It’s so sexy, in fact, that my level of disinterest is almost shocking. I’m feeling a bit under the weather myself, which somehow puts me out of commission for the next…oh…four to six weeks, so don’t even bother trying, Mister. Just look the other way. Like, in the direction of Naughty America.

Is a certain part of my brain malfunctioning or am I just from Mars?

Three years ago today, we flew to Chicago to meet Ruby. The delayed flight certainly added to our anticipation and also, the agony of our wait. Out of the (mere) 7 months that our adoption process took before our match, it was this last 36 hours before we held our daughter that were the most wrenching. Knowing she was a she—that she was no longer a hypothetical it, but an actual daughter , out there waiting—was excruciating. It was exhausting. It was thrilling. We couldn’t get to her fast enough.

Being a parent, as I said in an email to a friend yesterday, is like being perpetually suspended in the first stages of romantic love. I wrote, “You’re awed by every utterance, can’t wait to find out more about that person, think they may perhaps be the most perfect person to walk the planet, you want to kiss up on ‘em constantly, stare at ‘em for hours on end—even when they’re sleepin’ and you miss ‘em terribly when you’re not in their presence.”

Adopting Ruby was—and I believe I can safely speak for Sam, here—the best thing we’ve ever done. Without question.

And someone tell me, please: What would a photo of our first morning with our baby be if we didn’t have a perfect pair of breasts watching over us from above?

Ah, karma. She works in not-so-mysterious ways. Yesterday, I drove North to meet friends for lunch at the Stone Brewery in Escondido (if you’re local and you haven’t been, you should high tail it up there). Sam and I were deep in discussion about my last column, about The Idler, about the amazing discourse taking place in the comments section and how I was still working on an appropriate response. It dawned on me as we passed Carlsbad that, Oops! Thanks to my intense concentration on the topic, I’d gotten on the wrong freeway and ended up taking a twenty-mile detour. I might as well have left my car idling in a parking lot. So there’s my hypocrisy laid bear for all you nay-sayers.

Speaking of The Idler, let’s talk about him: A number of people have given this guy a hall pass for his behavior and I couldn’t disagree more with this tack (though I fully support the expression of all opinions here). That he’s getting any sympathy for his actions is baffling to me and is very telling about how far we have to go down the rabbit hole of American gluttony before people are going to pull their heads out of their asses. Will $8 a gallon be the magic number to give Americans pause? But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me start with simpler things.

A couple of people sided with the plight of the canine and I get that. I’m with you. Sort of. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to this guy’s dog. But a point that everyone seems to have missed—which is my fault for not writing a more cohesive piece—is that the driver left his car on with the air conditioning running AND his driver side window rolled down half-way, for more than thirty minutes. Sure, each thing individually might be innocuous enough (I’m being generous). It’s the sum of the parts which is greater than the whole.

I ask you, thinking people everywhere: What is the point? Would you not consider this wasteful and irresponsible? In the same vain/vein (whatever) I sat in my car with the windows down for nearly fifteen minutes waiting for him and I didn’t overheat or die. There was actually a nice cross breeze. So I think it’s safe to say that the dog would have been fine if her owner had just left all four windows down half-way.

Of course, he could have also chosen to leash his dog to a bike rack outside of Ralph’s or wherever. I can hear a chorus of people now saying, “But wait! Leash the dog to a bike rack? She could be stolen!” To which I say, she couldn’t be any more stolen than if the car itself had been stolen. I mean, the keys were in it, after all.

Also, for the record, I didn’t choose this topic because it would “jazz things up” for my paper. That isn’t how I write and anyone who has been reading me for any length of time would know this about me. I chose it because, yes, it really did bother me this much and I have something to say about it that I think needs to be said. I gambled that I wasn’t alone on this one and I was right. (For some amazing and eloquent insights, go back and see what Scott has added. He said much of what I’m trying to say, only he said it better and may, in fact, end up with my columnist’s position.)

That I get published in a small alt-weekly in a conservative town is a gift for which I am very grateful. Luckily, my editors allow me free reign in the subject matter department and I pick my topics by what moves me. And this topic? Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Folks, this guy wasn’t dropping his wheelchair bound grandma off at her physical therapy appointment. He was shopping. The All-American patriotic past-time! And he was at it for a looooooong time. I submit that if someone isn’t at least a little bit aghast at a driverless vehicle idling for more than thirty minutes, they’re not paying attention.

Look, as I see it, this is about a socially unacceptable behavior with one person as a representative example for the (too) many others just like him. And I don’t view this behavior as inappropriate because I want to “get on that bandwagon” or because “[i]t’s the hip, cool thing to do” as Christina said in the comments section. Sure being “green” may be the hip, cool thing to do and if that’s what it takes to get people to think about their place on this earth, then so be it.

But for me, it’s the right thing to do and that is a major difference. Sort of like treating others like you wish to be treated. Gandhi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world” and that’s a mantra I try to incorporate into my personal value system. Am I perfect at living this belief? Hell no, nor do I claim to be (see opening paragraph or the names I flung at the Idler in my column). But I also try to make my choices in life with thoughtfulness as to how I impact others and how I would feel if I were in those shoes over there. I believe that we humans have a moral obligation to take care of each other and our planet, and the attitude that those of us who are trying to make some changes are simply sticking our fingers in the air to see which way the wind is blowing, is a cynical and hopeless view, a symptom of what is dreadfully askew with our American culture.

Christina also said (and I paraphrase), Meh! What difference can one person make? Look at China! Indeed, Christina, do you mean the China that is busy pouring toxins into the air while making all of the many, many goods to sate the seemingly bottomless appetite Americans have for cheap shit? Like all of the many toys American children play with and their sippy cups and their Snack-Traps and their Diaper Genies and their hair clips and their sun glasses and their beach pails and their toothbrushes and their hideous Crocs (another affront to humanity)? Oh, and don’t forget the charms to adorn the Crocs! Is that the China you’re citing in your example? The same China that makes our flatware and our dishes and our clothes and cell phones and garden tools and furniture and bedding and vibrators and shall I go on? Right. That China. We fiend for it, they deliver it.

The thing is, we are all interconnected (Mother Jones had a great piece on China last December, about how we’ll sink or swim with ‘em, for anyone who has some serious time and a couple doses of Prozac to follow it) and therefore, any amount of change coming from individuals adds up, in either direction.

Ultimately, I’m talking about a change in behavior that, if we don’t choose to make it, will be forced upon us and is, in fact, being forced right now as much as The Idlers of the World don’t wish to see it. Which brings me back to the $8 a gallon question from earlier.

Americans are struggling to make ends meet as gas prices go higher and higher. There will be no more “Sunday drives” for Americans because we can’t afford it financially. Forget about whether we can afford it environmentally. The good old-fashioned family road trips to the Grand Canyon? Thing of the past. Hell, summer vacation is off the calendar for many families who are now having to choose between a trip or dinner on the table.

The government subsidized airlines are cutting back yet again, eliminating routes, charging now for a checked bag and booking trips with frequent flier miles. This mode of travel is becoming increasingly out of reach for average Americans—back to it’s roots, one could say, when air travel was solely for the upper classes—many of whom live far away from family and who depend on flying to reconnect. People are beginning to take more trains at the same time the railways are experiencing cutbacks.

Christina said that we need the government to step in and regulate this change with laws and treaties but, with all due respect, that’s a cop-out of the it’s-not-my-problem magnitude. What about personal responsibility? Not to mention that governmental leadership (oxymoron) isn’t the way change starts, certainly not when government and big oil are in bed together. No. Change comes from the people and generally from the wealthiest people, which, comparatively speaking, Americans are. It is our moral obligation as the wealthiest people on earth with the most access to…everything, to lead by example and be the change we wish to see in the world.

Change is hard. It hurts. We’re addicted to our way of life, to the convenience of things and the myriad choices and the creature comforts to which we feel entitled. And most of us don’t want to give up the luxuries we’ve become used to in lieu of inconvenience. Some of us are so resistant that we refuse to acknowledge there is anything wrong with certain behaviors (i.e. The Idler). But change is coming at us whether we want to embrace it or not. And while we haven’t been asked to make any sacrifices, we will have to start making them because our way of life as we know it is simply not sustainable.

And so, The Idler: He had several choices, and he chose the most convenient one for him, with complete disregard for anything beyond the tip of his nose. He was wrong and I do question and judge his behavior out here in the open. I do not apologize for it.

Oh. And to Ed, fellow CityBeat columnist and vociferous rabble-rouser: Seriously? Hiding cigarette butts from your wife by throwing them out the window. I’ll curse you on my next beach clean up. Damn it, Ed. I’ll curse you here as well: You’re an ass. (Said with utmost love and respect.) You’re a lovable ass, but an ass nevertheless.

I headed into the La Jolla Ralphs to pick up a fruit tray for a work potluck I’d forgotten about in the giant wake of planning a 3-year-old’s birthday party. Despite my rush, I lingered in the store; I shop at Windmill Farms, so I felt like a simple girl from Kansas whose black and white country house had just been plunked down in the middle of Technicolor Times Square. Who knew they sold hardback books in there?!? Quickly convinced that Ralphs had everything, I actually began looking for Munchkins because, seriously: What better way to alleviate the inherent discomfort of an office party than with a performance by representatives of The Lollipop Guild? Way more palliative than sliced kiwi or mango, if you ask me.

But after touching all the shiny things in Aisle 9, I focused on my original task, found what I’d come for and clicked my heels together until I was back at my car where the extra-loud fan was still humming.

I started the ignition, opened the sunroof and windows and then had the horrifying realization that, Hey! That’s no fan! That bitch is running! I looked at the clock. It was 11:15. I squinted to see if somehow I’d overlooked a person inside. Maybe there was a baby strapped in somewhere? I couldn’t believe it. I had to know for sure if the engine was on.

I got out of my car—shutting it off first—walked up to the vehicle and leaned my ear toward the hood. Yup. It was on, and so was the AC. I moved to the passenger side, saw keys dangling from the ignition and a Black Lab-ish doggie in the driver’s seat. She lifted her head to look at me. I waved at her. And then went back to my car where I waited like a jealous girlfriend ready to set shit on fire.

I waited because I couldn’t live the rest of my life unless I knew what this believer in Michael Crichton science looked like. I needed to see the enemy.

As the minutes crept by, and as my party offerings began to ferment in the sun, I thought about the reporter from Channel 8 News who’d approached me the day before while I was gassing up. He wanted reactions to The King’s request that Congress lift the ban on off-shore drilling as a means of giving relief to working Americans, yada yada. He wondered whether I’d be willing to speak on camera. I stood contemplating his request, my little hybrid surrounded by three obscenely giant trucks. Nah, I told him. I don’t think so. But good luck.

I didn’t speak to him because I can’t stand to be taken out of context, and that has been my experience with speaking on camera. But had I done so, I would have told him that I thought George W. Bush should just stop talking now. It’s time. We’ve heard quite enough of his drill here and cut down that and they hate us for our freedom. I wanted to tell him that this false fix was on par with the blood money the government sent many of us this spring. I wanted to tell him that rising fuel prices, as much as they hurt, is exactly what needs to happen and that the real solution lies with Americans finally making the hard choices.

But we’re still comfy at more than $4 a gallon, and the choice seems to be: Stay the course. I keep hearing people bitch about the cost of gas while I also keep seeing brand-new monster-sized cars on the road. I stumbled upon a blog recently whose author featured excited posts about her new minivan. This car joins her other family car, “a big Dodge 2500.” She needed this second vehicle because she’s a mom (of one) and minivan = responsible.

Even more obtuse than her minivan pros (“The windows in the back roll down, like normal windows now! No more are they sealed shut, or puny little vents.”) and cons (“They’re uuuuuugly on the outside. And, you look like a dork from the outside.”) were the comments from readers, every single one cheering her on, obliviously singing the praises of their giant MPVs with multiple television screens.

People: Get over yourselves and rein it in just a bit.

It’s not so much irresponsible as it is reprehensible to drive economically and environmentally ridiculous vehicles while young Americans are fighting and dying and losing limbs and brain function and eyesight in a war that is in part—if not completely—about oil. Dare I say it’s amoral to do so at a time when our climate is drastically changing as a result of what we carelessly pour into the air because gaaawd forbid should Toto have to sit in the car with the windows rolled down, and, well, fuck you, Mother Earth—and future generations, while we’re at it.

Which brings me back to the arrogant ball of earwax who left his car running while he went to Pilates or Jamba Juice or Trader Joe’s or whatever for more than 30 minutes.

At 11:28, Mister I-have-an-excruciatingly-small-penis-let-me-wag-it-in-your-face came sauntering up to his idling wagon of overcompensation. He was on his cell phone. He was 40-ish, blonde, good-looking in a mocking sorta way. Wearing a black tee, blue gym shorts and a weathered blue ball cap that said “R-NY” in red letters, he instantly reminded me of the bully in high school who used to steal candy from the neighborhood kids.

I’d like to say I gave the man an informed and thorough tongue-lashing. But for once, I was speechless. I was stunned to silence as I watched him open the driver side door—the window of which was rolled down, by the way—get in, throw the car in reverse and drive off like it wuddn’t no big thang.

Evidently, it’s no cost to him, leaving the engine running. And he could give a rat’s ass about what it costs the rest of us.

(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)

You’re in a bookstore. You see stacks and stacks of books, but one in particular catches your eye. Something about the title. You’re intrigued. You pick the book up, open it, and read the first paragraph. Now you’re hooked. What is the title of the book and what did the first paragraph say?

Ten minutes or less.
250 words or less.
Okay.
Go.

The Round House

Gavin didn’t bother to slice a piece of the cake for himself. It was past midnight, he was hungry and since he planned to toss the thing in the garbage in the morning anyway, he figured, what’s the point? He reached for one of the two forks in the dish rack and turned his attention to the Bundt cake Chloe had made earlier that afternoon. She hadn’t stopped baking since the day Ben died. The house had filled up with all the food brought by cautious neighbors and then, little by little, with blackberry scones, raspberry fudge, lemon bars, snickerdoodles, lady fingers, apple tart tartin, chocolate angel food cake, and peanut butter cookies. Really, it had all started with the peanut butter cookies. Gavin had tried, but it didn’t matter what he said. He couldn’t get Chloe to stop with the peanut butter cookies. Or any of it, for that matter. She was baking away her grief and now, here he stood in the dark, wearing only his boxers, ravenously eating chunks of the chocolate cake, swallowing her sorrow crumb by crumb.

]]> http://www.aarynbelfer.com/2008/06/its-been-three-years-already.html/feed http://www.aarynbelfer.com/2008/06/its-never-too-early-to-have-self-esteem.html http://www.aarynbelfer.com/2008/06/its-never-too-early-to-have-self-esteem.html#comments Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:12:01 +0000 Aaryn http://www.aarynbelfer.com/?p=488 I’ve been a little overwhelmed here lately, which is part of the reason it’s been so tumbleweedy in these parts. Overwhelmed, and also quite a bit sick of myself. Aren’t all of you sick of myself, too? I certainly wouldn’t blame you. Nevertheless, I’m pushing past it.

And so: A story.

Ruby had her first hair cut on Friday the 13th. I don’t know what the big deal is with that date; I always have such great Friday the 13ths. Sure, this one was a particularly bad one if you were Tim Russert. But lucky for me, I wasn’t and I’m not and so my Friday the 13th, 2008 was lovelier than any other day of the week leading up to it.

So there we were in the hair salon where Amber, my stylist, sat Ruby atop two stacked bundles of towels and tipped her head back into the u-shaped lip of the sink. Ruby rolled with it like an old pro, not saying a word—just giving into it—while Amber began to wet and then wash her hair, massaging first the shampoo and then conditioner into her scalp. I think this kid will be quite at home in the salons of the world.

I stood to the side while Amber used her knuckles to knead Ruby’s head. Her curls—stretched long and drenched in bubbles—spiraled with the running water and stuck to the sides of the sink bowl, fanning out behind her in rippling waves. Each blink of her eyelids slowed until she was nearly catatonic. From my hovering view, Ruby looked as though her eyes were closed but with her head tilted slightly to the right, she was peering down her nose, watching everything in the mirrored wall across the room.

She was quiet except for when I moved to kiss her and blocked her line of sight. She scolded me and waved me away with a fling of her right arm and returned to staring at herself, taking big, silent breaths, her nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. Then, without moving her eyes from herself, she exhaled to the rhythm of Amber’s handiwork and said, “I’m beaUUUtiful, Mama.” The nearly-whispered words floated on her sigh in such a delicate way as to make me wonder if they’d actually been spoken. But they had been. And they captured perfectly the ecstasy I feel when I stare at her lovely face.

“That’s right, baby,” I said. “You are beautiful. And don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The last thing I saw was rain. Or drops of it, anyway. I mostly remember one sparkling bead shivering on the green tip of the yellow-veined magnolia leaf. Since then, it’s only been rings and splashes of the fireworks behind my eyelids and even still when I open them wide. I see no specific shapes or faces I recognize or the wink from daddy or the familiar loping gait of momma when she approaches with the salve. I’m starting to know her by smell, instead. Sometimes, if I concentrate extra hard, I swear I can make out a ghost in lace but I’ve mostly stopped trying. Instead, I dive toward this new blackness to see what’s in there, feeling like I have no tether to the periwinkle stars that engulf me. I’m floating and I’m terrified. But I’m thrilled and excited all the same.