Thoughts On A Provocative Year

As this will be my last post in 2016, I’m compelled to write something that looks back on the year. Something philosophical. There’s certainly plenty of food for thought. And lots of thoughts that were food for bloggers of every persuasion. You’ll be happy to know I don’t intend to get into the weeds of the Presidential election. I’ll do that with my January post of my banned words and phrases for 2017.

However, in the abstract it’s impossible to write about 2016 without having that election in the back of one’s mind. By that I mean the year was nothing if not unpredictable and a break from tradition. On a personal level, that ended with me finally giving up on having a live Christmas tree. You may have read my earlier blog on my inner conflict on that front.

My loss was not just of a live tree at the end of the year, but of dear friends and family earlier on. Their deaths led to the realization that the roles each played in the traditions of my life were also inexorably gone. People move in and out of our lives, but as long as they are still living, there is the possibility that we’ll “catch up” with them again at some point. Reminisce about the good old days, the trips we took, the holidays we celebrated together. Death brings finality to that. Their book has closed.

Elections can also put the stamp of finality on hopes and expectations. Yes, I was able to vote for a woman to be President for the first time. But I might not see one inaugurated in my lifetime. I hope I live long enough to refute that, but for now, I feel a deep sense of loss.

On the brighter side, the events of 2016, both personal and public, remind me that change is part of being alive. How often do we hear the old saw: “Consider the alternative”? Technology puts so many new horizons within our reach. My sister had two knee replacements this year. The new parts were made on a 3D printer to exacting specifications that matched her body to perfection. We’re now looking forward to a trip to Italy together next October.

I’ve landed some new writing gigs with local publications. Beginning next year, my work will appear regularly in two newspapers and a magazine, and I’ll get paid for each article. I’ll also have one of my essays included in an anthology that will be published in 2017: Eighty Things To Do When You Turn Eighty. That milestone is a ways off for me, but I’m happy for the national exposure and they aren’t making me stop dying my gray hair.

My husband, Jagdish, travels to Providence every week for a few days to spend time in his store, Spectrum-India. He and his customers are happy to have him there and I have more than enough to keep me occupied while he’s gone. (Did I mention the senior cats we adopted in the spring?) I’m still playing the saxophone with a community jazz group. I haven’t practiced enough lately to make noticeable progress, so I’ve put my lessons on hiatus. I plan to reinvigorate that effort in 2017.

As I look back on 2016, I could easily become disheartened and bitter. So many of my friends have headed down that road. But I prefer to end the year—and this post—on an upbeat note. We rarely know where the year ahead is going to take us. Events outside our control may or may not impact us personally. But the ones within our control certainly will influence our lives. The year 2017 may surprise us all. I hope that if it surprises you, it’s in a good way. I’m determined to have it turn out that way for me!

Happy Holidays and a healthy and joyful 2017 to all of you.

Arcane Facts Exposed

Someone recently emailed me a list of facts with the title: “So You Think You Know Everything.” My first reaction was: “I used to think I knew a lot. Maybe not everything, but a lot. The older I get, the more I feel like I’m barely getting by.” So of course, I had to read the entire list of perhaps 40 factoids. Some of them were an absolute yawn, but many of them were quite interesting. Especially the ones about animals.

For instance, a cat has 32 muscles in each ear. Also, cats have over one hundred vocal sounds, while dogs have about 10. I have no idea what to do with this information, but since I’m sure most of you reading this have either a cat or a dog, I thought I’d share.

As I read some of the more unusual data, I found myself making comparisons to my husband. The fact that a goldfish has a memory span of three seconds evoked this thought: “Cross one with my husband, and you’ll get a memory span of about two seconds.” And after reading that a snail can sleep for three years: “Cross one with my husband and you get something that can sleep for four years.” Oh, stop feeling so sorry for him. He’s used to this.

Getting more generic about our spouses, did you know that in the last 4,000 years, no new animals have been domesticated—including husbands? And while we’re on the subject of conjugal partners, the fact that there are more chickens than people in the world made me wonder: “What about rabbits?” Everyone knows what happens when you leave a male and a female rabbit alone in a cage for five minutes. Remember the old joke, boy rabbit to girl rabbit: “It won’t hurt, did it?”

I’ve always been fascinated with language, and a lot of these arcane facts are on that topic. I never knew that a “jiffy” is an actual unit of time; it’s 1/100^th of a second. I wonder why we never hear sportscasters at the Olympics telling us that the person who came in second missed gold by just two jiffies.

There are only four words in the English language that end in “dous.” Those are: tremendous, horrendous, stupendous and hazardous. So why is it that it seemed like every fourth word Donald Trump spoke at any of his rallies ended in “dous”?

Here’s something I always wondered about: Using only one hand, what’s the longest word you can type with each of them? With the left it’s “stewardesses” and with the right it’s “lollipop.” This fact is obviously based on an old-fashioned typewriter keyboard, not texting. I’m still waiting to find out what the longest word is that you can text with your nose.

Not surprisingly, there were many interesting tidbits in the science category. Women blink nearly twice as much as men. And as any photographer can tell you, Elaine blinks three times as much as the average woman. People actually called me “Blinky.” I’m a real challenge in group photos.

This one grossed me out. Your stomach has to produce a new layer of mucous every two weeks or else it will digest itself. Eeww! Thank heaven for post nasal drip.

For trivia buffs, if the population of China walked past you single file, the line would never end, because of the rate of reproduction there. To which I am compelled to add: it’s the same for those horny rabbits.

Lastly in the science area, something I was grateful to learn. It’s impossible to sneeze with your eyes open. At least now I can stop trying to do that while I’m driving. Seriously.

There were only a handful of interesting facts having to do with math. This one caught my attention. There are 293 ways to make change for a dollar. I leave you with this added caveat: until the penny is retired (which is being seriously considered). Then what? You might want to figure that out while you’re waiting at red lights, where Americans spend an average of six months. I assume that’s in a lifetime. Or maybe in a Manhattan decade. Either way, happy counting!

O Christmas Tree—Real or Fake?

I’ve always had a fresh Christmas tree. Some years I’ve put up three of them. I’m not counting the little artificial trees for my cats. I’m talking about ones that are six to eight feet tall and smell like the forest has come into your home. I trim each one with ornaments on a different theme—whimsical animals and other colorful objects, metallic stars and snowflakes, glass balls hand blown by local craftsmen.

As my husband and I have aged, it’s become more difficult to get the live trees into their stands. Not to mention getting them straight once they’re in them. We used to laugh when we went through that process, but about two years ago we realized it wasn’t funny anymore. Still, I resisted going fake, lest I evolve into one of those eccentric women who keep their trees up all year.

In my mind, there are four stages of eccentricity. Stage one, you take off the ornaments, stash the tree in a far corner of the room and cover it with an old sheet. Stage two, you leave the ornaments on, but still stash and cover. Stage three, the tree is in the corner, but you no longer bother with the sheet. By stage four, you’re keeping it lit all year. No. This was not a picture of what I wanted to become.

Remembering the prior year’s struggle with our live tree, I broke with tradition last year and bought an artificial one. We found it at Michaels for just $159. It was seven and a half feet tall, but our double-height living room made it appear stunted. The déclassé twine we used to tie it to the wall didn’t help. By Christmas Eve, I was so tormented by my decision that I went out and bought a live tree. The tallest I could find that late was five feet, and we put it on our three-season porch.

Now that I’m a year older and at least one inch shorter, if I want a tree that isn’t dwarfed in our living room, it probably can’t be a live one. As Christmas approaches, I’m searching on-line for artificial trees. I’ve seen some that look almost real. And definitely not déclassé.

Balsam Hill has a good selection, but the number of options is confusing. There are three degrees of “realism”—most realistic, realistic and traditional. Of course I want one that’s realistic. I’m feeling guilty even considering this. But I’m a traditionalist when it comes to my tree. I have no idea what the distinction is, so I put a pin in this decision for now. (Wedding planners on Hallmark romcoms are always “putting pins” in things that need to be resolved.)

Size is another factor. The 10 - 12 feet category seems right for our ceiling. This height comes only in “most realistic” and prices range from $1,699 (now on sale for $1,199) to $2,999 (now $1,999). Apparently, I need to think smaller. The next category down offers all three degrees of realism in a mere 73 combinations. I decide to pull out the realism pin and opt for the middle level. The trees that show up are all 9 feet tall. I can live with that.

The next decision is lights: lit (clear, multi, combo or LED) or unlit. I put another pin in this. Pin in, pin out, pin in. This is giving me vertigo. The prices on these are “just” $1,099 (now on sale for $749) to $1,499 (now $1,049). In addition to those lighting options, I’m offered four needle types. I feel my ADHD kicking in. Desperate to take control of this process, I decide to go with clear lights, either conventional or LED, giving me six choices, which seems manageable.

Now we have needle types: Black Spruce, Durango Douglas Fir, Scotch Pine and Rocky Mountain Pine. This last comes in a “teardrop” shape that is “perfect for hanging delicate ornaments.” I take that to mean the branches will sag under my collection of blown glass balls. Other variations are said to be good for “heavier” ornaments. Does that mean the branches will be too dense for my dangly treasures? I feel another pin coming. Or maybe it’s needles. Needles and pins. (Am I hearing music?)

Good news! For just $19, I can order a branch sample kit with 22 choices that match up to all the trees I’m considering and then some. I spring for the kit, put a pin in the tree decision and head for the wine rack. Maybe a fresh tree isn’t such a bad idea after all. I’ll just need to find someone to help put it up and take it down. I put a pin in that, too.

5 Shades of Not Gray

The 2016 presidential election is over. Half of us are elated; many of us are depressed or angry or scared. Some are searching for a middle ground that will give us a reason for hope. The way forward is to find areas where black and white can blend into commonly acceptable shades of gray. I’m in the third group, but there are certain issues that for me are distinctly black and white, for which there are no shades of gray. Most of these are likely to land in the black-robed laps of the Supreme Court justices.

A Woman’s Right to Choose

The rhetoric of conservatives not withstanding, no woman is pro abortion. We all want to see fewer unplanned and unwanted pregnancies. That’s one reason we support Planned Parenthood. What we are pro is a woman’s right to choose the medical procedures to which her body will be subjected. If the Supreme Court tips significantly to the right and Roe v. Wade is overturned, we will be headed back to dark days.

I do not want young women to experience the fear and the trauma of secretly searching for an illegal abortion. I don’t want them wondering if the “physician” standing over them is legitimate, is truly trained. I don’t want them hoping they’ll wake up whole after the procedure, still able to bear children when they are ready. Those of us who were in our prime during that time do not have to imagine this. We lived it with our sisters.

An Individual’s Right to Marry the Person They Love

There is no room for compromise here. A man has the right to take a husband and a woman to take a wife. Conservative voices insist that marriage can only be between a man and a woman because the Church (or the Bible) says so. They’re confusing the sacrament of marriage with the sanctity of marriage. A religious institution has the right to reserve its sacrament for heterosexual couples, but marriage can take place outside a church or temple.

Many who are against same-sex marriage claim that civil unions should be good enough. Reserving marriage for heterosexual couples only serves to take the concept of love out of the relationship. Since a man and a woman can marry without religious involvement, what then distinguishes a committed couple labeled one way from a couple labeled another is anatomy. That means the conservative definition of “marriage” no longer has anything to do with love; it’s just about body parts.

Those against same-sex marriage seem to be mistaking Velcro for love. Velcro is the stuff where one side needs to have hooks and the other needs loops. Love has no such hooks-and-loops requirement. Lasting love is a matter of the heart, not the anatomy. So should marriage be.

The Protection of Our Environment

Mother Earth must remain sacred not just to Native Americans, but also to those who have the power to regulate the industries that endanger her. We have an obligation to protect the environment for future generations. Climate change is not a political hoax. 2016 is on track to be the hottest year on record, besting 2015, which bested 2014. Our new President wants to cut funding for the EPA, perhaps eliminating it altogether. He may cancel the Paris Accord, through which 190 countries have agreed to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

If the second largest polluter in the world feels no need to protect our air, why would those lower down the totem pole feel a need? Clean Power Plant regulations are already under litigation and deemed unlikely to survive a Supreme Court challenge. There is no do over on this. If preventable pollution is allowed to continue, we’ll see rising oceans, extreme droughts, food in short supply and species becoming extinct. One of those could be homo sapiens. Or more accurately in this case, homo not-so-sapiens.

A Reduction in Income Inequality

This is admittedly a complicated task. Those who are willing and able to work must earn a living wage. Women must earn the same as men who do the same job. Healthcare must be affordable for all. The government at all levels must prepare workers for the new economy with training, access to new technology and affordable college. I’m not advocating for any particular programs, but the goal of reducing income inequality is non-negotiable.

The Dignity of the Individual

If this election teaches us just one thing, it must be that we need to return to civility, to a culture of mutual respect. Words and actions have consequences. Angela Merkel expressed this idea elegantly. She called on our new President to uphold “the dignity of man, independent of origin, skin colour, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or political views.” That sums up my fifth shade of “not gray” perfectly.

Façades Without Substance

My favorite line from a Hallmark Channel romcom movie was spoken by a wealthy titled gentleman. He had finally realized that the non-titled American nanny was more worthy of his son than the superficial and scheming Lady Sniffensnob. He rebuked Lady S with: “It seems to me that you’re the one who is all fur coat and no knickers.” This was a Maggie Smith/Lady Violet-type put-down worthy of an episode of Downton Abbey. (I will so miss that show…)

Then there was the political cartoon with a diminutive Donald Trump under an enormous sombrero, posted the week after he made his trip to Mexico. It was captioned: “All hat and no cattle.” It’s part of a Trace Adkins lyric that also includes “All boots and no saddle.” Most certainly, the song refers to a Stetson and not a sombrero, which made the cartoon even funnier.

The point being driven home in both of these expressions was that there’s an elaborate façade, but little substance or action to back it up. Flashy equipment, but no skill behind it. I’ve put together some more examples.

Sports offer rich potential for this type of idiom; here are just a few.

All dribble and no swish.

All pompoms and no cartwheels.

All putter but no short game.

All tutu and no en pointe.

And one that's just too obvious to resist:

All bat but no balls.

Next we have ones that I call “aspirational.” Most are appropriate for men and women alike, but if your mind works anything like mine, the first one might seem all male.

A huge corkscrew but an empty decanter.

A flashy sports car in a run-down garage.

A Weber grill with ground chuck burgers. (This is my variation of “all sizzle and no steak.”)

Red-soled shoes* with a duck waddle.

*The signature of designer Christian Louboutin

How about some for the musicians among us.

A Yamaha 82Z sax with a plastic mouthpiece.

A Fender Stratocaster that doesn’t know jack.

A Stradivarius played with a birch tree bow. (Think Deliverance.)

A Selmer clarinet for a buck-toothed overbite.

Let’s close with ones that are inspired by the presidential election.

All podium and no speech.

All cross-talk and no moderator. (OK. That’s not even an idiom, but I couldn’t resist sharing it.)

A big rally with a lot of “Really?”

A loud bullhorn and a lot of bull. (Again, not an idiom. My bad.)

And finally:

All pomp and no circumstance.

Nihilistic Security Questions for Seniors

One of the funnier Facebook posts going around is a list of Nihilistic Security Questions. Instead of frothy ones like “What is the name of your first pet?” it includes such witty inquiries as “What is the name of your least favorite child?” and “In what city did you first experience ennui?” I decided to have some fun with similarly nihilistic questions for seniors. As you might expect, this post pretty much wrote itself. Herewith, my “dirty dozen.”

How soon before your planned retirement date did you realize you couldn’t afford to retire?

How many times a night do you get out of bed to go to the bathroom?

Bifocals or trifocals?

How many inches have you shrunk in the past 5 years?

What is the name of your favorite OTC acid-reflux medication?

How long does it take you to get into a pair of Spanx? And out of them?

How many times have you left your cane on the commuter train?

Name your favorite rock’n’roll star who died before you graduated from high school.

Which emergency service provider do you have on speed dial?

How many miles can you drive at night before the halos around the street lights drive you crazy?

How many cats would you have if your condo community didn’t have a limit of two pets per household?

And finally:

How many Facebook friends did you change to “acquaintance” during the 2016 Presidential season?

The High Road Is Not Easy

My Facebook friends have been posting some extremely funny comments about the upcoming Presidential election. I’ve sworn off sharing my own opinions on this on Facebook. Too many friends of a different political persuasion have added snarky remarks to my posts.

I recently made the following comment on a political cartoon on someone else’s page.

Oh snap. Glad I had deadlines the last few days and have been taking a break from CNN. Trying to stay on the high road is like having to pee something fierce, but there’s no bathroom nearby, and you’re forced to walk around with your knees pressed tightly together.

After I read what I wrote, I thought: There is definitely a blog post in this. Here then are some other things that staying on the high road is akin to.

It’s like going to confession as a teenager and telling the priest that your sin was that you lied to your parents. Meanwhile, you know you should really confess to what you and Buzzy were doing in the back seat of his car last weekend. But you also know that if you share that, there will be hell to pay. So the guilt is killing you.

Taking the high road is like going to a wine tasting when you’re the designated driver. You can have just a tiny sip of a few of the offerings. Meanwhile your friends are flying high on the Barolo, the Brunello and the Prosecco. You’re following the waiters around the room, eating as many canapés as you can grab off their trays, but you’re still bitter and resentful. Everyone else is having a great time and you… well, you’re committed to taking the dry road.

It’s like finding the quintessential pastry café in Vienna. Your tongue is literally hanging out as your mouth waters over the elegant sweets. Your traveling companions have plates full of the little morsels. You order just herbal tea, because you’ve promised your GP you will not put on one additional ounce during this trip. You’ll keep to 1100 calories a day, pushing toward your goal of losing another ten pounds.

Women who work in Manhattan will appreciate this high-road metaphor. You’re forced to wear five-inch heels every day so you look professional and have more height. What you long for is ballet flats. They’re so much more comfortable. But no; flats are not an option, because you’ve chosen a career on the high-heel road.

The cover story of a recent issue of Time magazine brought to my attention a reason why taking the high road is especially challenging. Those who treasure a well-turned phrase have dozens of zingers careening around in their brain, but on their restricted path, they can’t use any of them. I was particularly inspired by some of late-night-TV comedian Samantha Bee’s bon mots. (She has her own TBS show, Full Frontal.) Because I’m on that high road, I can’t tell you who her target was. You’ll just have to guess.

Remember: I’m not saying these things. “People” are saying them. OK. Not “people;” Samantha Bee. Here are three of her more imaginative aphorisms: “tangerine-tinted trash-can fire,” “screaming carrot demon” and “America’s burst appendix.”

Speaking of bursting, my brain is about to explode. It’s so full of colorful descriptions I’d love to hurl at someone who shall remain nameless. It’s a cruel world. And it’s even crueler up here on that high road.

His and Hers Tombstones

On a recent drive back from a restaurant where the meal had been a disappointment, my husband apologized to me even though the food choice had been mine. I told him: “You’re always so willing to take the blame.” He said: “If I weren’t planning on being cremated, that’s what I would want on my tombstone.” I laughed. “Yes, yours should read: I was willing to take the blame. And then mine would read: Because he was always wrong.” That kept us laughing most of the way home.

This gave me the idea that husbands and wives should plan their paired tombstone messages well in advance. Here are some combinations that I’ve come up with.

Hers: But I wasn’t finished…

His: She was never finished.

Hers: Does this headstone make me look fat?

His: Not if you stay below ground.

(Think about that one awhile.)

His: Snored like a woodcutter.

Hers: Buried with earplugs, just in case.

His: Her cooking killed me.

Hers: Technically, it was my skillet. (He should have ducked.)

Hers: Are you listening?

His: Were you talking to me?

His: My work here is done.

Hers: His work never started. Mine never ended.

His: Gone too soon.

Hers: It depends on whom you ask.

Hers: I told you I was sick.

His: Every day for forty-five years.

Hers: Going out in style.

His: You’re wearing that for eternity?

Hers: He always made me laugh.

His: That wasn’t the plan.

Hers: The fun is over.

His: It never started.

His: I’m sorry.

Hers: He should be.

Hers: You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but…

His: Just put her back when you’re done.

(Think about that for a minute…)

Hers: Beloved wife and mother.

His: If you say so, dear.

I could keep going, but I’ll let you have some fun with this on your own.

Paraprosdokian Wit

A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence is unexpected, causing the reader to reinterpret the first part. They are often humorous. Here are some great examples I’ve come across.

·      If I had a dollar for every girl that found me unattractive, they'd eventually find me attractive. (This one is going around the Internet; author unknown.)

·      From The Devil’s Horn (the history of the saxophone, which was blamed for all sorts of bawdy behavior):
A gentleman is someone who can play the saxophone, but doesn’t. (First use author unknown.)

·      Will Rogers: I’m not a member of any organized political party. I’m a Democrat.

·      From Time magazine 7/4/16, quoting painter Hans Hoffman on Lee Krasner’s painting:
This is so good, you would not know it was done by a woman.

I’ve been working on my own paraprosdokian collection. They’re not that easy to write. I’ve stretched the definition a bit. Here’s what I have thus far.

·      Why does everyone insist that two cats are enough for one family? If my parents had only had two children, I wouldn’t be here today! (I think I just answered my own question…)

·      People have called me an unabashed opportunist. I think they’re being unfair. But if it gets me what I want, it’s fine with me.

·      If I bought just the shoes that I absolutely could not live without when I worked in Manhattan, there would have been a lot of size 7 women walking around barefoot.

·      If I based what I spend on my cable TV service on the shows that I care about watching, I’d still be explaining my rabbit ears to everyone who comes to visit.

·      On days when I walk in the morning, I nap in the afternoon.
When I don’t walk, I snack all day.
I’ve stopped practicing my saxophone; I’m afraid it will lead to sex.

·      Seniors who socialize lead healthier lives. I tried to put together a dance group for single retirees, but then they all wound up in couples.

·      I’ve become so expert at dieting that I have complete wardrobes in three sizes.

·      They say: “Write what you know.” If I wrote only what I know for sure, I…

Health Boosters

I’ve recently embarked on a walking program with a neighbor who shares my physique (short) and has similar goals (weight loss and such). We’ve been walking 3.4 miles around the golf course three mornings a week. Our time is already down under 18 minutes per mile and it’s amazing what a difference 10 miles at that pace can make. At my annual check up my blood pressure was 120 over 70; I haven’t seen those numbers in years.

Two issues of Time magazine in July had articles on ways to improve your health. One focused on exercise—no surprise there. Another explained ways that nature can lead to a healthier you. I was curious to see how I could augment my exercise routine to boost its health benefits. I was especially interested in the intersections of these two areas, since walking around our golf course combines exercise and nature.

Surprisingly, there were only a few areas of overlap. Even more surprising, lower blood pressure—a key health benefit based on my own experience—wasn’t mentioned under exercise, but it was listed under nature. I’ve thought of some other things that weren’t mentioned, though I can’t imagine why not. More on that in a minute.

One common health advantage was reducing the risk of serious cancers (exercising)/ promoting cancer fighting cells (spending time in nature). Another was to stave off depression (and also anxiety, if you’re out in the greenery). After that, it started to get fuzzier to find commonality.

The nature article claimed that even “fake” nature can be helpful. Potted plants (I assume live ones, not plastic), looking out the window at greenery, listening to those New Age CDs. This seems like a stretch to me, but I suppose if one lives in the concrete jungle, it’s better than nothing.

Speaking of stretching, exercising—especially yoga—is credited with having mind-body benefits. Spending time in nature can increase awe. Seems like doing yoga outdoors would maximize both of those benefits. Yoga in the park is a scene in a lot of movies. Remember Robert De Niro in The Intern? Oh wait. That was tai chi.

Soaking in some nature can relieve ADHD symptoms by improving one’s ability to focus. I wouldn’t categorize myself as hyperactive, but I certainly could use some help in that focusing area. Now, where was I?

Oh yes. Things that were missing in the Time articles. One thing not covered in either piece was any reference to how having a pet can improve ones health. Studies show that purring cats can lower your blood pressure. And any dog owner knows that walking Fido helps with weight loss. Imagine the extra benefit we’d get from walking our pets surrounded by Mother Nature! Maybe I’ll put a harness on Stella to see if she likes our golf course. With my luck, she’ll think the sand traps are giant litter boxes.

I’m sure I also read somewhere that exercising in the buff has added benefits. I surfed the Internet and couldn’t turn up a reliable source for this tidbit. There were plenty of references to the fact that the Greeks exercised naked. And quite a few links to videos of what promised to be nubile young women. So I’ll just tell you that “a lot of people are saying” it’s better to work out naked. You can take that to the bank, believe me.

There’s little doubt in my mind that were I to take my 3.4 mile walk in the nude, I’d be healthier. That’s because I’d get my time down to a 5-minute mile in a flash, the sooner to get out of sight of the neighbors. But before I did that, I’d need to get used to walking with a paper bag over my head. Even at a 5-minute mile, someone might recognize me. A community that controls the color of the holiday lights on residents’ bushes wouldn’t take kindly to streaking bushes.

Can’t Be A Redneck If

Since I’m taking a break from politics, I’ve decided to also take a break from being politically correct. In that spirit and inspired by Jeff Foxworthy, here are reasons why someone cannot be a redneck.

In a recent conversation with my husband, I mentioned: I’ve never had a taste for coffee; I’ve always preferred tea. For some reason, that triggered an image of a redneck, pinky in the air, with the tea bag string and tag draped over the edge of a delicate china cup. It was such a jarring picture that I knew immediately: if you don’t drink coffee, you can’t be a redneck.

The same discussion found me admitting: I’ve also never had a taste for hard liquor. Wine and beer, yes. But whiskey? No way. (I’m discounting the Black Russians I drank when I traveled for Colgate Palmolive.) This of course made me realize that you also can’t be a redneck if you don’t drink whiskey. It doesn’t matter if you have a still in your backyard. That just makes you an entrepreneur, not a redneck. It’s like being a drug dealer doesn’t automatically make you an addict. You have to use your product, too.

Here are some other signs most of you will recognize. You can’t be a redneck if you don’t own a pickup truck. Following proper rules of logic: just because you have a truck doesn’t make you a redneck. But you simply cannot be one unless you have a truck. That’s a non-negotiable requirement.

You also can’t be a redneck if you don’t have at least one tattoo. Best if it’s patriotic, or has some woman’s name (girlfriend or your mother, no matter). A woman needs a tattoo, too. Yours should be the name of your favorite country singer. Or maybe a flower.

One requirement you might not have thought about: You can’t be a redneck if your cousins aren’t married. (Keep reading.) To each other. (I told you this wouldn’t be PC.)

Likewise if you’ve never fired a gun of any kind. It could have been for skeet shooting, target practice, hunting or in the military. Or for scaring off your daughter’s boyfriend. Or a neighbor you don’t like. Or a door-to-door salesman. Owning a gun doesn’t get you off the hook, even if it’s a rifle mounted above the windshield of your pickup. You need to have fired one for some reason; that’s a price of entry.

I’m pretty sure you also can’t be a redneck unless you have at least one bumper sticker on your car or truck. I haven’t done enough research to be sure about this, but it makes sense to me. If one of my readers will just tweet this out, I’ll consider it proof enough. And I’m pretty sure that if you’ve never ever had a vehicle up on cinderblocks in your driveway, you can’t be a redneck. Just sayin’.

If you’ve never attended a state fair, you’re no redneck. And you’re missing out on a great experience. If you don’t care about the livestock displays or baked goods contests, if you don’t eat spun sugar (aka cotton candy or candy floss), and don’t enjoy carnival rides, at least go to one to people watch. It’s way more fun than a trip to Walmart.

You can’t be a redneck unless you’ve stood around waiting for someone to light up a cherry bomb, an ash can or a six-inch salute. And especially if your brother didn’t tell you when it was lit; he just ran. And you still have ringing in your ears because it took a few seconds before you realized what was going on.

If you believe the “Dueling Banjos” scene in the movie Deliverance is a classic, you definitely can’t be a redneck. And finally, if you support Hillary Clinton for President, I doubt you’re a redneck. (I couldn’t resist at least a whiff of politics.)

I know there are many more criteria on which to assess whether or not someone could be a redneck. Probably as many ways as there are to peg someone as a pompous intellectual…

The Black-White Existential Divide

The horrific events of recent weeks have once again spotlighted the color divide in this country. African-Americans tell us that Whites cannot know what it’s like to be Black in America. I accept this without reservation. Similarly, law enforcement spokespersons tell us that civilians can’t know what it’s like to be a police officer in an American city. I accept this as well.

These are just two examples of existential divides in today’s society. I live on one side of another of these. I’m a 26-year cancer survivor. I probably look a lot like you. Or your sister. Or your mother. But unless they’re cancer survivors, too, we’re not the same. From a survivor’s perspective, the world is split into two groups: those who have personally battled the disease and those who have not. Unless you’ve had "the Big C", you can’t know what it’s like to live on my side.

There’s a fundamental difference across the three existential divides of Race—Law Enforcement—and Cancer. A person like me who has had cancer will personally know how life differs before and after you have the disease A police officer likewise has a framework against which to compare life before he joined the force with life wearing a badge. A person of color can never know what it’s like to be White. And a White man can never truly experience life in a Black man’s skin.

This is more than a casual distinction. White people need to invest extra effort in order to put themselves in the other's “shoes.” I hope that as a society we are generous enough to do that. I’ve heard personal stories of what it’s like to be Black in our country today from my friends who are people of color. I know Black professionals who had to have “the talk” with their sons (and themselves). “Don’t make eye contact. Bow your head. Swallow your pride. Better to live to see another day.”

I’ve read the account of a friend of color pulled over for a routine traffic stop. This woman is an attorney and has multiple degrees, including from Ivy institutions, but she was paralyzed with fear. She sat in her car, hands gripping the wheel, assessing how to retrieve her ID from her purse without getting shot. Shot for (supposedly) not pausing long enough at a stop sign. She survived the incident, but now she’s struggling to contain the anger it has left her with.

I can’t completely appreciate what this must be like, but I’m immensely sad just imagining how these friends must feel. The Black-White existential divide is one that none of us can actually cross. But by reaching out to those of opposite skin tones and sharing their fear and their pain, we can at least hope to narrow the chasm.