Sharp Memories

LOL. I was looking for a picture about how scary knives are in the kitchen...but I was being very careful not to google search any terms that would bring up graphic pictures that would scare the bejesus out of me. This was one of the first ones that popped up and it's actually perfect. Whew.

Knives terrify me. Not just big, scary, hunting knives. But even little weenie kitchen knives. I don't know where my knife obsession started. I think I've been scared of knives as long as I can remember.

My family tells stories. We are a family of story tellers. Sometimes I remember the story vividly because I was there, but sometimes I remember the story vividly because I've heard it so many times that it feels like I was there. Sometimes I can't remember if I was there or not, but I've heard the story so many times it doesn't really matter.

My Grandma Gatlin was a complicated lady. But one thing for sure was that she was a clumsy, blundering oaf with a wicked sense of humor (when she wasn't being flat out wicked). Some of my favorite ridiculous stories are of her in her essence, just being her. One of those stories involves knives. I wasn't there; I think it happened before I was born. But as the story goes, she got a new set of knives. She was excited and bragging about them (as she was wont to do). She held up the box to show them off and she happened to be holding the box upside down and the knives came tumbling out and into her feet. Ouch. But also? Sorta hilarious. Maybe that's where my fear of knives started, but I'm not sure.

I remember being younger and trying to help cook. The knives always scared me. I'd have visions of me slicing off my fingers on accident. I still have visions of doing that. I am a lot like my Grandma Gatlin (hopefully nicer). I could never be one of those chefs that chop things a thousand miles a minute. I shudder just thinking about it.

When I see those minimalist knife strips in people's kitchens I purposely go NOWHERE near them. I'm always afraid they'll fall off and slice my feet off. Dear god I would never have one of those in my kitchen. Nightmare.

My first partner was an alcoholic. I've dated several alcoholics. Alcoholism runs through my mom's family like blood runs through everyone else's. It was my first serious adult relationship. It was also my first out lesbian relationship. She was and is a good person; we are still in contact. She was also a crazy alcoholic. I was with her for three years but had been breaking up with her continually for the last two. I'd break up with her and kick her out. She'd beg for me to take her back. She'd wear me down because I was too busy, too crazy, too emotionally underdeveloped to keep saying no. Things continued to get worse and worse. I continued to get meaner and meaner. I didn't know how else to convince her to stay away. We would scream horrible things at each other when she was drunk and me at her while she was hungover. She was habitually losing or quitting her job and I was the one who managed our finances.




One night she had plans with her asshole friends. I hated her friends and they hated me. Our relationship was truly dysfunctional. I gave her $20 for the night and a new pack of cigarettes (she was also a smoker). I was studying for finals (I was in my MPH program at the time). She came home that night drunk and belligerent. She came into the office where I was studying and demanded I give her money so she could go buy more cigarettes. I said no way. How she had smoked 20 cigarettes and spent $20 in 4 hours was not my business. She'd have to wait until tomorrow. She was pissed. She kept trying to argue with me. I told her to shut up and leave me alone because I was busy. This went on for several minutes. I was getting more and more angry that she would not shut up and just go pass out in bed. She came over to where I was sitting and drunkenly tried to grab my book that I was studying from. She missed and clumsily punched me in the jaw. It didn't really hurt, but in my anger and frustration and years of being worn down, I snapped. I jumped up and pinned her against the wall and told her she better never lay a hand on me. She lost it. She was kicking me in the shins and shrieking. I let her go. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone and turned and hurled it at me in the doorway. The dogs scattered. I told her to calm the fuck down. She was absolutely hysterical at this point. Screaming and crying and threatening. She walked over to the sink and leaned against it. Then she started grabbing knives from the knife block and hurling them at me like she was a ninja or something. Luckily she was so very very drunk. I strode across the room dodging her knives and grabbed her by the waistband of her jeans and dragged her to the front door. I opened it, threw her on the porch, closed and locked the door. She stood outside screaming that she was going to call the police and press charges.

I called first.

They came and found her hiding in the bushes at the neighbors house with a steak knife. They arrested her and took her to jail. This was not the first time I had called the cops or the first time she had been taken away. But it was the first time they took her to jail. Previously they had taken her to the local public hospital and locked her in the psych ward until she sobered up. And because she didn't have insurance they would let her out the next day and tell her to follow up with a therapist for treatment. She never did. And we'd start the cycle back over. But this time she went to jail. I didn't actually want her to go to jail. I wanted her to move out and stay out. I wanted her to go to rehab. But mostly I just wanted her out of my life. I bailed her out the next day on the promise that we were absolutely and positively done this time. I had a temporary restraining order against her mandated by the judge until her hearing. A month later, she was still out of my life and walked into court and I dropped all charges. The DA's office tried to bully me into not dropping them. But I knew jail wasn't going to do her any good. She needed rehab and it wasn't going to happen there. She went to rehab many times after that, and then was arrested many years later and spent some time in jail. She got sober for good then. Maybe I should have pressed charges and she would have gotten sober earlier. Or maybe she wasn't ready and it wouldn't have mattered. She's sober now. And her life is good. She's good person.

The knife block stayed. Her dogs stayed. I had 4 dogs and me in the house. I was spiraling down into the worst period of my OCD in my life. I started worrying that I might lose my mind. I might lose my mind and have a psychotic break with reality and might stab all the dogs to death. Every time I walked by the knife block I worried I was nanoseconds away from losing my grip and I would slaughter all my dogs. I had vivid visions of the blood bath. It was terrifying. This was before I knew anything about violent, harming obsessions and scary intrusive thoughts. I just thought I was fucking nuts and a latent homicidal maniac. I loved my dogs more than anything in the whole world. I would never kill them. But I was worried I would. I was so worried that I ending up hiding the knife block in a far back cabinet. I knew they were there, but if I didn't see them every time I walked by the kitchen it felt better. I convinced myself that if I went nuts I probably wouldn't remember where the knives were. When my roommate moved in I got rid of the knife block and got a different one. I was more convinced that I wouldn't go on a murderous snap now that I had a roommate. Why? I don't know. I suppose I thought he'd notice if I started acting like a psycho losing grip on reality. I stopped thinking about killing my dogs. My brain moved on to different obsessions.


But I'm still scared of knives.

Reconnecting

We reconnect now

Who knows what the future holds?

Better than before

Wii are all kinds of crazbo around here

And wii have some very sore thumbs.

So yeah, Ange bought a Wii like 5 minutes after it came out and before this Christmas I think we've played it exactly 2 times in 2 years. There were a few times that her nephews came up and played it but probably no more than 3 or 4 times. So our lovely expensive game console sits sparking on the floor doing nothing.

For Christmas we asked for a few Wii games. Here's my train of thought: now that Ange has a new job that will give her much more flexibility in her schedule we'll be spending more time together. More time together could lead to more staring at the tv mindlessly. Why not put something on that tv that creates more interaction rather than just blind staring? So Wii games will promote interaction, fun and love. That's my thinking anyway.

Ange asked for Jeopardy! because who doesn't like trivia? I asked for Mario Kart cause secretly I kick ass at race car driving. I also heard from someone that the New Super Mario Bros. for Wii pretty much kicks ass so we bought that one the week after Christmas when it was on sale at Target. We've pretty much been spending several hours per day playing Wii. It's been awesome. And? I've earned some street cred from Ange for my fantastic Mario Kart skills. She thought I was going to be all lame and just crash everywhere but guess who's unlocked 2 new secret game boards? Moi. Thank you.

Of course wii have to make everything with double i's now and that's funny (for now).

Please, I want to marry you!

In my 5 years working on African issues and in Africa the one thing that I find frustrates most females going to Africa is the ever-present annoyance of men trying to get in your pants. I know that is blunt and it sounds harsh, but in my personal experience (anecdotally of course) this goes across all African men I have ever met, be it Nigerian, Congolese, Gambian, etc. I really hate to generalize, particularly across one of the largest and most populated continents on the planet, so please know I do not do this lightly.

Luckily it is usually done in a light and playful manner and not in a scary, threatening manner. I have NEVER felt like I was going to be assaulted, just oogled, sometimes in a manner we would call “sexual harassment” in the US. Here it isn’t. It’s just standard practice. Particularly given the fact that American girls tend to send unconscious signals to the men they are interacting with on a daily basis. Those “unconscious signals” are being overly nice (which is very American), always wanting to help (Americans love some underdogs), and just being an American (but particularly a larger white woman). I know, I know, that’s pretty much an all inclusive list. So pretty much, if you are an American woman, you will be sexually harassed, or at least intensely flirted with.

The interesting thing is that for the most part, this behavior continues even outside of Africa amongst the African men I know. I have been hit on or propositioned by the majority of African men living in the US that I know (or really, even meet). Not every single one, but nearly. It seems that it’s a hard cultural habit to break. It used to drive me nuts, but eventually I learned to ignore it and deflect. It still bothers a lot of newbies, and it used to bother Ange a lot, though now that she has traveled with me and has met lots of Africans herself she’s becoming more used to it and not as upset. It’s probably the number one thing that drives new visitors to the brink of losing their minds. If they can move past it, their experience is usually a great one. If not, they get caught up and really annoyed.

This has been my experience up until now. However, for the first time in my history of working with African men and living in Africa I am basically free from this. I didn’t really notice it at first, but one day I last week I went to the market and got a marriage proposal while I was trying to buy a set of plastic drawers. After explaining that I was already married, he basically said any white American girl would do. I had to promise to send him one in exchange for the deal I negotiated with him for my drawers. So ladies, there is a man in Benin just waiting for you. Sorry I had to sell you out, but 1000 Naira was at stake! After that experience I all of a sudden realized that that was the first time in the 2 and a half weeks that I’d been here that I’d had that happen. I had to think really hard about it, but nope, hadn’t happened. Of course now that I am conscious of it I am looking at for it. And still, a week and a half later, it hasn’t happened!

Of course it is refreshing for me to not have to constantly be on my guard but it’s also interesting from my research perspective. Why aren’t men flirting/harassing me? Is it really their staunch religious views? In the past I’ve worked with men from a variety of different religious backgrounds (from Catholics to Muslims) and no matter what their religious beliefs about sex and behavior are supposed to be, I find they very rarely “walk the talk” when it comes to obeying religious doctrine.

So, on the one hand it is surprising that in this Pentecostal environment people are (so far) obeying their religious beliefs and guidelines, but on the other hand it isn’t surprising because that is what you would (stereotypically) expect. And if it isn’t the influence of religion, then what is it? It could be that I am in a really weird space in terms of age…most of the people in church are older and married so perhaps I am too young for them (though this has NEVER stopped anyone before)? And my prospective interviewees, students, are all much younger than me, so maybe that has something to do with it? Right now I am leaning towards explanation #1, which is of course very interesting and relevant to my work. I’ll have to keep thinking about this one.

Love = Taco Dip

The love Ange and I have can be summed up in two words: taco dip. I'm sure you're thinking WTF? (or maybe something nicer, but in my world WTF? is always the question).

Confession: Ange and I LOVE some taco dip. Some people call it 7 layer dip, some people have other wacko names for it, but we just call it a plain ol' taco dip. We love it so much we eat it often. As a meal. By itself. We do not think this is weird.

I'm sure some people will think it is weird because one day when I was out running around with my sister I mentioned needing to buy some things for our taco dip dinner. My dear sister looked at me with her famous snarled lip and was like WHAT? And I explained what taco dip was and that we were having it for dinner. Then followed Leslie's famous eyeballs rolling around in her head and the ever present "You guys are weird" statement.

So first and foremost I must say, the fact that Ange and I both agree that taco dip is a meal in and of itself proves we are perfect for each other for several reasons:

1. We are creative. Taco dip may not seem like a meal, but it totally is! Ingredients: beans (we usually mix refried pinto and refried black), sour cream, taco seasoning, onions, peppers, and cheese. And some chips to dip with! Beans = protein, sour cream & cheese = dairy, onions & peppers =veggies, and chips = grains. Perfect!

2. We are fairly simple people. This recipe is no frills. It take about 10 minutes to make. The longest part is chopping up onions and peppers. We're just simple, no frills people. We don't need to be fancy schmancy.

3. It fits with one of our mottos, "share share that's fair." We like the communal nature of this meal. I mean, sure, we could scoop out our own portions and eat from our own plates, but that's not really our style. We like to eat from a communal plate (or baking pan as it usually is) and share an intimate dinner with each other.


Finally, this picture even more so talks about our relationship and our personalities within the relationship. Ange was eating from the right side and I was eating from the left side. I jump right in and gobble away and Ange is more steady and deliberate with the task. Ange eats in a linear and organized fashion. I scoop away chaotically and randomly.

See? Now do you understand how taco dip & our love are compatible and explanatory?

Sam's Club

I saw this picture on LOLDogs and it made me think about Ange and myself. Cause neither of us has hot abs. But we love each other anyway. And then I remembered that I had a blog in the queue that needed finishing. Trains of thought are fantastic.

So Ange and I have a love affair with Sam's Club. I used to belong to Costco, but sadly there are only two in Indianapolis and they are both on the North side of town. Sam's Club is around the corner from my house. Secretly I love Costco more, but I'm not driving all the way up there for it.

So Ange and I frequent the Sam's Club frequently. We like to go and look at the cool stuff. But mostly, we like to eat free samples. I mean, I don't know many people who don't like free samples, but I also don't know people who like free samples as much as us. One of the saddest things about being a vegetarian is that many of the free samples are meat products and that means I can't eat them.

Now the reason I really thought about this blog when I saw the chubby dogs was because on one of our recent trips I was striking out in the non-meat department side of things while Ange was eating high on the horse. BUT, they were serving cream puffs. Have you ever had the frozen cream puffs that Sam's sells? If not, you should totally go get a membership and get some. They are soooo delicious. So I was basking in cream puff heaven for a bit and then I was sad again because I was back to meat hell.

Now, for some reason Ange and I can't pull it together when we're at Sam's and we end up wandering the aisles like drunken hobos frequently re-tracing our steps to get stuff. It works out well most of the time because, if you didn't know, the sample ladies are not always manning their stations. So sometimes you miss some samples. But if you are bobbing and weaving through the aisles sometimes you get lucky and hit a station you missed before.

So as we were walking past the cream puff station and I was looking longingly at them I see Ange hiding behind the stack of bulk whatever and see her arm snake around the corner and snatch up a cream puff while the lady was busy schmoozing someone up to buy them. Yeah, that's right, Ange double dipped a cream puff for me. Now that my friends, is love. I don't think I've ever tasted anything so delicious in my whole life. That is why we are perfect for each other, abs or no abs.

What is is about gas stations?

So on my way to my BFF Heather's daughter's birthday on Sunday I was running a little late so I jumped into the car and crossed my fingers that I wouldn't have to stop and get gas because it would make me even more late. Sadly, the gas light came on before I got to I-69 so I knew I had to stop. Since I used to work in Fishers I know the area well and decided the best place to stop would be the 96th St. exit because there are 2 gas stations immediately off the exit and I knew I could jump off and back on in just a few minutes. So I pulled up to the Marathon station jumped out and started pumping.

After a minute I hear "HEY! Hey, how are you?" I look over and there is a 30-something year old guy looking at me. Now the way he was saying hey how are you sounded like he knew me. I meet lots of people with Mercy through our work with the foundation so I didn't want to accidentally offend someone by not recognizing them so I was very friendly with "Oh hi! I'm great, how are you?" Then the guy says something else, but I didn't catch it. So I take a few steps closer (he was a few pumps away) and say "Sorry, I didn't catch that." And he says louder "I SAID ARE YOU MARRIED?"

Oh jesus. I didn't know I was being hit on. Here I am searching my brain trying to figure out who this guy is and he's just thinking "heyyyyyyyyy." So I quickly wave my ring finger hand and say "Uh, yeah." And he says "DAMN! The hot ones are always taken!" How the hell do you respond to that? So I just say, "Ok, thanks, bye!" And finish the pump and jump back into my car. Then I cracked up and called my love and then my sister to tell them the story.

Now, the first thing Hilary says is "What the hell? You always get hit on at gas stations!" AND IT'S TRUE! I rarely get hit on, but whenever I do, it's almost ALWAYS at a gas station. Weird.

The above story was pretty funny, but an even funnier story was when I got hit on by a recently paroled guy (because he told me this) who said to me "I ain't tryin to knock yo boots, I just want your digits so I can holla at you!" Uh yeah, no thanks. No boot knocking, no digits. Peace out.

Maybe it's the smell of gas fumes that confuses people and they lose their mind and can't help but hit on the first lady they see. Who knows?