?

It’s been over fifteen years since we redecorated. OK. Closer to twenty. The love seats in the living room are fraying and starting to remind me of an old person’s house.  Where they have such old, out-of-date styles and worn furniture that you know they never invite company and don’t really look at their surroundings any more. Or maybe they just can’t see and don’t really care. 

So we began the big redecorating event. Before I even get to the pink paint paw prints all over, let’s just say it has been an adventure.

First getting fabric samples for the love seats. Endlessly.  

Phase1: I had this idea of Hawaiian prints. We lugged home and looked through fabric samples of tropically-themed prints. Seemed like a good idea. In this digital age it also seemed someone should be able to show us photos of what our love seats would like covered in splashy tropical prints. I sure didn’t want to repeat my late ‘70’s decorating fiasco of orange mushroom wallpaper all around the kitchen.  

I found a design store that employed a youngster who said she could send me photos of what our love seats would look like. Only problem was it took her about two weeks to respond to my emails. And then my emails to her started to be “postmaster returned.” I guess she did not survive employment in the brutal world of decorating design. And her employer was not any more adept than she had been. We were not ready to start all over again with another clueless youngster. 

Phase 2. I looked online at photos of couches in tropical prints. Thank goodness. What a disastrous decorating idea that would have been. Big splashy floral prints all over two matched love seats, totally covered in fabric. I quickly filed that idea with the rejects.  

Phase 3. More fabric books, this time in neutrals. Directly from an upholstery re-covering store. Or maybe it’s us who are recovering, as they say about other types of mental and physical problems. Nevertheless, we decided we would do our own design work and save money. And we didn’t need to wait two weeks for comments from someone who was likely to be fired next week. Three trips back and forth with fabric samples and we settled on a fabric. The couches were picked up.  

The living room now was nearly empty and it was time to get on with the painting. Also time to pick paint colors.  I bought a few accent pillows and silk flowers to help select a wall color. Time for everything else in the living room to be packed away. Soon the painting would begin.  

You may think now is time you will learn clever tricks on how to decorate with painted paw prints? But no. You have to wait for the mauve paint for that part of the story. We picked a neutral wall shade for the living room. The painting stage had begun. 

But it is time to tell you more about the dog, an aging sheltie.  Like any sensible senior citizen who likes his house undisturbed, he was not happy with the redecorating. And that’s not surprising. His hearing is shot. Or else his dementia has reached the stage he no longer responds to verbal cues. His eyesight too is pretty much gone. And his hips are weak. But his one good sense, smell, is still working. And he could smell trouble. So he responded with his only real remaining communication method to show his displeasure. He christened the living room carpet. Oh well, the carpet needed a good cleaning too. 

Final phase. Do something with the dining room. Two decades ago when we bought our house, the living room and dining room were decorated with the help of a designer with a vision. Vast sweeps of mauve in different tonal depths, strips of floral wallpaper to highlight, and swaths of busy floral fabrics in mauve with blue undertones were the essence of that designer’s vision. And in his defense I should say mauve was sort of in style. And we had no clue what we wanted.  

Now I knew I wanted anything but mauve. But here we were in the dining room that had sort of matched the living room.  With the busy, florally-mauve window toppings and wallpaper trim, mauve walls that were old, faded and especially dirty from several dogs over the years taking the dining room as their favorite sleeping spot. The latest dog being the elderly sheltie who refused to sleep anywhere but on the hardwood floor of that room, with his back against the deep mauve wall. At least he is mostly blind and can’t be blamed for choosing this as his bedroom. 

After months of agonizing over redecorating the living room, we had forgotten about the need to make some selections for the dining room.  The painter had practically been living with us for the last month. He could strip the wallpaper and spend another few weeks painting coat upon coat of new paint over the old, dark mauve to lighten up the room. But then we’d also need to do something different with the windows. And I haven’t even mentioned how long it took to select and order window toppings for the living room. We decided in ten minutes to just re-paint the dining room mauve. After all, how often did we entertain? And the dog would only be kept out of his favorite room one day and night. Or so we thought. 

I was making some banana bread in the kitchen when the cry went up. “Quick. Catch the dog!”  The painter had not yet started painting. So no barriers were up. He had just placed the paint tray with the light mauve on the floor. The dog could not stand without assistance. Or so we thought. What were the chances the aging dog would get in the paint?  Well, the odds are really irrelevant when it happens.  

Luckily, three aging adults (the painter, my husband, and I) were faster than one aging sheltie. We caught him before he hit the carpet.  

At first we thought some wet paper towels would clean the paint off his paws. After we tried wet paper towels and released the dog, he was still leaving pink paw prints everywhere. Have you ever noticed how close light mauve is to pink? Well, it is on hardwood floors.  My long-suffering husband scooped the dog up and deposited him in the yard. After thoroughly hosing and wiping the dog’s paws, and seeing the water finally run clean we let the dog dry outside.  The painter mopped up the tracks.

Thereafter, a baby gate closed off one door to the dining room. And a large buffet chest on wheels blocked the other entrance. The dog paced. 

As promised, however, the painting was quickly completed. And our sheltie finally settled down. That night when we went to look for the dog to help him get up and go out for his nightly yard visit, to our surprise, he again somehow had defied our expectations. He had maneuvered his way into what we now call “the mauve room” and was lying in his favorite spot up against the wall. But it was no problem. As the painter had promised, this was quick-drying paint.

We all are glad we had gone with one coat, even if it is mauve. I think our re-decorating is finished for 2012. Probably we also are finished with redecorating for the rest of this decade and the next. By then, if we are still around, we will be in our 80’s and no longer care. And, who knows, maybe mauve will be back in style.