PREVIEW: Empathy, sympathy, or none of the above
Sympathy: I am so sorry you’re going through this.
Empathy: I understand and share your pain.
You know those people who have to experience something in order to understand it?
Don’t they suck?
Husband and I were young newlyweds when we moved to Boston in search of careers, excitement, and liberal neighbors. We arrived at night and could only get a few blankets and pillows inside before a storm rolled in. I immediately called home and cried about my fears, concerns, and cold northern rain.
“Are you in a foxhole?” Stepdad asked. “In Vietnam? With people shooting at you? Then you don’t have it so bad.”
I stopped crying. The grumpy old man had a point.
We did well in Boston, carving out careers and traveling a bit. When Husband talked me into unprotected sex, our planned-for baby turned into twins. After much discussion, we decided to move back to Tampa, because we wanted our children surrounded by love and support.
Conservative rednecks didn’t matter as much.
Most people move their family to where their career is; we moved to be near family and let our careers happen after that.
When someone says that Husband and I have it easy because we live near my parents, I want to kick them in their naughty bits.
Nothing about raising kids is easy. If it is, you’re doing it wrong.
And nobody can have it all. That’s another fine myth thrown at you by Hollywood and Hallmark. Something has to give. Family or career. They can’t both be first.
Some people choose career and hope for the best. We chose family. That shows in our children’s confidence and kindness. They are amazing because they know they have an entire team on their side. And on their ass if they fuck up.
It matters.
But for a long time, even now to a certain extent, our careers taking a backseat to family had its consequences.
…read more in this Saturday’s Tampa Tribune or check back Sunday for the full link.
PREVIEW: Turning twelve
My children turned twelve in the beginning of January. We celebrated small since big parties stopped when they turned ten. We always thought maybe we’d do something for the “major” years like 13, 16, 18…Jesus, I’m going to need a sedative.
Twelve doesn’t seem monumental. Yet it is.
The amount of changes kids experience during the last year of preteen glory is mind blowing. When I think back to 1982, the year I spent as a twelve year-old, my transformation was truly extreme and fundamental. Granted, my children live in a different time, and are a different gender, but they will probably feel similar thrills and pangs.
I’m not so far removed that I don’t remember what it was like to be young, confused, and convinced I’d never learn how to shave properly.
The first half of the year, I attended seventh grade at Young…was it a middle school, seventh grade center, or junior high back then? The summer came and went. I spent the second half adjusting to eighth grade at Adams Junior High.
Who you are going into your twelfth year is very different from who you are when it’s over.
In the beginning of the year, I played the flute. Toward the end, I french-kissed a boy for the first time. Couldn’t get a pleasant sound out of either.
In the beginning, kids called me Casper because I was pale and kind and sweet. In the end, they called me Lucy, because I looked like the cartoon character from Peanuts, and often acted like her, too.
In the beginning, I wore a feather in my hair until the principal banned roach clips in school. In the end, I was chewing on cinnamon toothpicks until the principal banned them for causing hallucinations. That’s when I learned students weren’t supposed to be happy.
In seventh grade, I wore parachute pants and shoulder pads. In eighth, I wore blue eyeshadow. And wondered why I was alone.
In the beginning of my twelfth year, I had no breasts and drank milkshakes with raw eggs while doing “Increase My Bust” exercises. At the end of my twelfth year, I had no breasts and drank milkshakes with raw eggs while doing “Increase My Bust” exercises.
In the beginning, I couldn’t stop reading Dear God, It’s Me Margaret by Judy Blume. In the end, I couldn’t stop reading Forever by Judy Blume. And still wondered why I was alone.
In the beginning, I felt scared to be in the house by myself. By the time I entered junior high, I was babysitting the kids across the street and paying them 2% of my salary to get lost.
…Read more in this week’s Creative Loafing or check back next week for the full link.
FULL COLUMN: Edline is a lot like crack
…from yesterday’s Tampa Tribune.
If you are a parent and want to enjoy good mental health, for as long as possible, stay away from online gradebooks.
It starts out innocently enough – mom or dad wants to see Junior’s homework assignments and participation credits. Daughter’s first few As of the year are intoxicating; who cares if it’s for showing up on time without curse words on her shirts? You log in every day and pretty soon are missing deadlines of your own, all strung out on potato chips and coffee, waiting for the next fix in the form of a passing quiz grade or science project.
I know. I’ve been there.
I logged in regularly, expecting glowing reports, and instead experienced aneurysm-like symptoms because my high honor roll children were collecting Cs and Ds. And as any honest mother will admit – if we go down, we’re taking the whole family with us.
When I saw that first zero, I yelled to Husband to grab my wallet and stick it in my mouth.
“I feel a seizure coming on,” I told him.
He panicked, realizing that meant vegetables and beans for dinner. I told the kids to forget weekend video games.
The boys tried to explain that they’d turned in the work, but it hadn’t been marked online yet. I wouldn’t listen. I blamed myself for returning to full-time work. Perhaps if I stayed home watching Dr. Oz all day this never would have happened. My poor kids won’t end up in a good college. They will drop out of high school and impregnate girls named Starr or Cinnamon.
I wrote to each teacher, asking for opinions about where I went wrong. Each one replied that grades online aren’t always accurate.
“I have several grades that haven’t been added yet,” one teacher wrote, in a tone that showed he’d no idea how close I came to needing medication. “Your kids are doing fine.”
Fine? What does that mean? When I was a high school teacher, I had a student who snorted liquid paper. If I got him through the week without a stomach pump, we thought he was doing fine. What was fine for my boys?
Wait a minute, I thought. That’s it. I was a teacher once and, if memory served, too busy to update my own personal grade book every single day. That thing was a mess. I even kept notes in the margin, reminding me about students’ parole hearings and hygiene issues. Maybe I shouldn’t take the one online so seriously.
After all, that’s why we have report cards and pro-rated therapy sessions.
There are some great things about online grading systems, like homework updates and exam reviews.
Instead of logging in every day to check grades, I make sure teachers have my contact information. I show up at all four conference nights and email regularly to stay informed.
If you can stand the pressure, continue to check online grades. Me? I’d like to avoid rehab until the kids go to college.
FULL COLUMN: Keep your hands to yourselves – at any age
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
When kids graduate from diapers and breast milk, it starts. They form opinions and think for themselves, which occasionally leads to piss-poor decision making. My kids were no different.
Discipline is necessary if you want to keep kids away from drugs and parole officers. Husband and I had to figure out a way to teach our children, which is what disciple, the root of the word discipline, actually means. It doesn’t mean beat into submission or punish. Discipline is a teaching tool.
We insist our children show respect, honor their families and themselves, and eventually shut the fuck up and go to sleep. This takes some doing.
My first crisis was when they were teething and biting one another. I tapped them on the butt, then the lips, as encouragement to behave appropriately. When that didn’t work, I pulled the same move my Nana had pulled with me thirty years earlier. I took a finger and gently bit, with just enough strength to show that biting doesn’t feel good. I hoped they would remember that the next time.
No such luck.
So, I got sad and shook my head, picking up the injured brother and showering him with love and kisses. The biter was immediately ashamed. He cried and put himself in timeout.
Spanking and biting = 0. Guilt and manipulation = 1.
Like me, most of my friends were spanked as children and do not spank their own. When pressed for an explanation, not one said this was because they felt they were psychologically damaged for getting spanked. Quite the opposite actually, those of us who were spanked believed we probably deserved it.
No one condones bare bottom, prolonged hits on a child bent over the knee, but a few have popped their kids once or twice on the butt when they were little, and stopped because it didn’t do much good. You see, spanking isn’t a hit with us, because it doesn’t produce the desired results.
It also makes so many of us feel…icky.
According to the people in my circles, if you want your kid to fear you, or cry, or be confused about inconsistent messages like “we are going to hit you to show that hitting is wrong,” go ahead and spank them. If you want your child to behave appropriately, or make better choices, then spanking is not the discipline of choice.
Like anything else, it depends on the kid. Over the years, Husband and I tried different teaching methods, like the cold shower for example. We hoped it’d cure temper tantrums in toddlers like it cured libidos in my college boyfriends. Come to think of it, the results were about the same. Oldest would stand with arms folded, and ask, indignantly, “Is this how you treat your gift from God?”
If my kids said something like “shit” or “go Eagles”, I’d wash their mouths out with soap. This worked only if done calmly, while explaining the difference between grown up words and bad words, and how they weren’t quite old enough to utter either.
In recent years, making them write 75 nonviolent ways to resolve an argument worked wonders when they thought wrestling matches were the answer to disagreements.
The need for discipline doesn’t go away. If anything, older boys need just as much guidance as they did when they were younger. I have found that disappointed is a whole lot more effective than angry.
I do what works.
According to sociologist Murray Straus, the preference for spanking tends to fall along socioeconomic lines. More educated, middle and upper class parents have an aversion to spanking more so than the poor and uneducated. Using logic and reason, obviously, requires that you have some yourself.
A rational and loving approach, which generally does not involve striking someone, yields more of the desirable behavior and less of the shit you don’t want to see. Isn’t that the real goal of discipline? If you respond to age-appropriate behavior with anger and enjoy hitting children, then perhaps you’re the one with the problem. And you deserve more than a grown-up spanking.
FULL COLUMN: Top 10 things to remember next December
.…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
Human beings don’t have the best collective memory – we tend to look back on our history and remember only the good times. We are not inclined to dwell on or think about the cruelty and shortsightedness in our past actions, regrettable music interests and fashion faux pas. We sometimes conveniently forget certain experiences on a personal level, too. In a way, who can blame us? Dismissing family squabbles as unimportant bygones is easier than recalling specific hostilities caused by a bitter brother or miserable sister. Remember how your best friend lost her mind after those two felonies and an ugly divorce? Yeah, me neither. Rehashing shit isn’t conducive to good mental health.
That’s why I save texts and emails.
But reminding ourselves about certain bits of nonsense can be beneficial, if only to prevent history from repeating itself. We really should try to avoid making the same mistakes over and again. You once thought buying Elf on a Shelf was a good idea and now your kids have lost all respect. That’s one thing you don’t want to forget.
Here are some more:
10. Michelle Bachmann, Ron Paul, Herman Cain, Romney, and Gingrich were the best they could do. A tired and demoralized populace is the best we can do. Every time you blame the other party, an angel dies and the terrorists win. Pass the pepper spray instead.
9. Those twenty pounds still haven’t worked themselves off. Point, click, double click, and double tap does *not* count as exercise.
8. You are still in debt thanks to a very special Christmas ’09. The kids haven’t touched the Wii in about fourteen months and how’s that 12-month interest-free plan working for you? An iPhone9 sure is something but please, I beg you – put down the credit card and walk away.
7. Big money is no longer in real estate or the Olsen twins’ clothing line. No, the next craze is either finding a way one can poop in Forever Lazy pajamas without taking them off or self-help programs for people trying to break away from Facebook and Twitter. Invest today. You’re welcome.
6. We are responsible for every evil in the world, including, but not limited to reality television programs, Lady Gaga, and Twinkies. Because we tolerate them, that’s why.
5. Penn State was just the beginning. “Athletes behaving badly” has a ton of upsetting consequences, beginning with the harm done to innocent people and ending with the media attempting to provide contrast by focusing on a certain God-loving quarterback who says Jesus Christ more than I do after trying to balance a budget.
4. He’s a lousy lay. She’s a selfish bitch. And you’re better off without ‘em.
3. The Twilight movies sucked. All of them.
2. Your kids are terrific human beings. They are brilliant and funny and kind. They are also annoying and opinionated and willful. A few years back, they weren’t any better or worse, only cuter thanks to baby teeth and smooth skin. But remember when you took them for pictures and they shit up their back side? Ruining their clothes and howling for ten minutes? The photographer paid you to leave? That was the same day you ran out of butt wipes. How’s that for cute? Raising children doesn’t get easier, only different. When the pimples and attitudes subside, they’ll be cute again. I promise.
1. None of this matters because the world is about to end. I’m not talking about Jesus freaks this time, folks. Ancient Incas didn’t bother developing a calendar that goes past December 2012, probably because they foresaw the popularity of Sister Wives. As a result, we are all about five minutes away from feeding worms. L’Chaim!
I guarantee that most people will forget this information in a year’s time. But don’t worry. I’ll be here to remind you.
FULL COLUMN: Signs of older age
…from yesterday’s Tampa Tribune.
As we enter 2012, leaving 2011 behind, I thought it might be fun to chronicle all the ways my body stopped working properly this year.
Fun and depressing. Is that not the holidays in one sentence or what?
As I get older, this list will only grow. So maybe we can look back on my good old days now, when the worst moment involved an ill-timed sneeze and white pants.
Okay, perhaps it’s too soon to look at our early forties as the calm before the storm. We have nothing to compare it to yet. But there is no denying a few more wrinkles here and faster-growing grey hairs there. Escaping the reality of age is impossible. However, there are other, more subtle ways that getting older creeps up on us.
I now endure random pulsing and twitching. This happens at night before I fall asleep, during a business meeting before the caffeine kicks in, and lots of moments in between. All of a sudden, I feel a little quiver in my right leg. Or perhaps my left thumb starts moving a little. Too bad I don’t believe in Satan or exorcisms. During Rescue Me reruns, I use the cast as an excuse and rejoice in a fully-functioning sex drive; however, like presidential candidates, these spasms attack without warning and leave me annoyed and irritated.
Chin hairs – never good news.
I’m already holding things at arm’s length in order to see them. This is the new normal. Downside: Younger friends make fun of me. Upside: Magnifying mirrors aren’t nearly as frightening.
Every song I dry-humped to in college is now considered classic rock.
My hands feel numb after a few minutes of driving, cooking, and writing. I blame everyone who ever deserved the middle finger or a 1000-word column.
I involuntarily listen during pharmaceutical commercials.
Rice cakes are now a delicious and tasty treat. ‘Nuff said.
Hangover 2 was not even remotely funny.
Morning cocktails once involved vodka. Now they involve pineapple and prune juice.
Adult-onset allergies are a lot like adult acne, but with headaches and sinus pressure. I’ve been known to combine all three with an anti-aging mud mask and wonder out loud, “Who’s bringing sexy back?”
Flossing teeth has become a horrific experience. What the hell died in there?
I was just beginning to get Andy Rooney.
Have now accepted the fact that I will feel tired almost 25% of the time, and never when I want to.
There are medical studies on my age group every week and the prognosis is often incontinence and death.
I can see the day coming, even if it’s not quite here yet, where relaxing vacations might be enjoyable.
Coffee. Old CW: Nasty, like someone took a poop down your throat. Then I vacationed in NYC with my family, zero personal space, and honking horns at all hours of the night. My mom bought something called a Peppermint Mocha Latte. Two sips later and I could walk at a pace I hadn’t kept since Clinton was in office. New CW: Heaven in a cup.
Can’t wait to see what falls apart next. Happy New Year!
2011: The Year in Pee-Yoo
Lots of families feel the need to send out holiday newsletters that sum up all the good their family accomplishes, while ignoring embarrassing stuff, like trips to the gynecologist where thumbs wind up in weird places. Not the Robinsons, folks. We sum up the entire year, humiliations included, and present to you an honest review, with sarcasm and curse words.
Dec 2010 – Catherine flies to Pennsylvania to attend Uncle Bobby’s funeral. Heartbroken to see Godfather go, yet happy to reconnect with beloved aunts, uncles, and cousins. Unfortunately, Catherine gets thirsty and drinks Scranton water. Catches stomach bug and proceeds to throw up for twelve hours straight. Misses damn near everything, including the funeral mass. God and Uncle Bobby breathe collective sigh of relief. Back in Tampa, Husband and the boys eat chocolate ice cream the entire weekend and feel healthy enough to attend two sporting events and several strip shows.
January 2011 – Oldest and Youngest turn 11 years old, roll their eyes, and say, “Whatever.” We celebrate in a bowling alley where Husband teaches the boys and their friends how to play pool and impress shiksas. Bittersweet: the boys gain a new skill but Husband loses $50.
February – The boys impersonate Archie and Edith Bunker in final elementary school performance. Can’t decide which of the two has bigger balls: Youngest, for extolling the virtues of a Hoover presidency, or Oldest, for appearing in public wearing a stuffed bra. Later that month, they learn to play golf and Catherine ignores her disappointed, inner hippie.
March – Catherine forms National Coalition for Accountable Parenting, lobbying state legislatures to reward effective parenting. Husband wonders why she can’t take up something easy – like scrapbooking or online chat rooms.
April – Husband takes the boys to the east coast for a few days of bodysurfing, bonding, and maybe a forbidden muffin. They report back that the Vigers are indeed alive. Catherine thrilled to have time alone in which to work, write, and enjoy an uninterrupted poop. At the end of the month, Catherine visits Denver niece and nephews, who don’t seem to mind her forehead, while the boys move everything into new South Tampa home. Upon leaving Catherine’s parent’s house, hopefully this time for good, Stepdad begins to breathe and smile on his own again. Boys enjoy roller hockey – learning to spit and score at the same time. Just like Mommy in college.
May – Catherine enjoys semi-annual girls’ weekend in Ft. Lauderdale with Julie and Cathy. Turns out, one can subsist on wine and Percocet alone. Husband stays home and teaches the boys life lessons like: As a man, if you find a jar that you aren’t able to open, immediately throw it away and never speak of it again. Both boys finish elementary school on the honor roll and Husband demands blood test. While Catherine performs Monday ritual of finding two socks, without holes, to match one another, gets news she’s a finalist for Society of Professional Journalists’ Humorous Commentary award. “Find your own fucking socks,” she tells the kids. “Mommy’s a professional now!”
June – Summer vacation begins and Catherine pretends to lose her hearing for the next eight weeks. Husband turns 43 and officially forgets what his feet look like. Catherine and Husband visit Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA with the Melzers and Vigers. Everyone still speaking six months later.
July – Robinsons take off to see family members and downtown Atlanta. While visiting MLK Center, car is broken into and GPS stolen, prompting Catherine to recite her famous, “I Have A Scream” speech. Oldest and Youngest enjoy summer camp, swimming, and starring in plays like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Conservative political statements and women’s undergarments are a thing of the past. Family spends time at Itchetucknee Springs and no one drowns. All credit Catherine’s forehead.
August – Siblings descend on Tampa with five-page list of food they won’t eat, little or no sleep, and four kids under the age of five. Haven’t spoken to any of them since. The boys start public middle school and learn fifteen new curse words. Husband and Catherine trying to keep up. New tradition – boys begin Monday Night Comedy routines. Oldest’s favorite joke: “What’s a Jewish nymphomaniac? A woman who has sex every 3 months.” We explain early on that Nana doesn’t do “Katie” humor.
September – Catherine wins CBS Favorite Blogger Award for Tampa Bay. Receives zero raise and still can’t get into any of the really good restaurants. Youngest has his first “date.” In a perfect world, Jewish violin players who like Latin don’t score with the ladies. Catherine has to rethink parenting philosophy. Husband gives the kid a high five.
October – Husband and Catherine reach 16th year of marriage without a felony or weapon’s charge. Boys continue a Robinson tradition by beginning and ending their track team careers in the same week. Catherine puts NCAP on hold to focus on life and Rescue Me reruns.
November – Catherine turns 42 and loses all feeling in her feet. Robinsons and Nana make long-awaited, much-hyped trip to NYC. Highlights include visits with friends/family, The Book of Mormon, Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and near-death experiences on the subway.
What will 2012 hold for this crazy crew? Will Husband remember to stand up straight? Will the boys stop fidgeting for five fucking seconds? Will Catherine accept that every hour should be happy hour?
Stay tuned…
Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011
One of my favorite writers – charming, brilliant, and funny. Rest in peace…
“Religion now comes to us in this smiley-faced, ingratiating way because it’s had to give so much ground, and because we know so much more. But you’ve no right to forget the way it behaved when it was strong and when it really did believe that it had god on its side.”
I miss him already.
FULL COLUMN: A toast to responsible drinking
…from this Saturday’s Tampa Tribune.
Hi, my name is Catherine, and I’m the child of an alcoholic.
Want a buzzkill before heading out tonight? December is National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month. If you’ve been wondering, “What the heck did Reagan ever do?” this is it. Beginning in 1982, this program reminds us that designating a driver while getting your drink on, in December and throughout the year, is of utmost importance.
Alcohol and I go way back.
My biological father liked to drink. Clean and sober now for over twenty years, his relationship with beer and liquor was once so strong, it effectively ruined ours. Combine this with my full-blooded Irish heritage and you can understand why Mom introduced me to Adult Children of Alcoholics information and literature early on. I learned to look for signs to avoid becoming an alcoholic or, the fate of so many daughters, marrying one. Throughout my college years, I tried not to overdo it or drink for the wrong reasons. I’d even designate certain weekends “dry.” Friends always found it amusing when I played drinking games with soda instead of beer.
I fell in love with, and married, a man who shared no physical or emotional characteristics with Bio Dad. Husband is stocky, secure, hard-working, and never developed a taste for booze. He’s sharp and funny enough without it.
I had moments of excess when I was young, but graduated to adulthood with little or no issues. Since then, I’ve been drunk exactly twice – once at my 10-year high school reunion and the other at a holiday party when I realized we were stuck in Colorado Springs for a year.
Can you blame me for either one?
I joke about happy hour and wine as coping skills, and see nothing wrong with a few drinks on the weekends, but I am notoriously uncomfortable around drunks and often remind my children that in addition to sarcastic wit and back hair, they also inherit the threat of alcoholism. They will guard against this disease for the rest of their lives.
“Be wary of booze,” I tell them, “and pastrami sandwiches.”
Oh, the burden of the Irish-American Jew.
Perhaps it is this personal history with The Drink that makes me so aware of driving impaired. I’m constantly on alert when we’re out on weekends, or late at night. A real concern, considering 41% of all traffic crashes are alcohol-related and in 2002, 22% of the 2,197 traffic fatalities among children ages 0 to 14 years involved alcohol (NHTSA 2003c).
What can we do?
Designate a driver. If you’re not fortunate enough to be married to a teetotaler, take turns with a friend. Many bars provide designated drivers with soda or water, and free alcohol breath tests if you’re alone.
Be aware. The amount of alcohol in your blood reaches its highest level about 60 minutes after drinking. Buy breath alcohol devices for you or whoever might need them.
Report drunk drivers. Dial 911 or *347 right away if you see something suspicious.
By all means, have a few. Then stop. And let someone else drive.
FULL COLUMN: Shop with meaning
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
I’ve never been a big holiday shopper, but with Occupy Movements and income inequality still making headlines, I’m even less reluctant to spend money on goods made overseas or from large, multi-national corporations. Some employ good, hard-working Americans, but there’s a huge disconnect between executive pay, company policies, labor practices, tax payments, and workers’ rights.
My dear friend Cathy sent me an email suggesting other ways to think about spending for the holiday season. I’ve taken those ideas and blended them with my own to come up with unique and different kinds of gifts this year:
- Buy gift certificates from locally-owned hair salons, barbershops, detail shops, gyms, mechanics, cleaning services, massage therapists, pool cleaners, pet groomers and car washes; consider companies that seal driveways, mow lawns, and teach young kids how to play sports or instruments.
- Purchase gift cards from local restaurants or owner-run restaurants. This isn’t about big chains; this is about supporting your fellow Floridians and helping them to keep their doors open.
- Support neighbors who offer computer repair, homemade clothes, and accessories such as jewelry or pottery.
- Keep reporters on the beat. Send someone you love a subscription to one of our worthy newspapers.
- Instead of movie passes, support local theatre, ballet or find a venue showcasing local bands.
- Leave the mail carrier, tutor, teacher, trash guy or babysitter a nice tip.
- Plant a tree for everyone on your list, not just the ones who acted like idiots at Thanksgiving.
- Buy some used books from your local library instead of an online conglomerate.
Nonprofits in our community should start an Alternative Gift Fair, selling goods and services – with proceeds to benefit all the great groups in this area that need financial help.
If you’re completely broke, give of yourself.
- Make something for your loved ones – a poem, necklace, heartfelt essay, or dinner. Whip up some cookies or bread and deliver them to a hospital, fire house, or police station.
- Make a commitment to march or stuff envelopes for a disease or social issue you care about.
- Gather old clothes, electronics, furniture, and anything else you no longer use. Don’t peddle them off to Salvation Army or other non-profits that discriminate or evangelize. Instead, give them to a local charity, such as a shelter for abused women or homeless folks.
- Between the Penn State tragedy and that viral video of a young girl in Texas being beaten by her father, maybe donating extra change or belongings to a child abuse prevention group is the best message to send the universe this year.
- Give blood.
Here are two fun ways to give the gift of social justice without leaving home.
- Have you seen news reports about anti-choice militants protesting outside abortion providers’ homes or their children’s schools? Bullies think intimidation tactics are appropriate for their war on women. Join me and the good folks at Voice of Choice to change that. We call these misogynists at home or work and very politely condemn their methods. We email them every week. (Some of us even protest outside their homes and places of business.) They don’t like it too much and many have backed down.
- From the great minds at Keep Wall Street Occupied, collect all that junk mail from banks and credit cards and instead of throwing the envelopes away, open them up. Take the application and write #OWS in big letters (or spell it out: OCCUPY WALL STREET), stuff the envelope with as much as you can and mail it back. The bank gets charged for the delivery and you send a powerful message at the same time.
If you must use large corporations for gift-giving this year, find websites like GoodShop that allow a portion of what you spend to go to the charity of your choice.
Differentiate yourself from those assholes at Wal-Mart. Try these gifts instead, and you don’t even need to kill a tree to wrap them.
Disproportionately blessed...
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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