Really?

When people start calling Obama's suggestion that the rich be taxed, like, at all, "class warfare," I can't be the only one whose response is, "I wish."

Can I?

19 Secrets Women Wish Men Knew

I inadvertently stumbled across this today: 19 Secrets Women Wish Men Knew.

And damned if I know why I still click on garbage like that, but I do.

I think I keep hoping that someday, that list will look like this:

1. Women are not all the same, and they don't all want the same things from the men around them. People who claim to know what women as a giant group want are lying to you. That said, here are 18 more secrets women who think exactly like me wish some men (because men also are not all the same) knew:
2. Over our lifetimes, you will probably make more money than I will, even though I will probably need that money to last a longer time, and I do not blame you as an individual for that, but I do resent it a little.  
3. If you think my hormones occasionally make me irrational, you are probably correct, though I don't notice it. But know what? So do yours. Shut up.
4. My body isn't here for you, particularly if you are a total stranger or casual acquaintance. It wouldn't be if I were a straight woman, and it still isn't now. If you think it looks good, or bad, or whatever, you should probably mostly remember that it's not about you.
5. When a woman is uninterested in you romantically, and you take that opportunity to whine about how nice guys finish last, to her or to me, it makes me want to stab myself.
6. When you're sexist or homophobic or transphobic on Facebook, I consider unfriending you, even if I think you're hilarious all the rest of the time. Ditto racist, but I feel like the homophobia and transphobia are more male-specific in my broad circle of friends.
7. I am sorry that porn has so weirdly misrepresented lesbian sex to you, but you do know that's not real, right? It's not real.
8. (Regarding #8 from the link above:) Arbitrary gauges of when you "should" sleep with someone (whether it's the third date or after a couple of months) are just that: arbitrary. Sleep with people when you both (or all) want to, including but not limited to: immediately, never, after you're married, on the third date.
9. When other dudes make cracks about sexual assault or rape, and you don't call them on it, you are telling any rapists who are listening (whether the guy who made the crack or not) what your response will be when it comes right down to it.
10. I don't hate men. Seriously, ask the men I love how loving I can be. Cousin Mouse? Joe? Amiright? I just don't so much feel inclined to accept irritating behavior merely on the basis of your manly masculinity.
11. That condescending chuckle does not convince me that you are older or wiser than I am if you are not, in fact, older or wiser. And if you are older, wiser, or both, I probably knew it without the condescending chuckle, even though I am a woman.
12. When you distinguish between sports and women's sports ("basketball" and "women's basketball," "soccer" and "women's soccer"), I die a little. If you need to distinguish because it's important and not clear from context, that's what the word "men's" is for.
13. Being a gay dude doesn't mean you're not sexist.
14. OK, one tip for straight dudes on the make, but I'm damn well burying it in the middle: The small of the back. But only when you're far enough along that you know she'll be all right with you touching her there. This is not your opening move. The collarbone may yield similar results.
15. The toilet seat thing? Not as big a deal as basic respect. You can tell because if you leave the toilet seat up but treat me as an equal, you'll get a better response than if you leave the toilet seat down but don't.
16. Why are you sitting like that on the bus? Do you think I'll think your penis is bigger if you take up half my seat as well as your own by spreading your knees as far apart as you can? I don't think about how big your penis is at all; I just think about how I wish you weren't in my space.
17. If you are an American, you should be at least as familiar with the Nineteenth Amendment as you are with the Second Amendment. We're more than half the population.
18. Breastfeeding? Also not about you, unless you are the child in question, in which case, good for you for seeking out such excellent reading on the internet. You can be my new friend. Make sure your parents know you're commenting before you do, please.
19. Some women, including your mother/daughter/sister/girlfriend/wife/boss, will disagree with some or all of what I think. See #1. But a lot of ladies like when you ask their opinions about things that matter to them and then take the answers seriously. The best way to find out what women want is to ask them.

Health Care

Yesterday, I went to my doctor's office and the pharmacy. I learned these two things in so doing:

• My doctor does not have prescription coverage herself
• My pharmacy has big platters of free muffins and sweet rolls

What is wrong with the world?

Just Cause

Today, a friend asked me (as part of a group) to donate to a cause I am sometimes maybe a little snarky about. She knows I'm snarky, and so generally doesn't ask me to donate, which is kind of her, if better than I deserve. It's not that I don't believe in the cause. I do, very much. But said cause's marketing tactics sometimes annoy me.

Those of you who know me well know I am sometimes kind of a jackass when I'm annoyed.

But you know what? Who cares if I'm annoyed? People in the world need help sometimes, and nice people sometimes do what they can to give it to them. What the hell is wrong with me?

I donated, anonymously, but let the team leader, who is my friend, see my name and gift amount.

And then I sent this note:

I know you will be surprised to see my (tiny) donation, based on our past conversations.

But some days, I see someone like you trying to do something good for the world, and I think, “It’s time to lighten the f*ck up.”

Thank you for every one of those moments you give me, and thank you particularly for doing it today. You’re good people, Genny Alexander.

I don't know, that's what today's like.

What did you do? Who helps you lighten the f*ck up?

Where I was

I worked out that morning at the Gold's Gym in Rosslyn.

There's more to the story, and I wanted to write it, but that's as far as I get when I try to put it together.

The more to the story is such a weird confusion of all the chaos that surrounds that day — both before and after. There's Burning Man, a love triangle, a job interview in Boston September 10 and a stay in a fancy hotel with lovely plush robes, a friend's 30th birthday and another friend who'd come to live with me, my father's heart attack and a grandmother who needed help she wanted to pay for but didn't want to pay that much for, an ex-boyfriend who showed up for a concert, apple pancakes with a woman I'd fall in love with, another new relationship starting that would become second only to my own in importance in my life. None of those were about what happened that day, any more than my workout was, but it was a very swirly time for me.

When the first plane crashed, though, I was on my way up the hill from the gym to work. I think it was a good workout; Lord knows I needed one.

When I got up the hill, my boss, who was not as close a friend as she is now, but who has always had a comforting way about her, met me en route to my desk to ask if I'd heard. I hadn't, of course, and then there's a blur in my mind around that morning — other planes crashing, newsroom meetings to discuss how to simultaneously take care  of ourselves, jammed phone lines as people tried to find loved ones who were not OK and others tried to reassure loved ones they were OK.

When I finally got through to my parents, they weren't worried. They knew bad stuff was happening but didn't fear I was in danger. They were in New Hampshire, and it was as remote to them as the Oklahoma City bombing had felt to me. Sad, tragic, but not immediately relevant. The friend who was staying with me showed up at work to see if I wanted to go to lunch; he hadn't turned on the TV in my little apartment that morning, and so had no idea what was going on. I told him to go home and not drive around, so he drove around, looking at the Pentagon, which was so so close to my house and my work.

At Burning Man, we said we'd go back to the desert when the shit hit the fan. When it did, not two weeks later, we did not.
The woman who'd soon after be my partner in my longest relationship was stranded in Columbus that day where she'd been watching women's soccer with another friend of ours; she has her own story of renting a car to drive back. She knew someone in the Pentagon.
My comforting boss lost someone in the World Trade Center. We were closer just a little later than that.
I didn't get the job.
I quit my second job, because by then I didn't need it, and the racism there after the attacks was too much else to deal with.
The friend who was staying me found a job and a place to live within two weeks of his arrival in the area.
My dad was fine, and hasn't had another heart attack since. Modern medicine is amazing; his uncles died in their 50s from that same heart attack.
That other couple lasted a long time, but not forever. My relationship lasted a shorter long time, but not forever.
My grandmother died a few years later, nearly 101 years old.
Today is my friend's 40th birthday.

That day was not at all about me, but this blog is, and so what you get is my blurry snapshot, walking up the hill from the gym.

Over ten years, I have thought a lot about the people who died that day, in planes and buildings, attackers and victims and first responders, and the people who would die later.

But today, I find, my heart is with the people whose stories intersected with mine that day. I am thinking today of Beth and Todd and Cynthia and Allyson and Rachel, of my grandmother and my coworkers and my Burning Man buddies. Today, in New Hampshire where people were not scared then and are not scared today, I want connections. I want to build a planet-sized chart of intersecting stories, of the people whose stories touched mine and the people whose stories touched theirs so I can see how the events of one day — maybe any day — connect seven billion people in circles.

So, how are you doing?