iBeth

So-Called Neighbor Saga: Six More Neighbors

. . . . in which I finish writing about my neighbors and try to move on.

Five of the six remaining neighbors told me that they only signed the petition because Fanny* pressured them to do it.  "I just wanted her to go away," one said.  "I didn't even pay attention to it," another one said.  "I saw that everyone else had signed so I did," said a third. (This is how George W. Bush got elected!)

. . . . in which I finish writing about my neighbors and try to move on.

Five of the six remaining neighbors told me that they only signed the petition because Fanny* pressured them to do it.  "I just wanted her to go away," one said.  "I didn't even pay attention to it," another one said.  "I saw that everyone else had signed so I did," said a third. (This is how George W. Bush got elected!)

So-Called Neighbor Saga: More New Neighbors

. . . . in which my new neighbor implies that unneighborly behavior is appropriate when someone's house color is "interesting," and her combat-trained husband apparently runs away from me.

Our neighborhood isn't as friendly as I'd like, partly because we're all so busy working and living our lives that we don't try to extend the hand of friendship.  Even years ago, when we first moved into our home, none of the other neighbors knocked on our door to say hello. I'm as guilty as anyone of getting busy, maybe guiltier, but I have been trying to improve.

When this family moved in, I baked brownies for them and paid a brief visit.  We chatted, exchanged information about ourselves (she is a former preschool teacher, her husband works for the military), and I answered their questions about the homeowner's association.  She has a young son and an infant; I told her that as soon as all our workers were finished, we'd invite her son over to play on our new playset.  She asked if I knew of any good hair salons; I told her that I'd look into it, and I did poll some co-workers and bring information back to her the next day.

I originally figured that they were so new to the neighborhood that they'd felt they had no choice about signing the petition.  When I met her on the sidewalk, I asked her about it. 

"I didn't sign that petition, my husband did," she said.

. . . . in which my new neighbor implies that unneighborly behavior is appropriate when someone's house color is "interesting," and her combat-trained husband apparently runs away from me.

Our neighborhood isn't as friendly as I'd like, partly because we're all so busy working and living our lives that we don't try to extend the hand of friendship.  Even years ago, when we first moved into our home, none of the other neighbors knocked on our door to say hello. I'm as guilty as anyone of getting busy, maybe guiltier, but I have been trying to improve.

When this family moved in, I baked brownies for them and paid a brief visit.  We chatted, exchanged information about ourselves (she is a former preschool teacher, her husband works for the military), and I answered their questions about the homeowner's association.  She has a young son and an infant; I told her that as soon as all our workers were finished, we'd invite her son over to play on our new playset.  She asked if I knew of any good hair salons; I told her that I'd look into it, and I did poll some co-workers and bring information back to her the next day.

I originally figured that they were so new to the neighborhood that they'd felt they had no choice about signing the petition.  When I met her on the sidewalk, I asked her about it. 

"I didn't sign that petition, my husband did," she said.

So-Called Neighbor Saga: Renters

. . . . in which a man who rents his home tells me he signed the petition because of his abiding concern for everyone else's property values.

As I was talking to one of the nice neighbors, I noticed a woman leave the only rental house on the block, walk across the driveway to the side of the house, and then walk back.  I've had several friendly conversations with this woman.  I have spoken with her daughter and son-in-law, admired her grandson, introduced her to my daughters.  She often has neighborly conversations with my mother-in-law.  So I figured that even though she apparently didn't like the color of my house, we would be able to talk civilly about it.

I knocked on the door and an older man answered, wearing shorts and nothing else.  "I'm sorry if I came by too early," I apologized.  "I saw that someone was up or I wouldn't have knocked."  [It was about 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday.]  I introduced myself and said, "I wanted to talk to you about that petition you signed."

. . . . in which a man who rents his home tells me he signed the petition because of his abiding concern for everyone else's property values.

As I was talking to one of the nice neighbors, I noticed a woman leave the only rental house on the block, walk across the driveway to the side of the house, and then walk back.  I've had several friendly conversations with this woman.  I have spoken with her daughter and son-in-law, admired her grandson, introduced her to my daughters.  She often has neighborly conversations with my mother-in-law.  So I figured that even though she apparently didn't like the color of my house, we would be able to talk civilly about it.

I knocked on the door and an older man answered, wearing shorts and nothing else.  "I'm sorry if I came by too early," I apologized.  "I saw that someone was up or I wouldn't have knocked."  [It was about 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday.]  I introduced myself and said, "I wanted to talk to you about that petition you signed."

Writing About Real People

Deep in the midst of this saga, I am increasingly thinking about what will happen if one of my neighbors accidentally stumbles across it. 

No, I'm not "just now realizing that the blog is public."  But at the beginning I was too immersed in the process to worry much.  I'm trying to be factual and pseudonymous.  If people recognize themselves, I can't help that. 

And it's my blog.  Surely everyone who reads a blog recognizes that it is highly personal, not at all intended to tell "the whole story" (whatever that is) but to portray a brief snapshot of life from my (unavoidably limited) perspective at the time of the writing. 

That's still my position.  We're all entitled to our own thoughts, surely?  And to publish them as we choose? 

But . . . every single time someone I know has recognized herself (always a "her") in a blog vignette, that person has been upset.  Matters not whether I was fawningly complimentary or simply factual.  Matters not whether they were central or tangential to the point.  Matters not whether they were completely unidentifiable or identifiable only to other characters in the vignette.  (And I use the word "character" deliberately--I could never hope to represent the whole being-ness of anyone here.)

So by blogging, am I just providing the fuel for a future conflagration in the event that neighbors recognize themselves here? Am I setting myself up for another angry petition?

And the broader question: Is it just too risky to blog about anything that refers to anyone other than a loved one or public figure?

Thoughts?

So-Called Neighbor Saga: The Nicest Neighbor

. . . . in which I wish I could hug my nicest neighbor.

Of all our neighbors, only a next-door neighbor has legitimate complaints to make about our home improvement efforts.  And of all our neighbors, she is the only one who deliberately refused to sign the petition.

Here's what happened:

. . . . in which I wish I could hug my nicest neighbor.

Of all our neighbors, only a next-door neighbor has legitimate complaints to make about our home improvement efforts.  And of all our neighbors, she is the only one who deliberately refused to sign the petition.

Here's what happened:

A UU at Episcopal Church

For the past month or so, I've been attending a nearby Episcopal church instead of my usual UU church.  My reasons have more to do with family togetherness than anything else: my inlaws attend the Episcopal church, they would never switch, and it's good for all of us to attend the same church together.  (Not only that, but I'm well-positioned to drive them without it seeming like they are a burden.)

I haven't completely thought through all the differences between churches, but right now, a few things stand out:

* Attending a different church really makes apparent the extent to which I feel "UU".  I wasn't sure if I would, since I'd only attended the UU church for a few years. But I really miss the chalice and other parts of the UU service.  I miss being part of my whole disorganized, earnest, granola UU community. 

* The Episcopal church offers more of a "feel good" service. 

The typical UU sermon goes something like this:  "This sermon is about VALUE.  You think you have VALUE?  Well, consider all the ways in which Americans' ordinary life choices promote ANTIVALUE.  I'll bet you yourself do more to promote ANTI-VALUE than VALUE, don't you?  If you really believe VALUE, you need to make better choices."  Inevitable response:  "I SUCK!  But I will try to do better!"

The typical Episcopal sermon goes something like this:  "I was challenged by the Bible readings this week about VALUE so I decided to pray about them, and I learned a lot.  Here's the context for the Bible reading.  Here's the lesson to take away from them.  Of course all of YOU know this because you are good churchgoing people, but please help spread the word."  Inevitable response:  "Hey, I'm ok!  God is happy that I'm in church and that I'm committing myself to VALUE."

* It is a huge relief to belong to an organization for which I feel no pressure to perform service work.  Between my administrative job and my union responsibilities and my homeowners association, I am completely overwhelmed.  Since I'm not an Episcopalian, not even baptized at all (having been raised as a Christian Scientist), I can pass up the volunteer opportunities without much guilt.  Surely they don't want an agnostic like me teaching Sunday School. 

* Not being baptized means you are consistently in the way.  Every Sunday, communion presents a noisy dilemma.  My oldest daughter is baptized, my youngest is not, I am not.  Both daughters could go to the altar with their grandparents for a blessing, but they refuse to go up without me.  I don't want to go and take communion w/o being baptized, which seems disrespectful, since the church program makes it clear that only "baptized persons" are welcome.  But it would be equally disrespectful, I think, to go up to the altar with my children and REFUSE communion.  But I can't just sit in the pew because then no one can else get past me.  (Yes, I sit in the back, and the back pews are crowded!)  So every Sunday, I have to gather the children up, move us all  out of the pew, make all of us dodge traffic, then sit back down.  With two kids, this effort creates a big scene.  I hate it. 

I've actually considered getting baptized just for logistical reasons, but that seems to be the most disrespectful and hypocritical option of all, since I don't really believe the Apostles creed or Nicene creed.  I don't disbelieve, but I don't believe either.  (Besides, who gets baptized at age 40?)

All of that said, I do like this Episcopal church.  It appears to be a liberal church, despite the fact that the local bishop is one of the country's more conservative.  People are welcoming.  And I like having a family church.  It's lonely to be the only adult in the family who attends church.  Much easier to have the grandparents sitting in the pew, helping to manage the children, being willing to talk about the ideas later.

I'm reading the UU blogs in my sidebar with even more intensity now, though.  (Thank you to all of you!)

Swedish Caviar

This was on our breakfast table every morning, along with Gevalia coffee, knäckebröd, cheese, ham, liverwurst, and pickles. And you probably thought caviar was a luxury item.

(My Finnish friend tells me that this product isn't caviar as we understand it--it's a paste containing cheaper teensy red fish eggs.  When I tasted it, I agreed with her.  I like caviar.  This stuff . . . not so much.)

That's My Style

Since I had only a short time in Rattvik, I only spent a short time downtown, after the stores on the main street were closed.  Probably that's just as well, since I liked every single expensive item on display, from the homes listed for sale in the realtor windows to the lego sets in the toy shop to the shoes (oh, those shoes).

   

I paused to admire the clothing in one window and realized that it all had my name on it.   Literally.  It was a storefront for the clothing line b.young, and everything in the window was gorgeous.  As the website puts it:

b.young is clothes for the cheerful and attractive woman. She knows what she wants and values fashionable, quality clothing.

b.young is a line that is constantly developing, where customers are provided with fashion and quality at competitive prices. The line is a total concept, emphasizing the coordination of color choice from the inside to the outside.

Clearly these clothes are intended for me.  The picture on that website looks just like me, too. 

My State: Getting Fatter

There's nothing like a trip overseas to make one feel fat. 

The difference between Downtown Disney (fattest tourists on earth) and Charles de Gaulle airport (where they can cram an appalling number of stinky people + luggage into a bus because most travelers are so thin) is dramatic enough to make us seem like different species.  So when my state measures #2 in the nation for increased obesity, that's really saying something.

I'm not happy with my personal state either.  My weight loss plans have crumbled to dust, and right now my chief diet & exercise strategy is the vociferous lament.  However, I try not to lament too loudly in front of my daughters.  Our appearance-obsessed culture will screw them up soon enough--I don't want to add to it. 

So last night at the dinner table, I sighed and said to my husband, "I really need to lose some 'weh-ih-guh-hut'" [with clever mispronounciation of the final word]. 

Of course he didn't get it.  "What?  What did you say?  I don't understand."

My oldest daughter piped up, "She says she needs to lose weight, Daddy."

Reasons to Love Sweden

The tradition of "fica," a coffee break.  Everywhere I went in Dalarna had great fica spots.  Atop a nearby mountain:

At a nearby historical site, the local senior citizens performed (pretty well, too) Swedish songs to accompany our fica:

My brother-in-law on his parents' porch enjoys his coffee:

And here was his view:

Given the quantities of coffee, rich cream, and yummy pastries, you'd think that everyone would be chubby, but not so--people walk everywhere, despite the hills.   In fact, European travel really points up how fat Americans have become.  But this particular American reveled in Princesstårta anyway.