Anybody Can Do That

Anybody Can Do That.

It’s amazing to me how often complete strangers tell me that as their reaction to something I do, can do, or have done.  I’m not necessarily looking for praise, but I’m certainly not looking for denigration.  

As an example, about a month ago I decided to dive into dating once again.  Don’t worry.  It only lasted a weekend before I had enough of it, but I tried.  This time around I decided to try out the Hinge app.  Allegedly, the people who choose this app are more interested in actually meeting someone and forming a relationship.  It was easy enough to set up my profile, and I’ll admit that I appreciated their approach which was less “write an essay about yourself” more “choose three questions to answer or ask”.  If anything it allowed for an infusion of a little personality in the endless scroll of potential dates who like to travel, are inexplicably on a boat and borrowed a small child for a non-threatening photo.  

One of the questions you were offered was to play a game of Two Truths and a Lie.  I was down with this.  I can usually come up with a good one, but I always forget two of the three statements I have chosen in the past. So, it’s like the first time every time—including right now.

Please join me in a little game.  Here are my three statements.  Two are true.  One is not.

1. I competed in 6 triathlons in a single year.
2. My lack of dancing ability led to a demotion.
3. My childhood pet was a parakeet.

Without fail, the triathlon statement is always chosen as the lie.  And the triathlon statement is the only one that I ALWAYS use because it seems so unlikely, but is absolutely true (and a huge source of personal pride).  Most people don’t think I could do one triathlon, much less six.  I’m not surprised by that in the least.  I’m no athlete.  I was always chosen last in gym class.  In fact, growing up, my 6th grade PE teacher was the only person who ever made fun of my name—literally booing me when it was my turn to play table tennis (the only game in which I had any level of proficiency).  Whether that seemingly innocent roast at the hands of an adult led to the other kids actively working to keep me from ever getting close to the ball during the basketball unit that started a week later, I’ll never know.  But one thing’s for sure, when saw the basketball heading my way (and me realizing I had to jump into action and put my best foot forward for my team), she wasted no time physically pushing me out of the way and onto the floor sending me sliding perilously toward the open doorway to the main hall.  The only thing that prevented me from sliding out of the gym was my shoulder and the door jamb.  The game didn’t stop. was mildly disciplined, and I was told to sit on the bleachers for the rest of the week.  

Look Argentina, before you start crying for me, know that my lack of sporting ability and the subsequent societal pressure not to even bother isn’t the only thing that makes me an unlikely candidate for the title “athlete”, much less “triathlete”.  I’m clumsy.  I’m not just regular clumsy.  I’m professional-grade clumsy.  I’m walking-on-a-flat-path-in-perfect-conditions-with-no-obstacles-in-the-way-but-still-managed-to-injure-myself clumsy.  I’ve sprained my ankles 5 times (almost 6 if you count my recent episode walking out of a hotel which ended with me toppled over my luggage, legs splayed, with my dress over my head). Knowing all of that, it’s clear why this personal fact is such a surprising one. 

Despite all of this, the triathlon statement is completely true.  Sadly, anyone who has guessed this incorrectly doesn’t even know about my history as a clumsy benchwarmer.  They just know that I don’t appear to be athletic.

Given all of this information, it is probably obvious that the other true statement is about dancing.  That’s another story—as funny as it is humiliating.  So that means the lie is about the parakeet.  I wanted a parakeet.  I wanted to name it Perky. I settled for a parakeet puppet for which my dog didn’t particularly care.

So, that’s the game, but let’s get back to the dating.  

Hinge app.  That’s where I was.  Well, it seemed promising enough.  I had a clever conversation starter.  It wasn’t as charming as I would have hoped.  I did manage to start a conversation with two different guys.  One was nice.  We went on a date.  It was fun.  And then we never spoke again.  The other was a pill.  Carrying on a conversation with him was like pulling teeth—perfectly healthy teeth that did not need to be pulled.  It all started with the Two Truths and a Lie.  Actually, that’s not true.  It all started with a picture of me and an owl, about which he quizzed me on my knowledge of owls and essentially told me I didn’t know anything because he had watched a documentary about owls which made him an expert.  Then it moved to him hating all music I mentioned and getting annoyed when I was able to hold a coherent conversation about the music he liked (which was super obscure and definitely not my bag, but generally a topic I know well regardless of my personal feelings).  I should have ended it there...but, not one to let sleeping dogs lie, I kept responding which led to this:

Random Stranger: You’ve never done a triathlon.

Me: No, that one is true.

RS: Yeah, but you probably just did the short ones.

Me: I didn’t do IronMans if that’s what you mean, but I did 2 Olympic distance and 4 sprints.

RS: Right.  So short ones.  Anybody can do that.

Me: I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

RS: Yeah, well those aren’t even real triathlons.  How long are they?

Me: An Olympic is roughly a 1-mile swim, 25-mile bike ride, and a 6-mile run.  It’s what they do in the Olympics. It’s definitely real.

RS: Yeah, but the sprint ones aren’t.

Me: Yeah, those are shorter, but you still do three events back-to-back.  I think the shortest one I did was a quarter-mile swim, 12-mile bike ride, and a 2-mile run.  It’s still a challenge.

RS: Maybe.  It still isn’t hard.

And there it is.  My accomplishment wasn’t an accomplishment at all. It was just something that anybody can do.  It doesn’t matter that I trained 4 days a week for several months to get to the point of being able to do it or that I know that physically I couldn’t do a triathlon right now without starting over with the training.  Anybody can do that, so I shouldn’t feel good about myself for doing something that I never thought I could or would do.  To add insult to injury, that guy (and usually anyone who has ever made the “Anybody can do that” claim) told me he doesn’t exercise, so he didn’t come from a place of knowledge.  

I wish I could say this was the first time I have had this conversation, but it wasn’t.  I’m amazed by how quickly people are willing to minimize the achievements of strangers.  This isn’t limited to dating, although it happens frequently on first dates (or the first conversation one has before most likely NOT going on a date).  

It isn’t just athletic achievements.  It’s anything.  My job.  My hobbies.  Everything that I can do is apparently no big deal because ANYBODY CAN DO THAT.  And yet...not that many people do it.

What really bothers me about the whole “Anybody can do that” claim is not the fact that it isn’t entirely true.  It’s that by making the claim that anybody can do doesn’t make anybody want to do it.  It has the opposite effect.  It makes people think it isn’t something worth trying or putting the effort into doing.  It’s a passive-aggressive statement with the intent to dissuade someone from trying in the first place.  It encourages mediocrity by making the claim that nothing is extraordinary or worthy of pride.  Nothing is an achievement.  It’s just a thing that anybody can do.  

And, more disturbing yet, immediately brushing off another person’s talent, skill, or achievement as something that “Anybody can do” is just an easy way to quickly chip away at their self-confidence in a bid to get the upper hand.  It is no different than the guy who greeted me by insulting my choice of shirt as a way to trick me into doing whatever I could to curry favor with him.  It wasn’t a winning strategy with this girl, but it’s a trick that must work on others.  He wasn’t the first, nor will he be the last man to insult me upon first meeting me with the claim that it was just an innocent flirting tactic.  

Belittling another person, whether they are a stranger or a friend, is unacceptable.  Starting off a relationship with malicious criticism is dangerous.  While I am the protagonist of my own story, I also played a part in this cycle.  I stuck around for far longer than I should have or even wanted.  Why?  Because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings?  Because I didn’t see that I had anything better to do?  Because I felt some sense of obligation, despite the fact that they were complete strangers?  Maybe.  More likely, I didn’t walk away because being told that I’m nothing special spoke to that awful part of myself that tells me the same thing.  That little voice the creeps up throughout the day reminding me of all of my failings—real or imagined.

But that’s where the triathlons came in.

Just so we are all clear, I didn’t win any races.  I was a turtle.  But I finished, and I liked it enough that I kept training—because the achievement of crossing that finish line made me feel pride in myself that was absent most of the time.  I remember being at the track during a running practice when I realized that the only time of the day when I was consistently nice to myself, when my internal dialogue was positive and encouraging was when I was running.  Extend that to a race, and that meant that for at least 2 straight hours, I was my greatest champion—and sadly, the rest of the day, I was my greatest critic.  That feeling of pride, of being encouraged, and ultimately, of being empowered by my own thoughts carried over into other aspects of my life.  

So, when random strangers tell me my accomplishments are no big deal because “Anybody can do that”, it infuriates me.  Big accomplishments require blood, sweat, tears, and patience.  Diminishing those achievements by telling someone “Anybody can do that” just chips away at their self worth and gives credence to the nagging internal voice that would rather just sit on the couch.  It prevents them from doing all the work that will get them to a place where they CAN do that.

For me, as someone who did compete in 6 triathlons in a single year, being told that “Anybody can do that” takes away the power of knowing I DID do that.  And it was a huge deal.  

And maybe one day I’ll meet someone who thinks so too.

I Just Thought He'd Be Boring

So I decided to throw my hat back in the dating ring after a little hiatus. It seemed like time to put myself out there and find out what my new home had to offer. I admit that I was a little gun-shy after the last guy I went out with suggested a pre-dinner threesome. That encounter made me question dating after 40. Are the only available men complete weirdos? Socially awkward oddballs? Completely flawed in ways that can’t be corrected? Who wouldn’t start to wonder such things? Granted, my sample up to now has been relatively small, consisting of only three men (and they were British, so that probably adds another layer of bizarre behavior that a Yank such as myself might not understand). Of the three, one was normal. The other two, well, they had their issues. Despite this, I decided to throw caution to the wind and optimistically hope that maybe it was just British men over 40.

 And that’s what led me to Bumble. A few weeks ago, out of boredom, I decided to see what this little app was all about. Straight out of the gates I was confronted with single, never married, no kids 40-something men who took great issue with my single, never married, no kids status. This was no shock. I’ve battled this particular dialogue for awhile now. It is dumbfounding, but it happens frequently enough that I am in no way surprised. The typical conversation goes a little something like this:

Guy: So what’s your story? Ever been married?
Me: No.
Guy: Really?
Me: Really.
Guy: But you have kids?
Me: No. Never married, no kids.
Guy: Buy why? You just don’t want to get married?
Me: I didn’t say that. I’ve just never been married.
Guy: Why not?
Me: No one ever asked.
Guy: And no kids?
Me: No. I feel like the kids would have come after the marriage I haven’t had.
Guy: Oh, so you don’t like kids?
Me: I never said that. I like kids fine. I just don’t have any.
Guy: So you don’t want kids…
Me: It’s not that I don’t want kids. I just don’t have any. And honestly, I’m 41. I think that ship has sailed.
Guy: Why are you looking to meet someone if you don’t want kids or to be married?
Me: Neither of those assumptions are true.
Guy: Then why haven’t you been married?
Me: Honestly I couldn’t tell you. But, I believe you’re in the same boat. So why is this an issue?
Guy: That’s different.
Me: I doubt that.
Guy: I just don’t see this working out if you are against marriage and kids.
Me: I didn’t say that. I just haven’t been. There’s a difference.
Guy: Well, I’m a traditional guy. I don’t see how we can work this out.
Me: Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s definitely me.


That conversation alone is enough to put a girl off dating. I mean, how many times must I justify my life choices? Sometimes in this life, things just happen the way they do. And if you’re a dude looking for a lady, wouldn’t the lack of ex-husband/screaming children baggage be a positive attribute? I once had this same conversation with a Hungarian bartender who was married, had three children and openly cheated on his wife with multiple women. In fact, this conversation occurred after he propositioned me, and I turned him down. He told me he was disgusted by me because I was (at the time) 35, unmarried, and had never had children. His reason (and the one I am given 90% of the time): I’m a traditional guy, and I don’t agree with your values. My values? The values where I’m fully self-sufficient, I don’t lie, cheat, steal, or sleep with people outside of my relationship? Those values? It is maddening. But I digress.

Back to Bumble. Despite this knowledge, I was still willing to give it a try. And yes, the first guy I talked to was very upset by my unblemished past. But that’s fine. I was annoyed by his holier-than-thou attitude. Things improved the very next day when I had a date with an awesome guy. We laughed, we talked, time stood still. I was okay with the fact that he had kids. He really seemed like my match. We planned to go out again. And then he disappeared. So, perhaps he was not so perfect after all. I also met a striking and successful Aussie who seemed to be interested in interviewing me as a potential agent to introduce him to clients for his wealth management firm. And I had a rousing night out with a fella who arrived fifteen minutes late due to his dog’s “tummy issues”, was already tipsy, insisted on doing shots, kept trying to force me to kiss him, smoked weed while we played pool and mocked the fact that I had told him in the first few minutes of our meeting that I wasn’t a smoker. He was pretty convinced that he was going to get some action, and his choice of bars was a clue to that mindset as it was next to his apartment. Sadly (for him), he did not, though I did walk his dog.

After that week of excitement and disappointment, I decided to take a break. I also went out of town for a couple of weeks, so it was easy for me to delete my account and rethink my strategy. My takeaway from that round of meeting and greeting was that dating over 40 had its perks. All three of my suitors had good jobs. For me that’s a welcome change. I’m often the adult in any given relationship scenario, so I was pleased to be on more even ground. Despite a few red flags, they had their lives in order too. I didn’t see myself having to become a life coach, and I felt like things were looking up despite the letdowns.

Then I embarked on round two.

Wednesday is the day I join Bumble. I’m not sure if it’s a thing, but it happened twice in a row. So maybe. Things started out similarly in my second attempt. I did match with several people. I had a few conversations. Most of them devolved into nothing. I matched with many of the same people I had matched before. I decided to widen my scope of interest an swipe right on guys that I normally wouldn’t. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to meet someone a little out of my usual criteria (Side note: In retrospect, I realize that this strategy led me to the threesome guy, so it may be faulty). It was effective in getting more matches. I also decided that I had a responsibility to myself to start a conversation with everyone with whom I matched. That was also mildly successful.

On the whole, I wasn’t terribly moved by any of my matches. They were nice enough, but they didn’t share my sense of humor. I found them to be a little dull, but I decided to be open to anything. On Thursday, I had dinner with a really nice and quite shy guy. We had stilted conversation, and I could see in his eyes that I lost him when I was regaling him with my story of escaping a mafia shakedown at a pizza place in Russia. My stories don’t land with all audiences. I know that, yet I try. I managed to salvage it a bit, but I could tell that we were two very different people. If he were to tell the story, then I definitely was the weirdo in this scenario.

Friday I was asked out by three different men. I accepted two of the invitations because the third conflicted. The first invitation was a coffee date. He suggested dinner and a movie (novice move), but I insisted on coffee. I had been increasingly annoyed by his conversation, mostly because he was a little dull and persistent. So, I thought a 45 minute coffee date would be ample time for a date. This proved to be the correct choice.

If I were to write a Yelp review of this date, the title of my review would be: I Thought He’d Be Boring, I Didn’t See the Crazy.

We met at Starbucks. He wasn’t pleased with this option as he was campaigning for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (clearly he doesn’t know me), but I was adamant about the coffee date. I figured that if I really wanted to have dinner, I could bring myself to flip through that menu for a few hours. While Starbucks may not be cool or chic, it is a place with chairs, tables, and other people. Little did I know at the start of this date the value of those other people.

The date started out normal enough. He was more attractive in person than he was in his photo, so that was a plus. He was nice and polite. He bought my tea. We sat down and chatted for a little bit. As usual, my job came up as a topic of seemingly endless conversation. He was an engineer, but had little interest in telling me about his work. He was obviously intelligent, and was interesting enough. We chatted about cycling and running. He suddenly became concerned that I was a gypsy and had no home. Apparently, I’m the first woman he met who has a job. That should have been of concern to me, but I brushed it aside. As usual, my work life was perplexing to the typical 9-5’er, but that’s par for the course. On the whole, things were going swimmingly. I wasn’t particularly interested, but I was having an interesting enough conversation.

Everything was more or less hunky dory, until he decided to tell me about his ex-wife. Immediately, I became skeptical. Who complains about their ex when they first meet someone? Alas, I was in it, so I put on my plastic customer service smile and I listened…and listened…and tried not to show my fear.

He launched into the tirade about his ex-wife when I asked him what he liked to do for fun. He told me that I needed to understand that he once was a fun, sociable, active guy, and then he married an awful woman. He felt completely duped as she lived in Miami, and he flew to visit her once a week for four years. He thought she was fun, but he realized he was dating Florida, and not her. When she moved to Texas, he discovered that she was a miserable person. She didn’t like to do anything, and she didn’t want him to do anything. In fact, he wasn’t even allowed to go to the gym because she didn’t trust him while he was away for any amount of time.

At this point, it seemed like the usual ranting of a scorned divorcee. I smiled and empathized when necessary. This rant went on for what felt like forever, and it was obvious that the divorce was recent. In my estimation, he was not in a place to be dating, and I wasn’t upset about that since I was getting less interested by the minute. Then, he revealed more details to me.

“I was under investigation by the FBI,” he announced. I just responded with a quick, “Oh, uh huh” because that’s a totally normal thing to reveal. Yes, apparently, he was flagged as a Taliban recruiter. I continued to smile, and I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was Iranian, and I thought the trajectory of the story would be that he was an innocent victim of racial profiling. That would have made sense. That would have been better. That’s not what he told me. “The whole thing was ridiculous. I had two computer terminals in my house, and I went onto a Taliban website. On one computer I posed as a recruiter, on the other I posed as someone interested in joining. I was trying to get into the minds of these people. I wanted to know how they think, and why they do the things they do. I was just doing this on my own. But the information I was getting would have been really valuable to companies or to the FBI.”

I could feel my eyes widening, and I tried to keep it normal. I reminded myself that this is just like when my guests go on a racist rant about which they are convinced I agree. You smile, you nod, you walk away. Reveal nothing. Just don’t make them mad at you.

He continued with the story, which led to the FBI showing up at his door one day with a pile of evidence against him. According to him they told him that they knew he wasn’t a recruiter. They knew he was just some “freak” (his word) who was messing around. They wanted him to stop, and they opened a four-year investigation. In that investigation, they found nothing. He mentioned that it was crazy because he works for the nation’s largest defense contractor, and he never lost his job. So, obviously he was completely innocent. In the end, the FBI closed the case and sealed the records. Nothing they found could ever be held against him. He signed a non-disclosure agreement saying that he would never speak of the details. I’m not sure what the agreement said specifically, but I question whether or not this particular first date conversation was acceptable. From my end, it certainly wasn’t. However, better to know all of the skeletons right off the bat?

With such a shocking revelation, you’d think that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. He continued to tell me about his ex-wife. He detailed the collapse of their marriage. It was clear to him that it was entirely her fault because she was an awful person. They have a child together, and he was fighting for custody. He lamented that had they been living in Iran, his ex-wife would have no rights and this would be a non-issue. Rather than leaving it at that, he gleefully described the non-status of women in his home country by motioning to the bottom of his chair and saying, “17 Million women are under there. They aren’t even thought of.” Sensing that this was, perhaps, upsetting to the woman across from him, he added, “Don’t get me wrong. Iranian women have made great strides. It’s better than it was.” It was a true moment of empowerment for every woman in Starbucks.

It was during the bit about the kid that he pulled out his phone and handed it to me, telling me to read a text exchange between he and his ex-wife. I should add that he did have a tiny moment of self-awareness where he expressed his concern that he may have overstepped and lost any chance of me ever talking to him again.

I know I haven’t been on many dates lately, but I’m pretty sure that’s not normal. I felt so awkward looking at that phone. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I pretended instead, and when he asked if I understood it, I nodded. Lucky for me, he felt compelled to expound upon the text. As it happens, his ex-wife had an affair and believes the baby is not his. Shocking, I know. He then told me all about his plans to get the baby back, his refusal to take a DNA test, and a bizarre manipulation to pretend to fire his lawyer to get her to implicate herself in some way. He also may have revealed that he too was unfaithful, but that was completely beside the point.

This bit went on for a long time, and I was finally able to glance at my watch. It had been an hour. Ever since the FBI story came up, a man sitting at a table across from me became interested. We made eye contact a few times. He didn’t help me, but he definitely looked concerned. I continued to smile and listen and plot my escape.

I really thought the story was wrapping up at this point. I mean, how much more could there possibly be? It wasn’t. He needed to tell me more about what an awful wife this poor woman was. She apparently went to bed at 8pm every night. Looking back on it, he assumed that she was probably tired from having all of those affairs while he was at work. Because she went to bed so early, he needed to entertain himself, and that’s when he developed a hobby.

A hobby. That’s what he called it. You know, like model airplanes or crossword puzzles. His hobby was going onto LGBTQ websites and posing as a lesbian, or a gay man, or someone interested in transitioning. He would talk all night to these people. Thankfully, he didn’t detail the conversations, as I suspect they weren’t innocent. After months of doing this, his wife found out. Shocking, I know. He informed me that it was strange she was able to find out since he takes his phone everywhere, including to the bathroom—which may be where these conversations took place. One day, she found the phone, and she saw the conversations, and she filed for divorce. "Obviously she was looking for an out, and that was the easiest one," he said. (Right.  Obviously. That was the only possible avenue. Right.)

He felt this was a good time to reassure that he, in fact, was not gay. I simply responded with, “Yeah, of course.” However, what I meant to say was, “Gay is the least of my concerns. You have managed to throw up so many red flags in this monologue that the best outcome is that you are an asshole. And that is enough for me to never want to see you again. Unfortunately for you, being an asshole is minor when you compare it to all of the other things you appear to be.”

I glanced at my watch again and was surprised that in only ten minutes I had endured so many twists and turns. He thought it would be a good idea to suggest we grab dinner, and I managed to quickly turn him down. I thought things were finally winding down, but he kept talking. He complained about his wife some more. He was angry that she comes off as the good one and he comes off as a gay man. He told me that she accused him of having HIV and is taking a test. It just kept going. He detailed his financial picture and informed me of how much money he had in his bank account and how much his lawyer costs. It was madness. I grabbed my scarf to try and signal an end to this disaster. Honestly, I don’t know how many more shocking revelations I could take.

Thankfully, he did take that social cue, and he started to wrap up. His parting words to me were, “I’m not good-looking enough to be a gigolo, or rich enough to be a sugar-daddy, but I hope I can be something in between for you. I’ll carry your groceries. I’ll make phone calls. Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it. You can come to my house and watch movies. I have a great couch.”

What I wanted to say was “I don’t think you’re in a place where you should be inviting new people into your life. I encourage you to take a long hard look at your choices and see how you got to this point. Also, you might do some research into appropriate behavior and acceptable conversation topics.” But all I could say was, “That’s very nice of you. Thank you for iced tea. It was nice meeting you. Have a good weekend.” Admittedly I wanted to know what phone calls he would make for me and why? That’s an odd service to provide. But, I opted to let that question linger without resolution. After all, I can only assume he was proposing a trade of “services”, and since he led with a potential AIDS diagnosis, I was definitely not game to push the issue.

As I walked away, my smile quickly turned into a silent scream. What the hell just happened? I mean, seriously, I just thought he’d be boring. I didn’t expect a sociopath.

It’s hard to follow up that date with another one, and I wasn’t looking forward to round two, especially since my suitor had chosen an upscale prostitute bar as our meeting point. Unfortunately for him, I canceled. He unmatched me, and I blocked the crazy person. I suddenly felt very differently about "ghosting".  What goes around comes around, I suppose.

So that was my second go at Bumble. I think I’m off of it for awhile. Round one was a fluke. I’m afraid to see what happens in round three. Surely there are normal men out there with good jobs and clean pasts. This week they were obviously in hiding.

...And I can never return to that Starbucks.

For Real, Though.

Yes. It's been awhile. I was on a hiatus. I was busy having all kinds of odd experiences, and I wasn't writing them down. I even said I was going to write some stories that were old...but I did not. Well, friends, I've turned a new leaf. I made a resolution. I'm writing again. Also, I had the most mind-boggling coffee date, that I had no choice but to put pen to paper. So, let's see how this goes. It's only been 8 years. - CB

Back in Business....Almost

After a year-long hiatus, Gorilla Bits is back. New and Improved as they say in the dish detergent business.

I finally finished posting the South East Asia chronicles. For handy reference, you simply need to click on the tab to the right that says, "Six Weeks in SE Asia".

And soon, I'll post a couple more entries of Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists. I've got a couple doozies including the man who peed on a dog not once, but twice, and the guy who loudly proclaimed to an entire restaurant that he was suffering from Mad Cow Disease (in case you are concerned...he wasn't).

They'll be good.

And you'll enjoy them.

The gorilla is back.

-cb

Flying the Frustrating Skies

Maybe it’s my fault. I suppose it could be. As I was walking through the airport before my flight, I started thinking and laughing to myself about the local news anchors in Sacramento lamenting their woes of air travel. Well, it wasn’t so much the lamenting, but the fear-mongering that irritated me and led me to find it so ridiculous that it provided humor a day later as I was about to have my own flying woes (unbeknownst to me).

The news story was about the new Air Traveler’s Bill of Rights. Now I know this subject (specifically the subject of people feeling slighted by airlines) really gets people going. In some instances it creates the same ire that Arizona’s SB 1060 does, but, in my humble opinion, it’s a little far-reaching for newscasters to discuss how terrified they are of flying, not because they feel it’s dangerous, but because they are afraid that they might get stuck on the tarmac for awhile and that the plane might run out of food before they get any and feel that paying to check a bag is highway robbery (which, it kind of is…but how much stuff do you REALLY need to take on your weekend trip to Palm Springs?). They went so far as to say that it was easier and cheaper to drive. Now, this may be the case if you’re going a short distance, but I beg to differ on anything further than 200 miles. Seriously. It’s WAY cheaper for me to fly down to LA than it is to drive. Sure they were bringing up baggage fees and having to pay for your food, but let’s be honest. Was airline food ever good? How much of it was wasted? And what they offer for sale? Still not great. You may as well bring your own. And really, is the lack of crappy food a reason to be “terrified” of flying? But anyway, I was busy scoffing at the laughable memory of the newscast, and then minutes later, I found myself in H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks.

It was supposed to be simple flight. Straight-forward. Nothing special. Just a no-nonsense, three-and-a-half hour, straight-shot, direct flight to Dallas. Easy, right? Wrong.

At first there was nothing exceptional about the flight. They called out the boarding groups, I got on with mine—4. As I stood in the line waiting to board, I noticed a girl a couple people ahead of me, bobbing her head as though she were really into the beat of the music she would have been listening to had she been listening to any. She seemed a little odd, but I felt confident that I wouldn’t be anywhere near her. I did change my seat from the very back row to row 17 after all. And that means something. I had no idea it was going to mean sitting in the most annoying seat on the plane, though. Had the website given me that piece of information, I would have happily stuck with 24A.

So, at long last, I got on the plane, and who should be holding up traffic at seat 16? Bobbing Head, that’s who. And, oh wait…some old lady was standing in front of my seat (17D—the aisle for those that aren’t plane savvy) with her bag on my seat. Bobbing
Head slowly shoved her belongings into the overhead compartment. She even moved into row 16 a little in what seemed like a gesture to allow me to pass; however, I soon discovered that was not her intention. I saw the approaching crowd behind me, and I pointed to my seat.

“Excuse me, I’m in that seat.”

The old lady looked down and looked at me. “Oh, okay. This is my seat. I’m waiting for her to finish putting her things away. She’s in this row too”

Just letting it go, I said, “Uh, okay.”

Bobbing Head finally finished putting her things away, and I turned to her and said, “Hi, are you going to sit down? I need to get to my seat. I’m in 17D.”

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I’m in the middle seat.”

“Okay, well, I’m on the aisle, so I need you to sit down first.” Then I looked at the old lady.

“Ma’am, are you going to take your seat? We need to sit down so we aren’t blocking the aisle.”

“Well, this is my seat. I’m always on the aisle.”

“Not this time. I have 17D.” Feeling the need to move things along, I tried to use my crowd control skills to my advantage.

“Oh,” The old lady looked at her ticket. “I’m in the window.”

“Okay, well, then can you take your seat, so she can sit down, and I can then sit down?”

Bobbing Head cut in. “Would you prefer the aisle?”

“Of course.” The Old Lady replied. “I usually have the aisle.”

“I’m sure,” Bobbing Head shot me glance. “Someone would be willing to let you sit in the aisle seat.”

Unable to let this frustrating conversation continue, I started directing them. “Okay, well, I’m sure we can work something out, but right now we all need to remove ourselves from the aisle itself as there is a plane full of people trying to get to their seats. So, why don’t you move into the seats and we’ll sort it out.”

The old lady then sat down in the middle seat. “But this isn’t my seat.”

“You’re absolutely right, but at this moment we need to fix the real problem and that is blocking the aisle. How about we all move into a seat, let him pass, and then we can sort out the issue.”

The guy behind me started laughing. He passed us and smiled at me.

“Well, I always sit in the aisle.” The woman wasn’t budging from the middle seat.”

“Okay, ma’am. Would you like to sit in the aisle?” I asked the woman.

“Yes, I would.”

“Then stand up, and let us in the row. You can have it.”

Bobbing Head just stood there doing nothing. I turned to her. “Would you like the window?”

“Yeah.”

“Then take it.” I presented the seat with my hand.

“Okay, but…”

“Look, we just need to sit down. I don’t care.” (Oh, but I SHOULD have cared!)

We all finally took our seats, and I did what I could to clearly define my space in the middle seat of misery. Within seconds of sitting down, Bobbing Head made a phone call. A loud phone call. A loud complaint-filled phone call about all of her friends who have ever done her wrong. She then moved onto loudly cursing and talking about sex. And that’s when I decided that if the FAA ever allows cell phone use on a plane, I’m investing in a private jet.

She finally completed her phone call, then turned her iPod on, after slamming it against the plane window a few times. Now, when she turned her iPod on, she opted to turn it up so loud that I felt as though I were wearing the earbuds. Then she started drumming…and singing. (I feel I should also mention that prior to her turning the iPod on, she was loudly singing, leading me to regret leaving MY earbuds on the kitchen counter.)

While all of that was going on, the old lady started tugging at her dentures. At one point she pulled them out. Then she started picking at them. And I wasn’t even in a bad place yet. This was just the beginning of the AnnoyingLand Adventure Park.

As soon as the dentures were securely in the old lady’s mouth, I was made aware of the infant sitting across the aisle from me—not because he was crying, but because his parents decided to “soothe” him by incessantly shaking maracas. Now, when I say incessantly, I’m not exaggerating. They shook the very LOUD rattle for a half an hour without stopping. A half an hour! And I was worried (rightfully so) that they would keep it up for the entire three-and-a-half hour flight. Did I mention that we hadn’t left the jet-way yet?

Oh yeah, I said it. We hadn’t left the jet-way. Why? Because we were delayed due to a mechanical problem. We sat on the plane for an hour and a half with promises of leaving soon. The whole time we waited, the people around me continued to be noisy, annoying, and gross (in that order). Then the announcements started, asking for our patience. Then, they informed us that we would be delayed at least another half an hour. Then they told us that we might change planes. Then they told us that the flight might get canceled. And finally, they told us that we may as well get off of the plane because we definitely were not leaving for at least an hour (if at all).

The whole time these announcements were being made, Bobbing Head was busy being a little noise box. Without fail, two minutes after every announcement, she would loudly yell, “What the fuck?! Why aren’t we going anywhere?” And then I’d have to explain the situation as I understood it from the announcements that had JUST been made. When the final announcement was made, people started exiting the plane. Bobbing Head then turned to me and yelled, “What the hell? Do we all have to get off the plane? This is BULLSHIT!”

“Well, you are welcome to stay on board, but we might not be leaving for an hour or so.” I calmly replied.

“They can’t do this!” She screamed, throwing in f-bombs here and there. She then got on her phone to start yelling to her friends about this gross injustice, exclaiming that, “I better get a fucking refund. You don’t pay this much money for a flight to be two hours late. I’m raising hell. This is bullshit. Those motherfuckers better not fuck with me.”

Right. And that attitude (and mouth) is definitely going to win you some friends over at customer service. Is this your first time on a plane? In public? Outside of your cave or barn? While I have no doubt you spent some cash on this flight because Dallas hasn’t been on the cheap destination list for awhile, I can’t help but notice that you’re sitting in coach, which tells me you didn’t pay as much as the fools up in first class. I’m afraid your argument won’t get you very far, since the airline WILL get you to Dallas eventually.

And then I exited the plane, secretly hoping that when I returned my cute-as-a-button seatmate would have received her walking papers.

After spending an hour in the airport, we re-boarded the plane, and I was dismayed to see that my little friend was still there (and that she had staked a claim on the entire row in my absence (claim jumping space hog!)). She moved over, whilst continuing yet another loud conversation on the phone. The old lady sat back down in MY seat (which I REALLY wanted to take back, but realized what kind of jerk I’d be if I suddenly took it back), and I sat awaiting my terrible fate.

But wait! What did I see across the aisle? Empty seats. No baby and a whole empty row. To top it off, no one else seemed to be boarding the plane. A flight attendant walked by, and I quickly asked her if anyone else was expected to board.

“No, this is it. Those people probably got on other flights. Would you like to sit there?”

Do I even need to answer that?!

The old lady was overjoyed for me. I was overjoyed for me, and I moved over. Once I found my new little area, all was right with the world. I was friendlier, and Bobbing Head was suddenly pleasant and lacked a foul mouth, leading me to wonder if I brought out the crazy.

Whatever the case, my plane nightmare was over, and I’m still not terrified of planes. I am, however, not interested in being nice anymore.

---------------------------
Addendum:

When we finally got into Dallas, everyone was ready to bail from the plane--especially Bobbing Head. So much so, that she physically climbed OVER the old lady to get into the aisle and grab her things. It was imperative that she get off of that plane because she had plans. Important plans.

I exited the plane much later than her AND visited the bathroom...AND left the airport before she did because she was still waiting around for her luggage as I waltzed out. So maybe it does pay to be nice after all.

Putting the Fun in Fundamentalism: Dodging Dubious DC

Washington DC.  The capital city of this great nation we call the US of A.  It’s grand.  It’s glorious.  It’s everything you could possibly want in a shrine to the ideals upon which our forefathers founded this country.  It’s filled with reminders of the past and hope for the future.  It’s a center for not just government, but education, touting some of the best museums in the country--museums that are (free and) filled with fantastic exhibits of art, science, and culture from all over America and the world.  People flock from the four corners of the globe to experience what this city has to offer. 

And as it turns out, despite all of this wonder and beauty, DC is a dirty, dirty place.  No, I’m not referring to the ghetto or the urban poverty that crowds the outer corners of the city.  I’m talking about the blatant disregard for religious conservativism that our forefathers and the city architects exercised in the planning of this city’s sights and contents.  Let’s face it, the gays aren’t the only ones chipping away at America’s core puritanical values what with their insistence on equal rights under the law.  No way!  This epidemic of indecency goes way back to Thomas Jefferson and his insistence on the separation of Church and State.  It’s true.  Do you have any idea how many naked statues are out on the streets of our nation’s capital?  Do you?  If it weren’t for John Ashcroft demanding that federal money be used to cover up the vulgar breast of lady Justice ten years ago, we would all be living like devilish savages right now.  And don’t even get me started on the cockamamie propaganda those “science” museums are touting as theories.  And…and!!!  Can you believe that museums would strive for historical accuracy when building dioramas of Native American scenes?  Or that they would be so bold as to display world-famous and internationally-treasured paintings portraying naked people in the National Gallery of Art?  This is our nation’s capital, people.  This is the center of our government and culture, and I don’t know about you, but last time I checked I was living in the USA--a land of freedom, a land of God-fearing, hard-working, body-shaming puritans.  Take one step into Washington DC with the eyes of a far-right fundamentalist, and you may as well be walking into the final throw-down of good and evil.

And that’s exactly what I had to do over the last three days.

We left New York City, well, technically New Jersey as that’s where our hotel was located, and started the long drive down to DC.  Sifting through my DVD collection which is, I can only hope, appropriate for middle-schoolers, I decided that National Treasure was the right choice for a bus movie.  Much like the minutes before and during Mary Poppins, I scanned my memory for any elements of the movie that might be offensive to the lead teacher.  Thankfully, I couldn’t think of any, and there weren’t any (to which I was alerted at least).

The drive was fine.  The students mostly slept.  As we neared our destination, I started talking about DC and the Smithsonian, and I was admittedly very encouraging of the Natural History Museum (one of my personal favorites).  Who doesn’t love dinosaurs?  Right?  No one.  Everyone likes dinosaurs ‘cuz they’re awesome.

We rolled into town around noon, and I delivered us all to our lunch stop.  As I was eating my mediocre salad, I suddenly realized that there might be something offensive about the Natural History Museum and instantly regretted my pro-dinosaur stance.  What could possibly be offensive, you ask?  Evo-freakin’-lution.  Yeah, not only does the museum regularly have exhibits on evolution (because, well, it’s a science museum about the origins of life on our planet), but it has a NEW exhibit specifically focused on…HUMAN evolution.

I immediately lost my appetite, knowing that I would have to break the news to the group leader.  Granted, this time I was cutting them off at the pass, but the realization of how much damage control I needed to do before and after anything and everything potentially offensive was overwhelming.  I finished up my salad then wandered the food court looking for the group leader and her chaperone cronies.  Luckily they were pretty easy to spot.

“Hi there!  How’s everything going?”

“Great.  I think we want to go to the Air and Space Museum and the Natural History Museum.  The students are excited about seeing the dinosaurs.”

Smiling, I replied, “Oh good.  There is one thing I thought of that you should know before going to the Natural History Museum.  There is an exhibit on evolution.”

She gave me a silenced stare then turned her head saying, “Oh.  No.  That won’t do.  We can’t have that.”

One of the chaperones, who happened to be the uncle to one of the students and was my age, asked, “What?”

The teacher responded.  “Evolution.”

Then the whole table of parents was up in arms.  “No, we can’t have that.”

The group leader turned to me.  “That’s such a shame.  The students were so excited.  Why do they have to ruin things like that?”

“Well,” I tried to come up with a solution.  “The exhibit is only in one section of the museum.  You could go in, get the map and direct everyone over to the dinosaur exhibit.  That way you could avoid it altogether.”  As I said this I realized that there is an enormous banner outside the museum advertising the human evolution exhibit and was pretty sure that would be an issue.

“That might work.” She stopped talking for a few seconds.  “No.  That won’t.  They’ll see those bones, and then they’ll start to think.  And that’s going to start the discussion.  I just can’t have that.”

And with that, I was silenced.  Really?  You can’t have the students thinking?  You can’t even let these young adults know that there is a theory about how the life on Earth came to be that may be in contradiction to the Bible?  Do you think they’re never going to see it?  And you can’t risk them seeing dinosaur bones at all?

“Well, what can we do?” she asked.

“There are plenty of other museums.”  I quickly tried to come up with a good one.  Art Museum—out (too much risk of seeing nudity).  American History—maybe (but what if there IS something in there that’s offensive…Dorothy’s slippers? Archie Bunker’s chair?  Trains?)  “What about the Native American Museum?”

“Oh!  That might be good.  They’ve learned about Native Americans.  Yes.  Let’s do that.”  She seemed relieved.

Having resolved that situation, I walked outside to call my boss and give her the scoop on all that was happening.  As I was discussing the decision to go to the Native American Museum, she said, “Uhh….you know the mannequins are going to be dressed in traditional clothing.  You know…loin cloths.”

“Crap!!”

About this time, the group was emerging from the food court.  I quickly approached the group leader and mentioned the bit about loin cloths.

“Oh,” Her face expressed disgust and frustration.  “Well, that won’t do.  They HAVE learned about them, and that IS appropriate for the time being depicted…  But I just don’t think we should risk it.  I don’t think it’s anything they should see.”

Got that people?  Half-nude mannequins are also offensive.  I can only imagine if they had seen the diorama of the Neanderthal family burial in the Natural History Museum.

The teacher gave an exasperated sigh.  “What can we do?”

“I think you will have a great experience if you go to the National Archives to see the Constitution and Bill of Rights.  They also have the Declaration of Independence and the Magna Carta.  After that, you can head over to the Air and Space Museum.”

“Yes,” she replied.  “That does sound much better.  Surely the documents won’t contain immoral elements”

And with that, I was relieved.  The only thing I could possibly think of that would be offensive in the Archives is the fact that the Constitution calls for the separation of Church and State.  I’m guessing they’ve been circumventing that little bit of policy for so long that surely a visit to the actual document wouldn’t be too damaging to the children’s fragile sensibilities.

We drove them over to the Archives, where I gave them thorough instructions on exactly how to get from there to the Air and Space Museum, complete with pointing to the building (which was two blocks away).  Once they were on their way, we dropped off the other group at the Holocaust Museum and I apprised my driver of the drama within.  Upon finishing my tale, he mentioned that I couldn’t take them in front of the Library of Congress.  It took me a minute to realize why he said that, then…DAMMIT!  There’s a HUGE statue of Neptune…and he’s NAKED, along with other naked statues.  Is nothing sacred here?

After that conversation, I decided to take my free time to wander the Mall and ponder what other sites I would have to avoid with my group.  What I found was alarming.  Did you know the Department of Justice is basically a Roman bathhouse?  It’s true!  Naked statues flock around every entrance.  And Union Station?  Yeah, those centurions…they’re naked behind their shields.  The Washington Monument may as well be an enormous phallus, and don’t even get me started on the dirty words that are emblazoned on the Jefferson Memorial defending his stance on the separation of Church and State, “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."

As I wandered and thought about all the things I’d have to avoid, I became sad.  I was sad that these kids are being sheltered to the point that they are discouraged from thinking for themselves.  They are not getting the full story on the foundation of America.  They are being given a very narrow point of view, and they probably aren’t the only ones.  They are being taught that all nudity is evil, yet they’re clearly engaged in sexual relationships.  One couple, in particular, was, most likely, doing it on the trip…and I wouldn’t be surprised if the girl was pregnant considering her morning nausea.  Protecting them to the point of smothering doesn’t help them grow.  Hiding the world around them doesn’t help them own their faith.  It doesn’t help them make well-informed decisions.  It doesn’t help them become productive members of society.  It just holds them back.

Call me a bleeding-heart liberal if you want, but I think it’s wrong to shield students (especially young adults) from the truth.  You can’t pretend that the Europeans did not mistreat the Indians and take their land.  You can’t pretend that slavery didn’t happen.  And you definitely shouldn’t live under some belief that the Holocaust was created in the imagination of disgruntled Jews.  All of these things happened.  All of these things should be taught.  Why?  So it doesn’t happen again.  I just came back from Cambodia where I saw the after-effects of a recent genocide (where they government controlled the population by outlawing education and killing anyone who had one).  This shit shouldn’t happen.  And the only way to prevent it is through education for it is the only way to empower the population.  Knowledge is power, end of story.

But enough of that rant…

While I was on the Mall, I received a frantic phone call from the group leader.  Guess what?!  They were lost.  All they had to do was walk down 7^th street toward the grass.  Did they?  No.  They walked down Constitution Ave.  I asked if they could see the grass.  Their answer?  No.  I asked if they were next to the National Gallery of Art.  Their answer?  No.  The true answer?  Yes.  I asked them to read the street signs (which apparently don’t exist in San Antonio because this group NEVER seemed to read street signs in their attempt to get found).  Finally, I was able to locate them based on the limited information they were giving and sent them to the Air and Space Museum.  Later, as I was walking over to the bus to meet them, I found half of the group walking toward me.  They said hello and passed me.  When I inquired as to where they were headed, they told me, “The bus.”  I then pointed them in the direction I was heading (which was in the direction of the bus and asked who told them to walk away from the bus.  The answer?  The group leader.  She had already been to the bus and STILL didn’t know where it was.

Once we were back on the bus, the group looked nothing short of angry.  Apparently the trip to the National Archives and Air and Space were not as exciting as the dinosaurs they originally set out to see.  That night I gave them a tour of the monuments and we headed to the hotel. 

The next day we had an exciting day of touring Arlington National Cemetery where the group leader inquired about why Jewish graves have stones on top of them.  When I offered to call up one of my Jewish friends to learn the answer, she asked in a rather surprised tone, “You know Jewish people?  Do you just have them around as a resource?”

And how exactly does one answer that question?  The thing that kills me about it is that she was a smart person.  She was educated, and she had lived in places other than Texas--foreign places.  Yes, she lived in Germany for twelve years.  How is it possible that an educated person is so naïve?  My answer was simply that I have all kinds of friends.  I chose not to mention that I know gay people too.  That usually goes without saying once people learn that I live in San Francisco (and see my striking resemblance to Barbra Streisand...under the gorilla suite of course).  Oh Lord!  Can you imagine if they went to San Francisco?  DC has nothing on this haven of sin.

Our day was to be capped off with the ghost tour of Alexandria.  Now, the teacher had been given an itinerary of the tour months ago.  She knew we were going on a ghost tour.  She also was a present and contributing member to a conversation about the ghost tour way back on the first day (which at this point felt like three weeks ago).  And yet, she still seemed shocked and dismayed when I approached the subject with her.  Being that I was a little nervous about it, I didn’t even mention the fact that we had a tour that night.  Then, as we were leaving Mt. Vernon, the teacher from the other group (which, I should mention, consisted of 6^th-8^th graders from Colorado who were much better behaved and less problematic than the seniors from Texas) made a mention of the ghost tour.  And that’s when I had to start the conversation.

Once we were back on the bus, I turned to the group leader.  “I guess we should talk about this evening’s activity.  Is the ghost tour going to be a problem?”

Exasperated she replied, “Well of course it is.”  She threw her hands up in the air.  “But the damage is already done.  What can I do now?”

“Well, I could find another activity for you all to do while the other group goes on the tour.”

“No.  It’s fine.  I’ll just have to deal with it.  We’ll have to make sure that they know these stories are pure fiction.  I’ve already had students approaching me, fearfully asking me if the stories are real.  I can’t have them thinking ghosts exist.”

As she was saying this, I caught the eye of the other group leader who was totally and completely disgusted at this point.  “Okay.  I’m sorry this is a problem.”

“I know.  It’s not your fault.  I should have done more research.”

And with that, we were off, and I was over it.   It’s appalling that this woman couldn’t trust these young adults to be able to decipher fact from fiction for themselves.  How does she (and the school and church it's associated with) expect them to survive on their own?  How are they supposed to be able to do ANYTHING without being told exactly what to do?  Appalling.

So what did I do when they were hearing ghost stories?  I went to a bar.  I had ceased to care.

The next morning was our final day in DC.  We went to the Capitol where I just pretended there wasn’t a half-naked George Washington painting in the Rotunda.  We went to the Library of Congress where, through a little bit of luck, I managed to NOT walk by Neptune.  And we concluded our Capitol Hill jaunt at the Supreme Court where the anti-abortion protestors stood silently with tape over their mouths, like they do every day.  Being that abortion is always a hot button issue, I did my best to avoid the conversation and simply answered the student’s questions by explaining what they were protesting and informing them that one of the great liberties we have in America is our right to free speech and to voice our opinions.  I simply pretended to be deaf when the 34-year-old male chaperone attempted to incite a fight by making claims that conservative America is always ignored.  I realize the irony in that response, but my job is to show them the sights, not to take a political stance.

The end was near, and I could feel the glee welling up inside of me.  We loaded the bus, and drove them out of the modern-day Sodom and Gomorra.  I said my goodbyes at the airport and left with a feeling of relief and exhaustion. 

I’ve come away from that week with new insight into what it must be like to search for immorality at every turn.  Living for the Lord is never easy, but forcing irrational ideals upon unwitting youth must be exhausting.  How does one travel through the world, finding offense in everything they pass?  Where is the line? 

I think my line is dotted, and I like it that way.

Putting the Fun in Fundamentalism: Naked in New York

When I noticed I was leading a tour with a group from a small Christian school in Texas, I thought, “Okay, I’ll have to be careful about what I say.”  I didn’t think, “Hmm…what potentially offensive things await us in New York City and Washington, DC.”  Apparently, I shouldn’t have been so happy-go-lucky because things got ugly—fast.

Now before I go any further, I cannot stress enough how NICE these people were.  We’re talking sweet, salt-of-the-earth types.  Really, really nice.  So nice that it makes me feel bad even writing about them, except that it simply needs to be done.

At first, I wasn’t so sure how nice the lead teacher was, considering her voice mail message was so abrupt. (To be read in a harsh, annoyed tone as if you really had just interrupted her in the middle of doing something important.) “I am busy. Leave a message.  I will call you back when I have time.  God bless.”

Well, upon finally speaking to her, I discovered that she was perfectly lovely.  Then, upon meeting her, I thought we’d get along swimmingly.  And we did….even through all of the trouble that followed.  Now one thing I will say is that the woman (and apparently everyone with whom she was traveling) had the worst sense of direction that I have EVER witnessed.  For instance, once I picked them up from the airport, we drove them into Manhattan and dropped them off at Lexington and 49^th Street.  Being uber-prepared, I had printed off a map and highlighted the route they needed to take to get to Rockefeller Center and Times Square, which, from where we were, was STRAIGHT DOWN 49^th Street.  I really thought I had covered all of my bases before getting back on the bus to pick up the other group.  I even went to the trouble to walk them to the corner of Lexington and 49^th and physically point down 49^th Street to the 30 Rockefeller Plaza building saying, “Walk down this street to that building with the ‘GE’ symbol on top”. 

Apparently that wasn’t enough.

When I returned a couple hours later to Rockefeller Center, I ran into a couple of the kids and asked if they had fun.  I was met with a frown.  Thinking that odd, I approached the lead teacher’s husband who told me they never found Times Square.  In fact, they had JUST found Rockefeller Center.  Wondering how it took them two and a half hours to walk five blocks, I asked how they got lost.

“We walked down Lexington for seven blocks before we realized we were going the wrong way.”

“Oh,” I said.  “Was the map not helpful?”

“Not really.  We finally had a nice New Yorker point us in the right direction.  This map marks the wrong church as St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

Still baffled, I answered  “No, that’s St. Patrick’s.  I can see the spires from here.”

“Well, we found a church down Lexington, and that wasn’t St. Patrick’s.”  He challenged me.

“Okay, that’s because St. Patrick’s is on 5^th Ave. and 51^st.  It’s nowhere near Lexington and , where were you? 42^nd?”

“Right, that’s what the guy told us.”

With slight sarcasm, I asked, “So, the map wasn’t helpful at all then, huh?”

He shook his head.  “Not when you’re on the wrong street.”

“I see. Were there no street signs?”

“There were, but none of them said 49^th.”

And with that I decided to drop the conversation because, and I know I don’t even need to say this, who thinks they’re on 49^th Street when all of the street signs say differently?  Seriously.  Have you NEVER walked down a street before?  Have you never DRIVEN down a street before?  Have you never left your house?

Once the disappointment of walking around Manhattan for two and a half hours without ever once managing to find ANY of the major sights (which are kinda hard to miss), the group seemed to have a good time.  We had dinner in Chinatown.  We went up the Empire State Building, then I succumbed to the other group leader’s wishes to take them to Ellen’s Stardust Diner (which was a HUGE mistake since the Texas group didn’t want to be there and only went along for the ride…and because the other teacher was a bit of a bully, thus leading me to walk the Texas group down to Times Square where we got caught in a torrential downpour without umbrellas…and I ran into a trash can while turning my head to say something, which turned into a trip highlight for all who were with me at the time).  Then, we made it to the hotel in Jersey for a good night’s sleep.

The next day we went to the Statue of Liberty, checked out the WTC site, and then I took them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  A place that the Texas lead teacher’s husband could not stop talking about.  I thought I had it made.  Then, after I got their tickets and sent everyone on their way, I got an angry phone call from the Texas teacher.

“We have a problem.  I don’t mean to be offensive to you, but this place isn’t for children.  I am just so shocked and upset right now, I don’t know what to do.  We have to leave immediately.  I have called all of the chaperones, and the children are being brought down right now.  We have to go.  I just didn’t know that these sort of obscene things would be in here.  This is just completely inappropriate.  Had I known that we were going to a place that had this sort of thing, then I never would have allowed us to even walk through the door.  This is just unacceptable.”

Confused as to what the problem was at what is the greatest museum in the United States and probably one of the top three museums in the entire world with the largest collection of genuine ancient antiquities around (on par with and, in some cases, better than the British Museum and the Louvre), I simply started apologizing.  “I’m so sorry to hear that.  I had no idea.  I’ll come meet you immediately.”

“Well, it’s not your fault.  How would you have known?  But this is just disgusting.  I can’t have the children here.  It is against our faith.”

“I understand that, and I am very sorry.  Let me get to where you are, and we’ll figure out a second plan.”

“Don’t get me wrong.  If it were just my husband and I, this wouldn’t be a problem.  But with the children…” She trailed off a bit.  “This is just wrong.  I can’t expose them to this.  My principal was opposed to this trip because he felt they’d get exposed to things that were immoral and wrong, and this is exactly the kind of thing he was worried about.”

“Well, I just can’t apologize enough.”

She continued.  “I don’t blame you or the company.  This is my fault.  I should have done more research on this place.  I just thought it was going to be paintings.  And I know I could steer the children away from what I saw, but who knows what else is in here.  Who knows what other disgusting, obscene things they might run into.”

With that, I told her I was on my way.  I took the elevator up to the group entrance and popped out in…a room full of Greek statues.  Ancient, Greek statues.  Naked, Ancient Greek statues.  And that’s when it all became clear.  And that’s when I knew I was in trouble, because, really?  You went to the website of the Met, and, at no point, did you consider that there might be nudity in the art?  Have you never seen art?  Have you never seen religious art?  Do you not realize that the people that sculpted these statues or painted these pictures were probably even MORE religious than most Christians today?  Uhhh…Michelangelo anyone?  Was he not essentially an indentured servant to the Church when he painted the Sistene Chapel?  Is Rome (and the Vatican City) not covered with nude statues?  And it’s not as if the Met is covered in paintings or sculptures depicting one of Caligula’s orgies.  They’re just naked people, standing there, doing nothing.  And they’re not even people.  They’re marble statues.

But, despite my personal feelings that naked art does not always equal porn, I found the teacher, and I apologized up and down.  As all of the students made their way to the entrance with their chaperones, they all seemed disappointed.  None of them were fazed by the statues, but the lead teacher was beyond offended.

As we waited for everyone, I was standing next to a couple of the students out of earshot of the lead teacher, shook my fist and said, “Those Greeks!”

“Yeah,” said one girl.  “Why’d they have to ruin the museum for everyone.  If only they weren’t so weirdly obsessed with God’s masterpiece of the human form.”

And as much as I would have liked to point out the irony in her statement and the current situation, I just smiled. 

We gathered everyone together and walked to the bus…and they were all peeved (And I really felt like I was getting dirty looks from the lead teacher’s husband as if I somehow were a disgusting pervert with no moral foundation).  I walked the few that wanted to do something OTHER than sit on the bus through Central Park, and then the other group emerged from the museum, and we went to dinner.

After dinner, we went to see the family musical, Mary Poppins.  And, really, what could be MORE family-friendly than a spoon full of sugar?  As I would learn…plenty.  And here I thought I was in the clear.  It’s Mary f-ing Poppins, for crying out loud!

Now I’ve seen the musical before, and I couldn’t think of anything all that offensive, especially considering it’s a Disney production.  The only thing that I thought MIGHT be a red flag is the scene where all of the toys come to life and talk about how they want revenge on the children that mistreat them (because it’s more than a little disturbing).  Unfortunately, I failed to remember the scene where they jump into the painting.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking.  What could POSSIBLY have happened in the painting scene that was so offensive.  I discovered that “thing” when I awoke from my brief snooze about twenty minutes into the production and saw the statue come to life.  The Greek statue.  The Greek statue with a fig leaf over his junk.  My eyelids flew open, and I leaned over, hissing, “Shit.”  Then, I scanned the seats for the lead teacher, who was sitting with her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in disgust.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in a theater, even when I went to the ping pong show in Bangkok (mostly because that was more creepy and sad than anything).  I split my viewing time between the scene and the teacher.  More statues danced into the scene, and the look on her face became more concerning to me.  Finally, after what felt like three hours, the scene ended, and I scanned my brain trying to remember if the statue made another appearance, hoping he wouldn’t.

The show continued.  Intermission came around.  Nothing was said.  The second act started, and about twenty minutes before it was over, the statue made his encore, and the entire row of students from Texas made their exit.  I jumped up immediately and ran to find the teacher.  She just shook her head at me with a grave look in her eye.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know.  It’s not your fault.  This is just disgusting.  It’s appalling.  We have to go.  I can’t condone this.  It’s just pornographic, and they’ve tarnished what WAS a children’s show.  They made it into something disgusting and obscene.  It’s just not appropriate for children.  I’m shocked that so many children were in the audience.  You shouldn’t expose them to this.  We just can’t be here anymore.  I shouldn’t have stayed after the first scene, but I knew I had to do something when it happened again, otherwise the students wouldn’t respect me and they wouldn’t be able to know what is appropriate and what is wrong.”

With that, I sent her off to the bus.

The other teacher from the other group that was traveling with me was utterly appalled, and that became even worse when we got to the bus and the Texas teacher and all of the chaperones were off shopping in Times Square.

I didn’t bother asking anyone how anyone liked the play for fear that I would get in trouble.  Instead, I listened to 45 minutes of complaints over the perversion of Broadway and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  I was just glad we were heading to DC the next day because New York was obviously the bastion of all things evil in the world, and is DEFINITELY not the sort of place that you should bring a group of high school seniors that range in age from 17-20.  That may be the most impressionable age of all.