A Note to the Glib, Gauche Guy in Guccis

Pssst…hey you…yeah, you Mr. GoldChainAroundYourFleshyNeck, with your J.Crew khakis, shiny Italian leather loafers, and pink polo shirt that matches your soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom face that clearly just came back from a facial at the spa.  Yeah, you who reek of too much cologne and look at me with such cold disdain and a greasy smirk that says I am so out of your league, lady.  I’m Mr. BigCheeseFormerJockAboutCampus. You look like a nobody. 

And this because I merely smiled at you, as I often do at people that happen to be standing beside me in line.  For one thing, I grew up in the country in eastern North Carolina.  That’s the way we were down there—no one knew a stranger.  Smiling and saying Hey is just a way to make a human connection.  That’s all.  Your carefully moussed hair and Rolex watch mean nothing to me. I do not wish to ravish you—I find you less than ravishing.   

What is it about some men and their egos? I love where I live now, but I’m afraid there really do seem to be more men like that around these parts.  If I had to sum it up in a few words, I’d say, “More macho, less manly.  Bigger ego, less to show for it.”   They are also overall less courteous, in ways like holding doors for people who happen to be behind them.  That is, unless that person is a nubile young chick with big breasts.  I’ve had it happen countless times here:  a simpering, middle-aged man falls all over himself to open the door for CuteBlondCoedYoungEnoughToBeHisDaughter whom I am right behind, only to let it slam in my face.  It’s interesting to note that I moved here from the Big City (Raleigh) and almost never had that happen.  In fact, folks regularly held doors for me there.

It’s not just me either.  My daughter experienced the same thing with the so-called “popular” guys when she was in high school here.  If she so much as glanced at them, they would give her the same contemptuous, dismissive look.  By her senior year, she had perfected a look in return that said, “Frankly, prep boy, I find you slightly less attractive than a baboon’s rear end.”

Now, please don’t send me comments saying Go back to Raleigh then, Pruneface.   I don’t want to go back to Raleigh.  I miss a lot of things about it, but I’m a mountain girl now. I feel at home in the hills here, and I’ve met some nice folks, too.  And, no, I’m not bitter because I’m past my prime.  I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that men don’t generally give me a second glance these days. I don’t want those men to simper at me—I’m just looking for a bit of kindness and courtesy.  But I’m curious—why are some men like that?  Why can’t I just be friendly without their bloated egos convincing them that I’m flirting with them?  Because, the truth is, I’m kind of like my daughter.  I find them, in general, slightly less attractive than a baboon’s bottom.  

A qualification is in order:  Not all men are like that here.  My husband works with some very mannerly, manly men.  Also I should say that I don’t hate men (but I might be a little misanthropic).  Some of my best friends are men.  Really.  And a note to my fellow liberated women:  Yeah, I know. I can open my own damn door.  But I value the courtesy and kindness behind such actions.  You are free to feel differently.

So, Mr. GoldChain, go on thinking you’re God’s gift to women.  My husband’s ten times better looking anyway, and he’s toned and muscular from swinging a hammer and hefting wood all day. I like men with calloused hands, not calloused hearts. I like men who open doors for anyone, be they fat or thin, young or old, rich or poor.  And, hey, you might want pull in that gut—it’s bigger than your ego.  Coeds don’t like men who are soft and flaccid.  Oh, and about that facial you got at the spa?  Did they tell you it would make you look younger and firm up those sagging jowls?  Well, you better go get your money back.  You were robbed.

Friday Fact: Aeschylus and His Unfortunate Bald Head

June, of Spatter, came up with a dandy idea the other day.  She thought it would be fun to have a weekly post with an interesting new fact we’d learned that week.  I agree.  She calls it Friday Fact.  So, for those of you out there with a certain lust of the mind (lust for knowledge, that is), here’s mine.

Aeschylus: When Bald is Bad

When Robert F. Kennedy was given the difficult task of announcing the assassination of the Reverend Martin Luther King, he drew from the dramatic poetry of an ancient Greek playwright, Aeschylus.  His words have a terrible beauty:

He who learns must suffer
And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget
Falls drop by drop upon the heart.
And in our own despair, against our will
Comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

Aeschylus also was the one who said, “In war, truth is the first casualty.”

He is known as the Father of Greek Tragedy, and his plays touched a great deal on the relationship between man and God, or in his case, gods.  So, it seems the ultimate bitter irony that Aeschylus died by such a cruel twist of fate.  His manner of death was undeniably tragic, to be sure.  But the first time I heard how he met his fate, I laughed incredulously.  Definitely a prime example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.   I thought MY luck was bad….

An eagle, flying overhead, wanted to split open a turtle it was carrying.  It mistook Aeschylus’s bald head for a rock and dropped the turtle on it.  So, in a plot twist stranger, for certain, than anything in his tragic plays, Aeschylus died from a falling tortoise.

Creating a Buzz

 

Knock, Knock!

                      Knock, Knock!  

Who’s there?

 
 

Although this is one door you really don’t want to knock on, I did.  But it was accidental.  I was mowing with the push mower, out by the maple tree.  I had my eyes cast downward, as I didn’t want the mower to throw a rock up on my nearby car.

The good news:  I didn’t hit a single rock.  The bad news:  I did hit this hornet’s home, hanging in the maple tree, with my head.  Twice.  First, the initial impact of head against nest, then the final insult when it swung back against my noggin.

My attention was diverted from watching for rocks just in time to notice a number of large angry insects swarming about my head.  I believe I may have uttered something like, “Golly gee whiz,” before letting go of the mower, which then rolled downhill into my car (yes, the one I was trying to avoid hitting with rocks) and running.  I’m pretty sure I set some sort of personal speed record on that day.

But apparently, God really does take care of fools and children, as I wasn’t stung at all.  And of course, once my heart and pulse rates returned to more normal levels, I had to go back to take pictures. 

The hornets’ house was humming with activity.  Apparently, I had created quite a buzz.

These are bald-faced hornets, otherwise known as white-faced hornets.  As social wasps, they tend to pull together when threatened to deliver a stinging rebuttal. And they are extremely protective of their nests.  From what I read, I understand that they particularly dislike vibrations and loud noises, such as that a lawn mower might make while being pushed by a tall, clumsy, clueless woman with a large, ungainly head.  And, of course, it goes without saying that they don’t appreciate having their home hit like a piñata.

Experts also advise you not to kill a hornet close to its nest, as it will release pheromone, which is the hornet distress signal.  So I am particularly thankful for my ineffectual swatting at the one unfortunate hornet that got tangled in my hair.  He escaped and so did I.  It’s hard to say which of us was more grateful.

What is Essential Is Invisible to the Eye

My kind friend, Wesley, at Mountain Mama, has graciously nominated me for a Blogger Reflection Award.  I’m honored, humbled, and most grateful.  Thank you, Wesley.  Mountain Mama herself received an award and richly deserves it.  She writes insightful, honest, compelling prose and takes lovely photographs of the mountain landscape and her beautiful children.

The rules say I’m supposed to nominate someone else.  So, without further ado, I nominate Ariel at Lucky Pennies.  I chose her because she ponders, and she writes about those ponderings in a perceptive, discerning manner–at the ripe old age of nineteen. Check out her posts on s’mores and Christianity and on elitist pointy-heads.  She is also a mighty fine artist.

The main reason I’m honoring Ariel, though, is because I want to honor Ernie.  Ariel wrote beautifully about Ernie here.  Ernie was our dear friend.  She was blind, but had a clearer and deeper vision than most sighted people.  She was free of the judgments that most people make based on appearance.  She saw rightly, with her heart.

In this vain world, where so many venerate overindulged athletes and shallow Hollywood stars who often pimp their souls for the highest dollar, I want to ring a bell for Ernie.  She was kind, thoughtful, true, and courageous.  And she adored my children.  She died over three years ago, and we still grieve her.

So I honor Ariel to honor Ernie.  I’d really be grateful if you would honor our dear friend Ernie, too, by bearing witness to who she was.