Book Review: The Pattern Seekers by Dr. Simon Baron-Cohen

This is my first experience with Dr. Baron-Cohen's writing, and... I'm going to call it an acquired taste. He presents a really interesting idea (especially for those of us on the spectrum), but he does it in a very dry, flat way. It's understandable, given his history in academia, but it can make the book feel like a chore to slog through.

Baron-Cohen's assertion is that the primary quality of an autistic brain as opposed to a neurotypical one is pattern-seeking behavior, which he calls systemizing. He includes a test in the appendix so you can see where you fall on the systemizing and empathizing spectrums (though the results matrix is backward -- use the URL in the book to take the test online for accurate results), as well as a short test to determine whether you might be autistic. He covers elements of human evolution, prenatal and childhood development, and the definition of invention to make his point that the capacity to invent is unique to homo sapiens and most prevalent in strong systemizers, like those on the autism spectrum.

While he makes an excellent case for his primary thesis, some of his side points feel wobbly, and one element of his methodology in particular looks flawed to me. He talks about research he's done into autistic couples and the increased likelihood that their offspring will be on the spectrum, which makes a lot of sense to me, but he conducts most of this research in Silicon Valley (and similarly tech-focused communities elsewhere in the world). He relies on school- or parent-reported data for much of his research, and his focus on STEM work communities carries an inherent classist bias that he doesn't address in the book.

All of that said, The Pattern Seekers is a fairly quick and interesting (though not terribly peppy) read, and it's a good title to recommend to people who advocate for "curing" autism, because it re-frames autistic differences as useful and functional to the species as a whole.

Absolutism

I have never had a cable television account in my name, and haven't lived in a house that had live TV service in many years. I stopped listening to the news on the radio when the Las Vegas shooting happened, because the sound of gunshots replayed every few minutes was so distressing. I don't read the news online unless there's something specific I want to know more about. I quit Facebook on New Year's Day several years ago. I joined Instagram because I still like feeling connected to my far-flung friends, but would rather see pictures of what they're passionate about than read vitriolic diatribes. But even with Instagram being the only social media platform I'm active on, the current situation has me exhausted and angry and ready to chuck my phone in the river and go live in a hut in the mountains.

Our culture has embraced a sort of moral absolutism on all sides that's making it impossible to talk about issues and try to find practical, workable solutions. Political "transparency" and the 24-hour news cycle mean that legislators either have to hold fast to every polarizing plank of their platform or use increasingly unscrupulous means to cobble together bills that can pass. When everyone insists that they should get 100% of what they want, nobody gets anything worth having.

Social media, with its algorithms that show a user more and more of what they already know and like, creates echo chambers that convince people their opinions are the only right ones, and that anybody who differs in the slightest is wrong and bad and the enemy. Trends go viral without thought, people re-post without investigating, and a giant game of "telephone" can turn a rational idea into a wing-nut conspiracy theory in moments.

I'm guilty of this myself. It has taken a fair bit of willpower to train myself to research issues to the point where I understand them and don't just automatically believe and parrot the voices that confirm what I already felt ought to be true. When I joined Instagram, I made "no reposts" and "no hashtags" part of my online identity as a way to prevent myself from falling back into the habit of amplifying voices without thinking about whether they're right or wrong or damaging or distorted.

So when, in response to yet another POC being killed by LEOs with no justification, my Instagram feed was suddenly flooded with screaming voices and black squares and more absolutism ("if you don't do XYZ you're racist/bigoted/part-of-the-problem")... I'm having difficulty finding reasons to belong to a society that behaves this way. I don't want to be part of a society that includes police brutality. I don't want to be part of a society that includes looters and arsonists. I don't want to be part of a society that can't decide whether to glorify or vilify white cops who stand in solidarity with BLM. I don't want to be part of a society where "hero" and "villian" are the only options. Humans and the situations we get ourselves into are far more complex and nuanced than that. 

We are broken. Capitalism is broken, democracy is broken, America is broken, and all anybody wants to do is scream that it's someone else's fault. Where are the solutions? Suggestions are met with hate because they don't fit someone's personal ideal and, thus, must be horrible. We can't make progress without conversation and compromise, and we can't talk about it when everybody's screaming.

Pack up your epithets, shelve your moral indignation, stop thinking more about the optics of your personal political opinions than about the effects of your behavior (yes, you, who posted a black square yesterday without taking a good look at WHY you were doing it), and LISTEN. Observe. THINK. Think about it from the perspective of someone you disagree with, without automatically writing that person off as a racist or a wing-nut or a "lib-tard" or whatever other term you spit at people who don't think like you. People who disagree with you exist, and they vote and hold office and run businesses, and they, like you, believe they're holding the moral high ground, and believe that their opinions are well-reasoned. To dismiss them or try to do an end-run around them is folly; you can't will them out of existence, and you can't change their minds by shouting at them.

If we don't collectively come down off our high horses, the fires that are burning right now will consume us all. We will be victims of our own egos, our own stupidity, our own inflexibility. We will lay waste to our civilization in the name of being "right."

What good is being right if we're all dead?

Let's Be Clear

We're called "essential" because calling us "sacrificial" didn't play well in the focus groups.

If we're truly essential, prioritize our well-being over your profits.

If we're truly essential, thank us for our service, both with words and deeds.

If we're truly essential, stop telling us we're replaceable, expendable, or worthless.

We take care of you when you're sick or dying. We cook and deliver your food. We stock shelves with the things you need and ring out your purchases. We deliver packages to your door. We keep the supply chains open. We pick up your trash. We set up home offices with remote workstations so you can still call somebody to solve problems.

We make the world run as smoothly as it can during the worst situations.

We deserve better. Better wages, better benefits, better treatment, better managers, better lives.

Stop the race to the bottom.

Horticultural Humor

I just saw an article with the headline, "How To Grow Lots of Zucchini."

If I were writing the article, it would go like this:

Step 1: plant zucchini.

Step 2: stand back.

(Speaking of which, I should pop out to the greenhouse to see how my seedlings are doing. Last year's zucchini harvest was more than we needed, even with giving a lot of it away, so I'm only doing one zucchini plant this year. That should give me enough for a few batches of zucchini relish, some zucchini bread, and sautéed zucchini about once a week through the summer.)

Plague

Life during a pandemic teaches us all sorts of things. We learn which workers are considered essential (generally those who earn the lowest wages). We learn how far six feet really is (thanks to tape lines on the floor at the supermarket). We see how feeble an excuse people need to be racist (some of them don't even need an excuse). We learn how little some people know about health and medicine (somebody please get the Cheeto-in-chief away from microphones). We see which companies are willing to take care of their workers (CVS and Aldi are giving raises/bonuses to current employees and hiring more to keep supply lines open and stores sanitized) ...and which aren't.

The company I work for is one of the ones that isn't taking care of its employees. We're considered essential workers, so we still have to show up to work unless we or someone in our households is symptomatic. We're being forced to take a week of unpaid furlough each, on a rolling schedule. The company has stopped its contributions to our 401(k) retirement funds. Raises that had been in the works are on hold indefinitely. Our "community hire" (a disabled part-time porter) has been laid off.

All of this is being done in the name of keeping the company afloat during the economic downturn associated with the pandemic. But given that other "essential" companies are doing things like suspending executives' salaries to keep their front-line employees fully paid, or making other tweaks to their business models to adjust to the current market without forcing their lowest-paid employees to feel the pinch, it ends up looking like the company is trying to preserve its profits at our expense.

On top of that, we were informed of our first in-house confirmed case of COVID-19 on Friday. The person's name wasn't released, but we're a pretty small crew and only one person has been out sick, so it's obvious who it is. As soon as the announcement was made, operations were brought to a halt, old PPE thrown out, new PPE issued, and we all grabbed Clorox wipes and proceeded to clean every touch-point in the building. I had to get home to feed my animals, so I didn't stay late to finish the job, but I'm certain that operations started back up immediately following the cleaning session, and as far as I know I'll be back to work as usual on Monday.

My personal exposure to this thing is pretty limited, and my physical health is fairly robust, but because I have to be out in the world every day, I do worry about being a vector and spreading the disease to other, more vulnerable people. I would have appreciated some acknowledgement/explanation of the essential-ness of the work we do (we do supply some products that could be critical during an emergency, but for the most part I'm not sure why we're still open) and more effort on the part of upper management to show us what, if anything, they themselves are sacrificing in order to keep the company afloat. I would like to be able to say I work for one of the companies that cares about its workers.

It's a pity I can't.

What Have They Done To The Durrells?

One of the best things my mother ever did for me was to introduce me to Gerald Durrell's writing. Durrell was a British naturalist who spent part of his childhood in the 1903s on Corfu with his mother and siblings. His books about that time (My Family and Other Animals, Birds, Beasts, and Relatives, and Fauna and Family) are hilarious, and I can remember knowing that my mother was reading one of his books when she could barely get through a paragraph without giggling. Despite seeing his brother Lawrence as a better writer, Gerry certainly knew how to hold a reader's attention.

When I stumbled across My Family and Other Animals, the 2005 movie based on his books, I was wary. Movie adaptations of books can sometimes go dreadfully awry, especially when one has grown up with a beloved set of books and has a fairly firm notion of what they ought to look like acted out. I was pleasantly surprised -- the movie trims down the story to fit the allotted time, but it does so with care and affection for both the characters and the general feel of the books. There are little bits of serious drama in with the wackiness, just to remind you that it's the '30s in Europe and bad things are happening, but for the most part, the movie keeps it light and fun, which is why it now sits in my DVD collection.

Today I discovered that there's been a more recent adaptation that's now on Amazon Prime Video -- a four-season series that, one would think, would really get into the details in the books and bring Gerry's wit to the fore.

No such luck, sadly. I'm a few episodes in, and it seems the producers have seen fit to turn it into a heart-wrenching drama rather than a light-hearted comedy. They're skipping a lot of the good bits, giving the characters far more flaws than they deserve, and the whole thing is feeling unhappy and rushed. It's rather like what Netflix did in Anne With An E -- taking a beloved childhood classic and making it dark and full of angst.

I'm going to stick with the series a bit longer in the hopes that it gets better, but I don't think I'd put money on it. I do want to know, with the writers skipping great chunks of the storyline, how they've filled four seasons from three books that they seem to be racing to bypass entirely. We shall see, I suppose.

RT

I was out to dinner with a friend tonight. As we were leaving the restaurant, she was complaining of some unusual abdominal pain that had been going on for several days, and as she's going through the list of possible causes, she says, "I hope I'm not pregnant -- I ain't ready for no kid!"

A young woman at a nearby table looks over and says, "gurl, retweet!"

I'm torn between feeling very, very old... and laughing my ass off.

It's Getting Hot In Here

It's 60ºF outside right now.

In Massachusetts.

In February.

The cats, chickens, and rabbits are thrilled. The fruit trees are confused. The snow shovels look listless.

If this were any other year, I'd be irritated, but this is my 89-year-old grandmother's first winter in New England since 1984, and honestly, I'm glad it's a mild one for her. Still not happy about this whole climate change thing, but at least my Gran isn't buried under feet upon feet of snow like she would've been if she'd moved up a few years ago.

Story Time

I'm rubbish at writing full-length fictional stories (all that plot and character development and dialogue, ugh!), but my wild imagination loves showing me little scenes that I sometimes feel the need to write down. My father wrote Lovecraft fanfic before fanfic was a thing, so while I'm terrified of things that go bump in the night, I'm also somewhat fascinated with them. I present a little horror scene that's been knocking about my brain for a few days -- this is as long as it will ever get, and it's unlikely I'll ever write enough for a compilation, so this seems the best place for it. I hope someone out there enjoys it.

*****

I heard the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway as I was putting away the dishes. He walked in the back door and paused for a quick hug, kiss, and how-was-your-day while rummaging in the fridge for something to nibble on. I told him about my coworkers' latest antics while he scarfed down a bowl of leftover soup and a handful of crackers, and then he bounded up the stairs to take a quick shower.

I gave his soup bowl a rinse, heard the shower start, and was about to go curl up with a book when I heard the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway... again. I watched him walk in the back door and set his lunchbox down on the counter. His eyes met mine, noticed the slightly panicked stare, and he cocked his head to one side in silent inquiry.

"Are you the fake, or is he?" I asked, pointing in the direction of the bathroom, whence came the noises of both running water and slightly off-key singing.

He smiled, displaying teeth that weren't quite human.

Flight Canceled

I watch a lot of homesteading videos these days, and it seems all of these vlogging 'steaders have drones so they can get aerial shots of their farms. One even used his drone to help find a neighbor's missing cow! Now, our little urban patch of earth isn't worth taking many pictures of, but our next one will be, and I was toying with the idea of picking up a little $30 toy drone to learn on before deciding whether to get a beefier model for when we move to the new place in a few years.

Then I started reading up on the laws and ordinances relating to drones, most of which seemed pretty sensible: maintain line of sight, don't exceed 400 feet, don't fly over anyone else's property without their written permission, and so on. There's also one about not operating a drone within 5 miles of an airport without contacting the control tower for permission first.

That one's the kicker, because I live less than two miles from an Air Reserve Base. So I did a little more research, and found a map of restricted airspace in the US, zoomed in on my neighborhood... and it's a no. Zero-foot ceiling, no-fly zone. It's possible that, depending on the day and time, I might be able to get authorization for a short flight from the base control tower, but first I'd have to apply for, test for, pay for, and receive an FAA-issued UAV pilot's license (with re-tests every two years), and then use an app that pings the tower for permission on my behalf every time I want to fly.

That seems like a lot of work to get a $30, 6-ounce, 5-minutes-of-battery-life piece of plastic to hover at roof height for kicks (or to inspect my gutters without having to get out the extension ladder, y'know, if I want to pretend it's for something practical). I guess I'll wait until I move out of the no-fly-zone before I splurge on that new toy.

Eye of the Beholder

A friend and I went to a modern art museum that was having a free-admission day yesterday. I almost canceled the outing, because modern art isn’t really my cuppa, but I went anyway, and I'm glad I did. I learned that my friend has the same feelings about modern art that I do, so we spent the day playing curators, deciding which pieces we’d keep in the museum and which should be sent back to the artists.

There were some stunners in the museum’s collections. I swooned over some large-format pieces that looked like black-and-white night-time photography but were actually charcoal on paper (and I had to get to within inches of the piece to begin to see the proof of that). There were two pieces with blown glass that we both loved, one that needed some work (a slow-motion film about fire being projected through blown glass bubbles that made their own fire/nebula-like patterns on the screen – we loved the concept but hated the film itself) and one that was perfect as it was (a huge glass bottle shaped like George Washington’s head, with grog dregs inside, lying on a carved granite pillow). An installation with indigenous American ceremonial garb made out of gaudy man-made fabrics (neon yellow organza, iridescent silver lamé, turquoise paracord, and the like) spoke to our respective native ancestry and the stripping of dignity and depth from rich, complex cultures.

Then there were the pieces we rolled our eyes at. A convoluted video installation was painfully pretentious and over-wrought. A series of banners with sloppy stitching looked like an elementary school project and insulted us with their simplistic messages. Something that looked like black building blocks getting knocked over again and again was trite and boring. Monochrome, screen-printed t-shirts with aphorisms on them looked like they belonged in the gift shop rather than a gallery.

We could respect (if not rave about) some of the pieces that clearly took skill to create (like a series of gigantic concrete sculptures about death and reverence), but the ones where it took no training, no practice, no actual artistic skill whatsoever to make them should not, in our opinion, have been allowed to take up space in a museum. That is the fundamental problem with modern art – anyone can think they’re an artist, know someone who knows someone who can get in touch with a curator, and these sad, sloppy, shallow pieces get to spend time in a place where they don’t belong.

I’m not saying these people aren’t heading in good directions, but their work isn’t museum-quality yet. Some of them need practice in their chosen medium. Some of them need more life experience to help them refine their messages. Some need to abandon whatever medium they’ve chosen and try something different that might convey their message more effectively. The curators should be looking at an artist’s work before committing to hosting it, and having an eye for quality rather than just political/cultural relevance or novelty.

Despite the drawbacks, I’m not going to abandon modern art museums. The few amazing pieces are worth the admission fee, and I can keep hoping that curators will up their game so that every piece they display has a valid reason to be there... but I think I’ll hit up a natural history museum next, to cleanse the palate.

Smash The Patriarchy

I’ve noticed a trend among younger equality-minded folks who are trying to challenge our patriarchal and shallow culture. They take words that can feel like weapons (beautiful, ugly, masculine, feminine, fat, skinny, and so on) and attempt to challenge their definitions – everyone is beautiful, respect everyone’s pronouns, be body-positive, and such.

The trouble with this approach is that it doesn’t address the root of the problem. Descriptors like ugly or feminine or skinny don’t need to be redefined, they need to not be used as weapons to attack someone’s worthiness as a human being. We don’t need to call everyone beautiful, we need to invalidate the idea that beauty is tied to worthiness. We don’t need to develop a dozen new gender expressions, we need to recognize that gender is nothing but an arbitrary social construct that has no inherent meaning or value. We need to prioritize health over beauty, and stop glorifying unhealthy people.

This is becoming increasingly problematic in trans spaces, where some trans people are so desperate to lay claim to their new-found gender identities (especially, it seems, MtF types) that they’re flinging insults like “TERF” (trans-exclusionist radical feminist) at women who are trying to point out that trying to re-define womanhood is causing damage to our ongoing fight for equality.

When someone who was brought up male in a patriarchy suddenly steps into a female-only space and claims it as their own, they’re doing so without regard for all the women who have been fighting for women’s rights for centuries, and they’re disrupting the progress we’re making. I’m not saying they’re still male, but rather that the male privilege they were given by the patriarchy at birth and conditioned to think they deserved by our flawed culture is following them into female spaces whether they intend it to or not, and they’re not taking responsibility for that.

Trans folk are in a difficult position, and they certainly have battles to fight, but one of those battles should not be for ownership of “male” or “female” as a label. It should be to render those labels invalid for determining one’s worth. A trans woman is not the same as a cis woman, and that’s okay. She doesn’t need to be. It’s not a contest, nor should it be. The patriarchy encourages that kind of conflict to maintain the weaponization of gender constructs, and that is what we all need to be fighting against.

It’s an issue with body positivity, too. With weight-related conditions like diabetes and heart disease at epidemic levels, with 2/3 of the country overweight and 1/3 of it obese, why on earth are we going out of our way to call obese people beautiful? It doesn’t address the weaponization of the word “fat,” it just encourages people (especially children who see this in their entertainment) to think that being overweight or obese is okay as long as you know how to apply makeup and wear nice-looking clothes. Fitness instructor Jillian Michaels said something about this the other day and was raked over the coals for it, and while I think she could have phrased it more tactfully, her point is still valid: health matters more than superficial appearance, and obesity isn’t beautiful, it’s dangerous.

We’re still so hung up on this idea that being able to call ourselves beautiful is important that we’re missing the point: beauty has nothing to do with one’s worth. Obsessing over who can/should call themselves beautiful is an inherently patriarchal behavior, because it supports the idea that beauty equals worth.

Let’s stop fighting over things that don’t matter, because it’s keeping us from the real work. Your weight, bone structure, chromosomes, curves, genitalia, etc. don’t determine your worth as a human being. Your character does. Start there, and we can make the world a better place.

Game of Nope

On paper, Game of Thrones seems like a show I would enjoy. It’s medieval fantasy with complex political intrigue, and a large cast that, in theory, gives me a lot of opportunities to find characters I’m interested in. But there was something about the look of it and the reviews and the MASSIVE fandom that made me wary. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it (apart from a general dislike for all things trendy), but it took me until the series was finished to finally be willing to give it a shot.

I made it through two episodes before giving up. Actually, five minutes into the first episode I was pretty much done, but I gave it two episodes worth of opportunity to claw its way back from that awful first impression, and it only got worse.

If I want to see rich white men rape and murder their way through their privileged lives, I’ll turn on the news. That’s not entertainment for me, no matter how you dress it up. I need to see virtuous characters, complex characters, diverse characters… I need a cause I can believe in, someone I can cheer for, so I have a reason to keep watching. None of that showed up in the first two episodes.

I especially want female characters I can relate to – ones who don’t stoop to male vices or methods, ones who see the horrors of the world for what they are and try to change things for the better. Instead, GoT offered: an incestuous, adulterous harpie who condones murder to cover up her incest/adultery and over-parents her spoiled brat of a son; a probably-incestuous shell of a person who allows herself to be used as a political pawn and repeatedly raped, and then… tries to please her rapist; a long-suffering worrywart who takes up doll-making (a light form of witchcraft?) as a coping mechanism for her son’s near-murder; a young tomboy who’s sort of on the right track but is in that can’t-help-but-be-obnoxious phase that children go through; myriad whores who are, as it happens, the only female characters I even marginally like in this show because they’re the only ones who seem to enjoy their lives. None of those are women I can get emotionally invested in – their personalities fit tired, over-used tropes, and they were so clearly written by men that I can’t identify with them.

Then there’s the men. An adulterous, gluttonous asshole and his also-adulterous lap-dog, an angst-ridden bastard who seems to buy the idea that he’s no good to anybody except as a sacrifice, an erudite dwarf who seems to have dedicated his life to exploring every vice known to man, a stoic “exotic” rapist, an incestuous wastrel, a spoiled brat… and not one of them a compelling character for me. If the rest of the story were better, the rest of the cast more interesting, I might have stuck around to see what the dwarf gets up to, but he alone can’t carry the show.

The whiteness of the cast is boring (the world is completely made-up... why make it whites-only?), the petty motives are depressing, the gratuitous female nudity feels pornographic, and the story is too much like current-day politics to be worthy entertainment. The show is clearly targeted to teenaged boys, and it confuses me how so many people who don’t fit that demographic watched the first two episodes and decided they wanted more. What does it say about our culture that this show is so popular?

It probably didn’t help that I watched this shortly after getting caught up on two fantastic series: The Man In The High Castle, and The Expanse. Both of those have diverse casts, complex and compelling characters, a far better balance between virtue and vice, interesting plots, and underlying themes that I can relate to and want to see more of. Even in the medieval fantasy realm, The Last Kingdom and Vikings both did far better at drawing me in (though Vikings, with its purple faux-fur, eventually lost this historical costumer’s interest) by having characters whose motives were more relatable than “gotta f*ck my sister.” Game of Thrones feels like poorly-written fanfic by comparison – nothing but a masturbatory aid for hormonal boys – and that’s not worth my time.

Earth-Shattering Kaboom

Where I'm living right now is the most urban place I've ever lived in. I can cope with most of the downsides, but this week has been especially trying. Turns out this is a terrible place to live if you don't do well around fireworks.

There are about ten town centers within ten miles of here. Each one of them does their own fireworks display for Independence Day, and they don't all do them on the same night. So evenings this week have been loud and anxiety-ridden, and sleep has been hard to come by. If it were just the municipal fireworks, I might be okay, because they generally wrap up by 10:30pm, which means I have a chance of falling asleep by midnight... but then the neighbors get started, and there's no point calling the cops because they won't arrive before the neighbors pack up for the night. One neighbor was up 'til 1:30am setting off fireworks Wednesday night, which meant I got no sleep at all.

You'd think with all the veterans' groups spreading the word about PTSD and the animal shelters talking about noise-sensitive pets, that people would get the message and stop using the extra-loud kind of fireworks... but no, this is 'Murica, land of over-the-top everything.

I miss Vermont.

One Thing Leads To Another

Being someone who's curious about all sorts of things and loves to learn, I frequently find myself exploring labyrinthine knowledge paths and picking up all sorts of tidbits I didn't expect. Such was the case the other day when, thanks to a random picture on Pinterest, I started exploring a new facet of a subject I've been interested in for a while.

One of the things I love about historical reenactment is that dressing in garb gives me an excuse to cover my hair. I love my waist-length tresses and all the things I can do with them, but I hate the way wayward strands tickle my face or get caught in anything from the hinges on my glasses to a closing car door. Being able to wrap everything up in a turban or other headwear without it looking out of place is a boon to me. So when I saw a pin on Pinterest with a type of hair wrap that was new to me, I wanted to learn more.

The path took me to some vendors I hadn't known about before, some blog posts and videos with wrapping techniques that I might use... and set me at the door to the world of "radical" (they frequently use this word to describe themselves) Christian women who follow 1 Corinthians 11 on the subject of headcovering.

I'm all for expressing one's religious beliefs in whatever (not-harmful-to-others) manner one feels called to. If you feel closer to your god by demonstrating your submission with a piece of fabric, I will defend your right to do so, and may even join you in solidarity if you are being attacked for your choice. Personally, I'm with you if your purpose is eschewing vanity, but I stop at the point where you believe you're less worthy, less godly, less anything than a man. Still, if that's what you believe, you're welcome to it, as long as it doesn't bleed over into public policy or my personal life.

The issue I have with this group of women is that, in their posts and videos, they focus on how attractive their methods of headcovering are. They spend a lot of time, energy, and money on what seems to be more of a hobby than a religious practice. They turn an article of submission and modesty into one of vanity, all while thumping their Bibles, and don't seem to notice the cognitive dissonance.

Herein lies my biggest problem with organized religion: those who are most vocal about the "rules" tend to be the worst at following them, but refuse to admit it. It's hard to take a group seriously or give them the respect they expect when their actions run counter to their words. Some of the most outspoken "believers" I've met have been the least godly, had the worst moral compasses, and been the biggest hypocrites.

As morality, character, and spirituality have come more into focus in my life of late, I've found myself dispairing at the fate of humanity. Our selfishness and greed have been growing, our willingness to take responsibility for our actions has all but disappeared, and we don't seem to feel shame for much of anything anymore. It's leading to anarchy, which is a situation that only benefits the most violent, the most opportunistic, the most conniving among us.

It's frustrating to be in a position where I'm searching for hope and structure, and the one place that seems tailor-made to provide what I want is also the poster child for the ills I'm seeking refuge from. But hey, now I know some news ways to wrap my hair.

First

One of my coworkers was recently diagnosed with cancer. It's a type that's got a high rate of successful treatment, and it was caught very early, so we're not afraid for his life, but he'll have to be out for a while for surgery and recovery. He had the first of two procedures earlier this week, and I expected to hear how it went the next day from one of the guys who have his number. When nobody had volunteered news by the second day after the procedure, I asked whether anyone had called him.

"None of us want to be the first one to call," said my manager.

I was a bit gobsmacked at this. I know that women in this culture are trained to be the caretakers, the communicators, the ones who maintain the social networks and keep the grapevine humming, and that men aren't, but this group of guys out-gossip some of the women at work by a significant margin, so to see them actively shying away from reaching out to see how a friend is doing... I can't quite wrap my brain around it.

Finally, one of the other (male) managers called, and I happened to overhear part of the conversation, so I know the guy's doing fine, if a little loopy on pain meds. But I'm still confused as to why the other men were so afraid of showing interest or compassion. It's one more reason for me to be glad I'm leaving this job for one that's closer to home, better paying, and less stressful.

The Purpose of God

I'm (finally) reading Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale for the first time, and a line about halfway through the book jumped out at me. The narrator is talking to God about loved ones with whom she's lost contact, and she says, "You might even provide a Heaven for them. We need You for that. Hell we can make for ourselves."

I had thought of the development of religion in a more granular way, as being helpful in explaining natural phenomena or acting as an excuse to dominate other people(s) -- as a collection of small reasons that gradually became a larger agenda. But Atwood's words are so simple, so succinct, and frame the concept in a way that's achingly sad: we're excellent at being miserable and making each other miserable, but to concieve of being truly happy we need our omnipotent creator. We wish and hope and dream about being happy... but only when we're dead and in the arms of a god we've spent our lives trying to please but simultaneously mucking everything up because we can't agree on how to do it.

Hell we can make for ourselves. And Lord, are we ever good at it.

Evolution

My little black cat is named Kira (a reference to both the Celtic name Kiera, meaning the dark one, and Kira Nerys, a Star Trek character). When I started spending time with my boyfriend, I found that he likes to play with her name; he'll make little alterations to it to suit his fancy.

One of the first such alterations was Kira Wildebeest. Apparently her manner struck him as wildebeest-like one day, and he's stuck with that ever since. Then, we discovered that she loves the taste of duck, so she became Kira Duck Wildebeest.

When we play with her feet, we talk about her toepads as "beans," and today I was chattering at her about her beans, li'l black beans, frijoles negros, and then the idea of her being a Black Bean Burrito hit me, so I told my boyfriend.

"Wildebeest and Black Bean Burrito," was his response. "Gotta have some meat in there!"

So now my little black cat is Kira, Wildebeest and Black Bean Burrito.

Because life is too short to not embrace a little absurdity now and then.

Fridge Forager

Those moments when I throw open the pantry and fridge and try to pull together something easy and tasty are always exciting. Will I come up with something amazing? Will this be a meal that even the racoons won't touch? It's like my own personal episode of a cooking-related reality show!

Tonight's "episode" was born of necessity; the meal needed to be quick and easy, include protein, only use one pan, and not involve pasta or rice. If I could avoid opening new containers without immediately emptying them, so much the better.

I won. It wouldn't be to everyone's liking, but I was thrilled with the result: scrambled eggs with sprats (similar to sardines) and beetroot-and-horseradish chutney that's been in the fridge since before I moved in. The chutney lightened the oiliness of the fish, the savoriness of the fish played well with the eggs, and it all just worked.

Happy cook, and happy cats who got to lick off the plate.

Section 8

When I started at my current job, I was in a difficult housing situation and trying to pay off a small mountain of debt as quickly as possible. As my coworkers got to know me over those first few months, they heard the horror stories about my then-housemate, and sympathized because most of them had been in similar situations at one point or another.

Since then, things have improved considerably -- I've moved away from the now-ex-housemate, have no housing expenses thanks to the generosity of my partner, and am making headway on my debt -- but there are a few coworkers who haven't heard about the improvements because we work on opposite sides of the building now. One of them came to me this morning to offer me an application for Section 8 (low-income) housing in the town I used to live in, because she thought it might help me get out of the awful situation I'd been in.

I'm touched that she's looking out for me. I'm also dismayed to learn how many of my coworkers are in subsidized housing. To my mind, it speaks poorly of an employer when a significant number of their full-time employees have to rely on social welfare programs to survive. It's a clear sign that wages are too low, and that the employer doesn't actually value his employees.

So... looks like I'll be hitting the job listings again. I wasn't looking forward to seeing how winter weather affects my new commute anyway, so I guess it works out.