I Say Chivalry; You Say, "Huh??"

Not that I imagine anyone's been waiting for an explanation, but I've been quiet with the blog lately because I simply haven't felt the rage that has inspired earlier postings. This is a good thing. This means that writing about my issues has been successful therapy. Although it's not as viscerally fulfilling as the Punch-an-Asshole-In-The-Face Fantasy Camp idea that I'm not quite ready to abandon, it's been doing the trick. My socially related anger has been managed nicely. However, something is starting to well up again and it's time to talk about it like adults. I will use my indoor voice…for now.

The issue at hand is chivalry. I'm fairly certain that this would not be so much of a big deal if I did not live in New York City (as evidenced by my travel to other locales), so I'm going to give society the benefit of the doubt and assume that this problem is, to some extent, the byproduct of too many people and not enough space or resources (ie, a competitive environment). It doesn't mean that I'm not spittin' mad, though.

Let's define "chivalry" before we get into it. Webster's provides several possibilities:
1: mounted men-at-arms; 2: martial valor, knightly skill; 3: gallant or distinguished gentlemen; 4: the system, spirit, or customs of medieval knighthood; 5: the qualities of the ideal knight: chivalrous conduct (with "chivalrous" being defined further as 1: valiant; 2: of, relating to, or characteristic of chivalry and knight-errantry; 3: a: marked by honor, generosity, and courtesy; b: marked by gracious courtesy and high-minded consideration especially to women.)

The chivalry that I'm talking about is definition 5.3 a and b: "marked by honor, generosity, and courtesy; marked by gracious courtesy and high-minded consideration especially to women."

You will still find many men today for whom this is a fitting descriptor. These are the men who hold the door for you, who give you a seat on the subway whether you're pregnant or not, who hold an umbrella over your head during a rainstorm, who take a bag out of your overburdened arms, and who steer you away from steaming piles of dog poop on the sidewalk. These are the men I find warm, charming, and sexy -- the kind of men I'd describe as "keepers."

But then there are the men who will practically mow you down in a crowded hallway, who don't hold the elevator door for you, who run into the subway car like prancing wussies to grab the last seat, and who step in front of you at the bar even though you were next in line to order. I like to think of these men as throbbing pimples on the sweaty ass of humanity.

And do you know who created these types of men? Women.

All of you women out there who think it's an insult to have the door held open for you, who have said to some well-meaning guy, "I can do it myself, thank you" with a sneer on your face, who refuse to thank a man when he gives you his seat on the bus… You have ruined it for the rest of us. You destroyed chivalry.

Chivalry was never meant to demean women; instead, it was a code of honor that put women on a pedestal, acknowledging women as good, fair, and worthy of respect simply by virtue of being women and possessing the power to bring forth new life. But all of you out there who wanted "equal treatment" interpreted this as men thinking of us as weak or seeing us only as "babymakers." So you fought for your right to hold your own damn door. And in the effort to show that you were just the same as a man, some of you also did your very best to erase the notion of us being "good, fair, and worthy of respect."

Well, you did a good job, because every day I see men treating women like garbage. In fact, more often I see women giving up their subway seats to those who are pregnant, elderly, or injured while the men just sit there with their legs spread open. You demanded equal treatment because you wanted respect. Tell me how respected you'll feel next time some guy steals the cab that you waited for for 20 minutes in the rain.

I Know What You Did Last Summer…Because I Googled You

Thanks to the Internet, it's not at all unusual that we know way more information about way more things than we ever have before. Wikipedia is just the beginning; you can wind up learning a hell of a lot of useful -- and useless, but fun! -- info thanks to smart Google searches and links from one site to another. For example, did you know that Jason Priestley and Christine Elise (Brandon Walsh and Emily Valentine from Beverly Hills, 90210) lived together for 6 years and were engaged, and that he has a twin sister in real life too? (Sorry, I'm going through a 90210 thing right now.) The Web is a never-ending, cross-referenced labyrinth, and I, for one, find it very entertaining. Lately, though, I've begun to question my Web-researching practices and whether I am crossing the line.

When I need some downtime at work, one of my favorite diversions is to dredge up a name from the past (such as a kindergarten classmate) and figure out what he or she has done in life. I know that I am not the only one who does this, so don't you go making me feel guilty about it! What I do feel a little guilty about is discovering someone's personal info (not the obvious stuff on MySpace or Facebook), and, when the info comes from a blog, reading the blog regularly. In the past year I have seen and learned some very personal things about people I know now or knew long ago, such as:

-An old classmate will walk an extra distance at work to use a specific bathroom to poop in.
-A coworker is gay, had a commitment ceremony with her domestic partner, and then broke up and just recently got the union legally dissolved. They never took down their ceremony-specific Web site, so I know what they registered for, where the after-party was supposed to be, and the names of many of their relatives. I also found the partner's blog and learned that she was annoyed by my coworker's inability to relax.
-One of my friends is pretty much despised by someone she went to college with and is being made fun of publicly, but I don't think she knows.
-One schoolmate is making a pretty decent salary as a teacher in the NY metro area while another is making about $4/hr at a beach on Long Island.

What really got me thinking about this topic, however, is info that I discovered last week: Someone that I talk to all the time has a very close relative on Death Row. The way the relative got there is truly gruesome. I happened upon this info in a very indirect way and am very sorry now that I did; I don't want to associate it with the person I know, and he would probably be devastated if he knew that I knew. This definitely was not a fun and entertaining find.

So how far is too far? Should we just assume that, in this day and age, anyone can learn anything about us if they try hard enough, and that it's fair game to do so? And do we have the right to claim violation when the skeletons in our closet are revealed if the info is out there anyway? When information is so easily accessible, how do we define ethics?

Dear Doctor

Dear Dr. X:

Today I was supposed to have an appointment with you at 2 pm. I made this appointment a month and a half ago. Yesterday your office called me to tell me that there was a possibility that you would have to cancel for today because your son was sick. I understood completely. I was told to call back today just to make sure. I did. Your office told me that you were in today but that you might be running late and that I should call back in an hour. I did. Your office gave me the all-clear and told me to come on down for my appointment. I did. Let me be more specific. I walked across town to your office. During my lunch break. I walked because unfortunately there is no direct subway or bus line from my office to your office, and taking a cab at lunchtime is neither fast nor cost-effective. Oh, did you happen to notice the weather today? Mid-80's and overcast with 75% humidity. Yeah -- that's why I showed up looking like a sewer rat. Pretty cute, right?

I can't say that I was pleasantly surprised to find your waiting room packed, nor did delight tickle me through and through when the receptionist said that the doctor wouldn't be able to see me for at least an hour. You know how I mentioned "my office" earlier? That was an allusion to a job. That I have. Meaning, I work -- as in, I have responsibilities and people who need me to do things for them. Things that are tied to money. Money that my company relies on. See, when I set up this appointment, I thought we had made some sort of business deal: I acknowledged needing your time and expertise, and you said that you would give that to me. We "shook on it" over the phone via your office staff -- twice! Today! I consider you in breach of contract.

These days, when a patient doesn't show for a doctor's appointment, said patient is often charged a cancellation fee -- sometimes a pretty hefty one. Interesting how there's no cancellation fee given to the patient when the doctor can't fulfill the obligation.

Best,
GalWednesday

State of Bliss: A Shout-Out to Maine

I recently returned from a well-timed trip to Maine. "Well-timed" because New York City in the summertime isn't always the best place to be when you're…sensitive, like I am. This is the time of year when I have to contend with hordes of smelly foreign tourists who stop dead in their tracks on the sidewalk in front of such exotic wonders as the Hershey's Store and the Olive Garden. (Please tell me why you would come to New York City, a food mecca, and go to the Olive Garden. Think outside the factory-frozen box, people!) I really enjoy walking around the city, but because of the crowds here during the warm months, I always run the risk of losing it and saying or doing something that could get me into trouble. So there was no better time like the present (last week, to be exact) to get the H-E-double-L out of here and escape to a cooler clime with more outdoor square footage per capita. Maine.

Immediately upon exiting the plane door did I realize what a fine decision I'd made. The air was crisp and moist and smelled of pine. So much more preferable to the foul, stagnant odor of piss and hot dogs. As the week progressed, I realized how different I felt: I was calm, happy…and nice! I had no desire to broadcast any social rules because I did not need to; people there were kind and humane and respectful of one another's space. I did not come across one nasty person. I did not get bumped into or stepped on. There were no intrusive cell-phone conversations. Maybe this is just how it is when you have easy access to ocean, forest, and mountains.

One of the biggest delights of all, however, was that the entire time there (about a week), I did not encounter one dirty public toilet. Not one. From the airport to the national park to restaurants and back to the airport again, not once did I have to wipe up someone else's pee, shoo away a stranger's errant pubes, or tip-toe around puddles in front of the toilet bowl. Good people of Maine, I have to ask: Did all of your mamas just raise you right, or does there exist a little army of bathroom elves who are on the job 24-7?

The only breach of etiquette observed during my week away was committed by an Asian tourist in a lobster pound. He was an old man but had a voracious appetite. That vacuum guy Charles Dyson might have learned a thing or two about suction by watching this man practically make out with his lobster (I'm pretty sure I saw tongue). After this man had orally removed every conceivable piece of nutrition that the crustacean had to offer, he proceeded to let rip the longest, loudest, wettest-sounding fart in the history of the world. And his family had no reaction to this -- they just kept right on eating as if nothing had happened. Note to self: Do not travel to Asia.

Stroller as Combat Vehicle: An Open Letter to Persons Wheeling Children

Because I do not wish to alarm a small child by yelling at his or her mother/father/nanny in public, I hereby submit the following open letter.

Dear Caregiver:

Although I realize that the needs of a child can, at times, take on great urgency, I do not think that it is in the child's -- or anyone else's -- best interest for you to treat the stroller you're pushing as an instrument of force. I do sympathize with the plight of attempting to get a child to daycare on time during rush hour on crowded city sidewalks, but I do not see how running the stroller's wheels into my ankles helps your cause.

Yes, the instrument you are using has wheels and therefore could be considered a vehicle, but strollers don't come with horns or directional signals, so please don't think that you deserve the same respect as a car or bicycle. Transporting a child does not give you carte blanche to mow over pedestrians; in doing so recently, you almost caused me to fall onto the baby. That definitely would have made you late for daycare, which is all you seemed to care about.

The majority of people would be sick if they harmed a child. Please don't put anyone in this position, especially the child! If your stroller is behind me, I can't see you (because I am not a car either, I don't come installed with a rearview mirror). Therefore, take care and "drive" responsibly. Remember that you're pushing around a little human life, not your own agenda.

Most sincerely,
GalWednesday

A Moment of Silence for...Silence

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to consider the importance of silence in an increasingly noisy society.

Where I live silence is hard to come by, and when it is here it's fleeting. I live in a major metropolis. Metropoli are loud. I know this. For me this makes quietness all the more special the few times it happens. But sometimes I think I'm the only one who feels this way, and it's starting to drive me batty.

Case in point: A rainy Monday, on the train. It's quiet. Everyone is either sleeping, in a stupor, or reading. You can just feel a collective sense of repose, and it's nice. At the next stop a passenger gets on with a little radio that is blaring a hard-thumping song. Every head turns. Some faces have looks of disgust. But no one says anything. We all endure. Why? Why do we let one selfish prick ruin what was a seemingly pleasant environment for everyone?

I know why: We don't want to get shot. This is a reasonable concern in the big city, especially when you hear stories of people getting gunned down and stabbed for talking back to muggers. It sucks that these isolated incidents have to cause so much fear, but it's hard to change that. And that's why those in a position of authority should enforce the rules that they take the time to publicize. Here's one, for starters. This is an official rule of the New York Metropolitan Transit Authority (ie, NYC public transportation): "No person on or in any facility or conveyance shall create any sound through the use of any sound production device, except as specifically authorized by 1050.6(c) of these rules. Use of radios and other devices listened to solely by headphones or earphones and inaudible to others is permitted." See http://www.mta.info/nyct/rules/rules.htm for more entertainment on this order. Not once in my years of living in New York have I seen a transit worker enforce this rule on someone who is clearly breaking it. The rule was made for a reason, and I'd like to think that it has a little something to do with not making passengers become agitated in an enclosed space. But The Man doesn't seem to care, so that means that the little man has to care. Except the little man is too scared to care. And that's how silence dies. Do you care?

I care! Silence permits us to really see and hear things that we could not otherwise detect in the presence of someone else's noise: how beautiful someone's eyes are; the way in which that elderly couple still love each other; the voice of God. Mahatma Gandhi said, "In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves in itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth."

I yearn for crystal clearness. And I deeply resent the imposition of one person's noise on a whole group's possible quest after Truth. Does anyone else?

Public Transportation Series: Airplane Etiquette

Air travel used to be exciting. Glamorous, even. Now it's just cause for fear and loathing (and pulling the old switcheroo with the Poland Spring and the Bombay Sapphire bought at Duty-Free). All of the horror stories of the past few years -- being held hostage for hours on the tarmac, nonfunctioning toilets, celebrity passengers getting drunk and going apeshit on flight attendants -- have turned flying into a necessary evil for getting from here to there. But now that the cost of gas has made flying a couple towns over just about cheaper than driving, there's a good chance that you'll be flying in the near future. Therefore, it's time for some tips to preserve peace in the potentially very unfriendly skies. Please note that these are tips for passengers; the ways in which the airlines continue to torture their clientele is beyond disgusting, so we must do what we can to help ourselves and our fellow travelers. OK, earn your wings:

Be a delight for the senses. We can't open the windows. Therefore, please try your hardest not to smell. Shower before you leave your house. Apply deodorant. Brush your teeth. Bring gum if you have stank-mouth. As for foot comfort, yes, it feels good to take off your shoes when your feet start swelling from the pressure change. If your feet are of the odiferous variety, though, please mask them with some clean socks. As for the smells that come from the midbody region, everyone around you would very much appreciate if you could save them for the lavatory. If you have an ongoing situation that is not going to be remedied by 1 or 2 bathroom trips, allow me to suggest simethicone, which is sold as Gas-X, Mylanta Gas Relief, and other brands. In an airplane, you really must consider those around you: People don't like icky smells. People really don't like icky smells that they can't get away from. Don't be an icky smell.

Kids are cute -- to a point. I love children and can't wait to have my own. I find most of them very smart, interesting, and endearing. But unless you're going to pay me by the hour, let me order pizza, and drive me home, don't expect me to babysit your kid for you on the plane. Once on an international flight, I had an empty seat next to me that a curious and bored 6-year-old boy decided to check out. His mom did a drive-by to make sure that he was ok and that I wasn't some weirdo perv. I was happy to have his company. An hour and a half later, though, I could have killed the kid and his mom. The mom never told me where she was sitting, so I had no idea where to return her now whiny, kicking, hitting, hair-pulling little brat. And the kid wouldn't tell me either. After another 20 minutes the mom finally came back to pick up her son and apologized for falling asleep. Forget the fact that my flight was ruined; this lady left her child with a complete stranger for almost 2 hours. You know how you're supposed to watch your luggage to make sure nothing bad happens to it? Do the same with your children.

If you must be a mover, don't be a shaker. You know what really sucks? When all you want to do on the plane is sleep and some jackass keeps grabbing the headrest of your seat every time he gets up, catapulting your head into the seat in front of you. When it happens more than twice, I like to time it just right so that I stick my leg out and trip jackass as he is trying to pass by. Unfortunately that makes jackass grab for other people's headrests. But it's still funny for about 2 minutes.

Wipe your tray! The airlines used to clean in between flights. They would vacuum, replace blankets with freshly laundered ones, and put protective coverings on headrests so that you wouldn't contract lice from the person who occupied your place previously. Now we're lucky if flight attendants have time to remove the used vomit bags from the seat pockets before they herd the next batch of passengers onboard. Here's a golden rule that you can apply on the plane and in every facet of life: If You Make A Mess, Clean It Up. When I pull out the tray to enjoy my hearty complimentary airplane meal of dollhouse-sized munchy mix, I do not want to see the remnants of your Popeye's ExtraValue FatFace Bucket. Take a napkin, wet it if you have to, and make nice wipey-wipes so that all the food go bye-bye.

If you need to get drunk, do it with class. Make it quick and painless so that you just pass out for the majority of the flight. Don't subject others to it. When you're 45 years old, and you take off your shirt, and you keep calling the flight attendant "sweetheart" and winking at her for more drinks, and referencing Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and asking other passengers if they want to "party," we're definitely laughing at you.