And then there's you.
I write a nice post about chivalrous men, and then my daughters come home from a day at the amusement park (with Grandma, thank God, and not me), and I hear about you.
The guy in the bumper cars, who gave my daughter (and Grandma - *frown!*) whiplash by rear-ending them.
And I want to throw up my hands and lambaste every one of your gender for your neglect of one of the most basic tenets of manhood: Protect women and children.
How could you?!
I will assume you (a grownup, at an amusement park) have a drivers' license, and therefore no excuse for poor driving skills. I will also assume that you, having a drivers' license, have adequate vision, and therefore no excuse for not looking out for women and children in your proximity, especially when they are in front of you.
Fortunately in my life, I have experienced more chivalry than barbarity from men, so that you, Boorish Bumper-Car Driver, rather than converting me to feminazism, serve as an illustration of the maxim "The exception proves the rule."
I believe most men out there are (or want to be) chivalrous*. A desire to protect women and children is in their blood. Sometimes they are scared off from their instincts by poor role models or rude women. Sometimes they are confused by conflicting cultural messages.
Perhaps (I could choose graciousness, I suppose), that was the case with you, Bumper-Car Man.
Or perhaps Grandma and the girls didn't see you well in the dim bumper car arena. Perhaps you aren't a man, after all.
Perhaps you are still a boy.
*Chivalry, according to Google: the combination of qualities expected of an ideal knight, especially courage, honor, courtesy, justice, and a readiness to help the weak. (And if that last word bothers any of you women, as I expect it might, try arm-wrestling any of your male peers. Weakness of body need not be equated with weakness of intellect or will, and I am quite certain that your average man certainly never mistakes it for the latter.)
Showing posts with label chivalry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chivalry. Show all posts
Friday, August 15, 2014
to the old guy at the Dollar store
It was a cool, sunny day in August (which, before this year, I wouldn't have said was possible). Sugar, Nice, and Lil' Snip had chosen and purchased gifts for Spice from the dollar store. [Lil' Snip, knowing her heart's desire but ignorant that my Farmer and I had already taken care of it, told me that he wanted to buy her a bike. With his quarter. Sooooo sweet.]
We headed to the van with our birthday booty, well-concealed by bags and body-shielding. As the children buckled up, I glanced back at the store and made an executive decision. "Wait here. There's something else I want to get. I'll be right back." And walked briskly toward the doors.
I saw you - an older gentleman (well, to be fair, you didn't look particularly gentlemanly; just another t-shirted old guy with a bushy mustache) - headed in the same direction.
You reached the doors before I did.
Opened one.
And held it for me, waiting.
I could have gestured "Go ahead."
I could have taken offense, assuming that you thought me weak and in need of assistance, and, by association, feeble-minded as well.
I could have accused you of sexism and rudely explained that I can open my own doors, thank-you-very-much.
But I didn't.
I smiled. Said "Thank you!" Walked in and bought that can of Pringles (my executive decision). Walked back to the van to share them with my children, thinking about courtesy and other old-fashioned gestures.
To me, a man holding open a door for me (or offering to catch me when I stumble, or to keep me from inadvertently endangering my unborn child) is not an insult to my abilities.
It is a public testament to my value, to the value of all women, and to that man's commitment to care for and protect all women, because of his respect for us.
So thank you to the old guy at the Dollar store, to those few remnants of civilization, who offer me their place in line, hold doors for me to go through, stand to offer me a seat in a crowded room, pay for my meal on a date (only my Farmer does that, now!), or otherwise defer to and serve me.
(My Farmer, for instance, has started a charming new evening ritual of offering to bring me a snack from the kitchen when he is headed there to find one for himself.)
You are a noble breed. I want to raise my son to be one of you.
We headed to the van with our birthday booty, well-concealed by bags and body-shielding. As the children buckled up, I glanced back at the store and made an executive decision. "Wait here. There's something else I want to get. I'll be right back." And walked briskly toward the doors.
I saw you - an older gentleman (well, to be fair, you didn't look particularly gentlemanly; just another t-shirted old guy with a bushy mustache) - headed in the same direction.
You reached the doors before I did.
Opened one.
And held it for me, waiting.
I could have gestured "Go ahead."
I could have taken offense, assuming that you thought me weak and in need of assistance, and, by association, feeble-minded as well.
But I didn't.
I smiled. Said "Thank you!" Walked in and bought that can of Pringles (my executive decision). Walked back to the van to share them with my children, thinking about courtesy and other old-fashioned gestures.
To me, a man holding open a door for me (or offering to catch me when I stumble, or to keep me from inadvertently endangering my unborn child) is not an insult to my abilities.
It is a public testament to my value, to the value of all women, and to that man's commitment to care for and protect all women, because of his respect for us.
So thank you to the old guy at the Dollar store, to those few remnants of civilization, who offer me their place in line, hold doors for me to go through, stand to offer me a seat in a crowded room, pay for my meal on a date (only my Farmer does that, now!), or otherwise defer to and serve me.
(My Farmer, for instance, has started a charming new evening ritual of offering to bring me a snack from the kitchen when he is headed there to find one for himself.)
You are a noble breed. I want to raise my son to be one of you.
Monday, August 29, 2011
how to make tomato sauce (the easy way)
2) watch your husband carry in a large plastic tub of organic tomatoes from work that would otherwise have "gone to waste".
3) watch afore-mentioned husband wash and quarter tomatoes; offer tips as necessary.
4) prepare supper while tomatoes cook in large stockpot on the stove. mention to husband the possibility of tomatoes scorching.
5) when supper is over and husband starts to look for the strainer gizmo, point him in the right direction, then go out to the hammock to read while he assembles it.
6) come back inside in time to watch Spice ladle the last of the cooked tomatoes into the strainer's hopper as husband tilts the strainer so that it doesn't spill onto the floor, Everything Nice pokes at the garbage end helpfully with the masher thing, and Sugar entertains Lil' Snip in the livingroom by crashing him onto the sofa with her.
7) wow the family by pouring the resulting tomato juice into two dutch ovens without spilling any of it.
8) volunteer to (wo-)man the sauce as it cooks down so that husband is free to clean up the strainer gizmo.
9) stir the sauce while reading personality books and watching husband in peripheral vision.
10) agree with husband that making sauce is a lot more involved than it appears.
11) get husband to take over stirring before your arm falls off and you expire from boredom on the pretext of making room in the refrigerator for the (hopefully single, eventually) pan of sauce.
12) thank husband for stirring, acknowledge his astute comment about the dullness inherent in the task of stirring, and set dutch ovens of sauce on trivets to cool on the table.
13) read more personality books.
14) announce that you're going to bed, then discover the two dutch ovens of sauce still cooling on the table.
15) pour sauce into a single dutch oven and place on trivet in the refrigerator.
16) wash out the other dutch oven before the ring of tomato "paste" hardens into tomato candy.
17) get ready for bed.
18) just before you get into bed, get the brilliant idea to write the whole sauce-making process down for the benefit of (wo-)mankind everywhere.
19) go to bed, windows open to admit cool post-hurricane autumnal breezes & the songs of crickets . . . .
20) make the mistake of sharing your brilliant post with husband, thereby giving him the opportunity (which he cannot pass up, due to his phlegmatic personality) to remark, "yeah, you weren't much help."
21) remind husband of step 1), add his compliments to your post and go back to bed.
[22) let husband read post to check for any inadvertent husband-bashing. be pleased when he laughs.]
Monday, August 01, 2011
a brief defense of chivalry
I realize this is a minefield. Just humor me.
Recently, in a public setting, I came very close to falling down some stairs while holding precious cargo: my 14-month-old son, Lil' Snip. Two men, seated nearby, leapt instantly to their feet, hands automatically outstretched to catch us or break our fall. Shaken, I regained my balance (and my composure) sufficiently to thank them, and moved on, baby intact.
Could that have been embarrassing? To be caught by two men, mid-fall, in public? Absolutely.
Did I wish they had left me to save myself by dint of my woman-power? Absolutely not.
This is not the first time that men of limited moral proximity to me (thank you, Isabel Dalhousie) have instinctively risen to rescue or protect me. Once, at the pottery studio, eight months pregnant, I was applying glaze with a small brush to bisqued pots, being very careful to avoid getting the potentially toxic-to-my-baby mixture on my skin. Two resident potters entered the studio in conversation, saw me glovelessly glazing, and rushed in tandem to alert me to the danger.
Knowing that there are men out there who are programmed in their very DNA to protect women and children (despite jeopardy to their political correctness) makes the world seem, to me, a safer and a friendlier place. I wanted to go on record as being in favor of this.
Recently, in a public setting, I came very close to falling down some stairs while holding precious cargo: my 14-month-old son, Lil' Snip. Two men, seated nearby, leapt instantly to their feet, hands automatically outstretched to catch us or break our fall. Shaken, I regained my balance (and my composure) sufficiently to thank them, and moved on, baby intact.
Could that have been embarrassing? To be caught by two men, mid-fall, in public? Absolutely.
Did I wish they had left me to save myself by dint of my woman-power? Absolutely not.
This is not the first time that men of limited moral proximity to me (thank you, Isabel Dalhousie) have instinctively risen to rescue or protect me. Once, at the pottery studio, eight months pregnant, I was applying glaze with a small brush to bisqued pots, being very careful to avoid getting the potentially toxic-to-my-baby mixture on my skin. Two resident potters entered the studio in conversation, saw me glovelessly glazing, and rushed in tandem to alert me to the danger.
Knowing that there are men out there who are programmed in their very DNA to protect women and children (despite jeopardy to their political correctness) makes the world seem, to me, a safer and a friendlier place. I wanted to go on record as being in favor of this.
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