The reason terrorism works, and make no bones about it, it does work, is that it creates fear and chaos in day-to-day life. Things that should be normal, routine, easy are majorly impacted by terrorism. Subways in London, cafes in Israel, finish lines in Boston, office towers in New York City. These are all places that average normal citizens populate, which is what makes them attractive targets for terrorists. Fiddling with routine, replacing the hum drum with fear is a terrorists’ trade.
Just about an hour ago, driving north on Lake Shore Drive, I came upon, quite suddenly, a veritable parking lot of traffic. No one was moving. The south bound lanes were empty and the north bound lanes were stopped. At first I thought it was Cubs’ traffic, but that didn’t make any sense. This was only the bottom of the 7th and the game was still in progress. In New York. I flipped on the AM radio to see what was happening, but only after complaining about baseball and traffic on Facebook.
Watching news develop outside my car window.
Well, something was happening. Suspicious packages had been found strewn about Lake Shore Drive, Chicago’s pristine north/south thoroughfare.
We now live in a culture that not only fears suspicious packages, but drops everything, and I mean everything, to investigate them. This is our world now, thanks to terrorism. Those terrorists must be proud of themselves.
As I sat in my car, originally just frustrated by the idea of traffic, I soon became all too aware of how close we all live to terrorism these days. The radio reports informed me of those suspicious packages, Lake Shore Drive’s closure, and that robots had been brought in to handle the packages before humans were put in harm’s way.
This is the stuff I watch in movies or on news clips, but here it all was unfolding literally outside my car window. Robots to deal with IEDs are a strategy used in Iraq, not my beloved Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.
I was afraid, even for a moment, I was afraid. My baby was in the back seat. My husband and older son were in two different places. We were separated and I was afraid.
That is how terrorism works. Fear is its currency.
So why am I writing about terrorism when this was clearly a mistake — a collision of Mother Nature’s wind and homelessness?
Because in those moments sitting in my car I didn’t know that. Because as someone somewhere in Chicago’s public safety department made the decision to close down Lake Shore Drive, they didn’t know that. Because as those first responders sent in a robot to investigate a possible explosive device, they didn’t know that. In those moments, it could have been terrorism and it was treated as such.
This is the world we live in now, folks. Yesterday a blogging friend in Boston wrote about how she watched some yahoo carry another backpack to the Boston Marathon finish line — the guy walked right past she and her family. Today I get caught in a parking lot on Lake Shore Drive.
This is because of the threat of terrorism. In America. Today.
It is real and it is now the life we live. Today it looked like this.
What the threat of terrorism looked like in Chicago today.
A few years ago I made quite an Internet name for myself by dissing Gwyneth Paltrow. Those posts (there were two of them) garnered me more than a few Facebook followers and the respect and admiration of lots of Internet strangers. When I look back at them now, I cringe a bit, and then I sigh, and then I feel gratitude that each day I forge what I try and forge on this here Internet, I am not the blogger I was in early 2011.
But still, no matter how much I try and distance myself from disrespecting Gwyneth, despite the public mea culpa post I ran in 2012, many, many folks still associate me with my public slamming of her. This does not make me proud. It shames me, honestly. I am not that blogger anymore, but the Internet has a long, long memory and for many, I will always be that gal who hates Gwynnie.
So now, when Gwyneth Paltrow is in the news for one thing or another, people take time out of their day to tell me about it. They post links to news stories on my wall, they goad me to say something mean or shaming, they send me private messages thinking I take glee in her troubles. I do not. I have moved on. I no longer have the time or inclination to devote blog posts to her parenting or life choices or clothing budget.
But yesterday was a big day for Gwyneth on the Internet. Using her well written goop site, she and Chris Martin announced their “conscious uncoupling.” It is their divorce, to be sure, but they chose to refer to it as their “conscious uncoupling” and followed that announcement with an erudite discussion about marriage and the difference between divorce and conscious uncoupling. Hey, you know what? To each their own.
The happy couple in happier times.
A few of my friends are going through divorces and good God, the shenanigans they are exposed to during this painful life transition sound horrendous. Spying and abuse and hiding of assets and the like — I look at my husband and it scare the bejesus out of me. To think that this person you loved and vowed to honor and share a life with is now working to alienate friends and family against you or poison your children with untruths about you or actively working to minimize income or assets so you and your children do not get access to very needed funds, well, forget it.
If Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin embrace the life of “conscious uncoupling” that involves none of that trickery or abuse, well, hell, who am I to judge? Maybe they’re on to something. Or maybe what’s happening to them is too painful to associate with the finality of divorce, so they soothe themselves with the idea that their divorce can be different, wholesome, an evolution in their parenting relationship that will never truly end and certainly not negatively impact their beloved children.
The truth is, no matter what happens to Gwyneth, or what she chooses to call her divorce, it doesn’t impact me in the least. Not. One. Bit.
But you wouldn’t know that in social media circles yesterday and today. There is honest to goodness glee over the news of her separation. There is joy that she is getting her come-uppance. Ha! Even divorce is too good for Gwynnie, she has to be “consciously uncoupled” — whatever the hell that is.
Well you know what? She shares her philosophy about what it is and it didn’t bother me in the least. I encourage you to READ IT to judge for yourselves, rather than let TMZ make it a sound bite. Now, mind you, it’s not for everyone, as it is erudite, as I said, and anthropological and psychological and spiritual in its justification, but with a clinical background, I found it to be on target. Maybe if more folks followed a similar philosophy of divorce and separation, the big winners would be the kiddos. Hell, maybe if you or your own spouse are considering divorce or separation, you can use it as a primer or blueprint to seeing your divorce as an evolution rather than a failure.
If it makes divorce easier and more compassionate, why would anyone have an issue with conscious uncoupling?
Sigh. Life is so very hard, you see, and those of us who spend a lot of time in social media see this every day. So many folks on the Internet take their pain and anger and turn it into rage against easy targets. Just like I used to do with Gwyneth.
The other thing that happened when I wrote about her was my introduction to Internet rage. Have you ever been on the receiving end of Internet rage? I have and know from experience that it sucks. It messes with you and makes you feel horrible and heavy and exposed and vulnerable and utterly, utterly alone. Internet rage is something I would not wish on anyone.
How Internet rage works is that I write a post calling Gwynneth pretentious or out of touch or some such high toned and justified, I thought, criticism, and then it gets shared and shared and shared, cause there are a lot of folks out there who don’t like Gwynnie, and all of a sudden, my wall and comments are full of people calling her a See You Next Tuesday. Yeah, I don’t do the “c” word.
That phenomenon always depressed me. I did it twice, realized it wasn’t my cup of tea, and I haven’t done it again.
It happened again, that Internet rage, a few weeks ago when I wrote about a woman annoyed by our presence at a local restaurant because we brought our children. My writing about annoying a stranger quickly morphed into it being okay for readers to repeatedly refer to that stranger as “an infertile bitch” or the contrary opinion that I was a narcissistic, uptight, unattractive bitch for paying attention to the rude woman next to me.
Us bloggers don’t always realize the reaction our words will create until we’re faced with comment after comment that takes our own indignation and uses that as justification for hate and rage and angry yuck. Are we complicit in that? Sure. I’m still learning, myself, clearly, but I try not to make the same mistake more than once or twice.
So, in that spirit, I wish Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin nothing but peace in their conscious uncoupling. And may the two folks most impacted by their ending marriage — their little ones — be protected from the Internet rage their mom experiences on a very regular basis. A rage that I, personally, refuse to participate in any longer.
An ecard I made in 2012 after being on the receiving end of Internet rage myself.
Namaste, Gwynnie, namaste.
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I don’t know you, but was seated next to you yesterday afternoon at Trufano’s Vernon Park Tap — a Chicago institution. We arrived at 5:30. I saw you walk in just before us and thought to myself — “She’s cute — looks like a nice gal.” I honestly had that thought. Pffft.
It was not crowded, but getting there. We had timed it right. After a wait of just a few minutes we got seated. There were four of us — my husband, my five year old boy, myself, and our sleeping baby. We were coming off a late afternoon visit to the zoo and in a grand frame of mind. The sun was shining in Chicago, the snow melting, and today’s forecast started with the number 5. Woot Woot!
I was in a great mood.
As the hostess showed us to our table, I thought again, “There’s that cute gal,” as it was clear we would be sitting right next to you, but then I saw you roll your eyes, nudge your man’s elbow across the table, and say, “LOOK,” before nodding your head in our direction. Yes, I have eyes and I saw you. My initial thought was FU, cause we teach our kiddos how to behave in restaurants and I didn’t like the assumptions you were making.
You see, dear lady, I am a mom blogger. I spend lots of time on this here Internet in the mom world. I’ve read stories like this one before where rude strangers pop off at parents in places like airplanes and restaurants. I know it’s a thing on the Internet — just another way for people to bitch and moan and complain about folks different than themselves, so I’ve never really engaged this topic on my blog. I find it boring.
But there you were, in all your Lululemon glory, eating dinner with your husband or brother or cousin or boyfriend at a two top. And there we were, your family from hell, apparently, seated right next to you at the four top. Oddly, we were probably a lot like you — trying to grab an early dinner at a beloved neighborhood joint before going home and calling it a weekend.
It’s a really, really odd and unnerving feeling to know that your mere presence, or, let’s be honest, the presence of your children, causes a stranger annoyance and distress. Enough annoyance and distress that it’s visible and not hidden from you. I whispered to my husband, “Oops, looks like we annoyed the couple there,” posted a quick update on the FB, too, as I felt like I was caught in an Internet phenomenon and where better to address that than the Internet?
Here is the happily sleeping baby that was so annoying to the couple behind him.
Then, I moved on. Took the movie’s advice and “Let it Go.”
We ordered our food, kept our five year old occupied, as he was hungry and, yes, a little cranky. The drinks and salads arrived. Trufano’s is old school, so we treated our son to a kiddie cocktail and split our iceberg lettuce salad three ways. Our boy went back and forth two or three times between his seat and my lap. He was occupied, though, and not loud or bothersome. These days, knowing that his time on my lap will be over soon enough, I enjoy those moments. He knew that when the food arrived his place was back at his own seat.
The baby kept sleeping.
You snickered when I took a photo of my son’s kiddie cocktail. Yep, I saw and heard that, too. Whatever, I thought. Kiddie cocktails are awesome and bubbly and I had just deleted like 200 photos from my phone that afternoon, so was feeling antsy to be able to use the camera again with the extra storage freed up.
I mean, COME ON — just look at that bubbly goodness!
Like my son, I was hungry and really looking forward to eating. Again — this meal felt celebratory. Life is good right now and I don’t take that for granted. It felt really, really nice to sit in a restaurant surrounded by my three boys. This meal out was unexpected, but really appreciated. Trufano’s is such a joint, full of atmosphere and families and hustle and bustle, that it was just great to be out after the longest of winters.
Our food arrived with cheers from my son. Hooray! I snapped another photo, because my plate looked awesome and I wanted to save the moment and yes, it’s a thing now for folks to snap photos of food before they eat it. That annoyed you, too, and merited more eye rolls, another nudge to your partner, and the head nod accompanied by the mouthed, “Oh God.”
Wow. Did it bother you, I wondered, that I took a photo of my food? Wow — really? I marveled at how problem free your life must be if a stranger seated at the next table pushing a button on her phone caused you such distress.
You were ticking me off and it was harder to ignore you at this point.
Not a moment later, our baby let out a squawk. Yes, a loud squawk. He woke up in an unfamiliar place and squawked. Six month old babies do that. As I picked him up, I heard your loud, “OH GOD,” with more eye rolling and elbow nudging of your dinner mate. That sort of did it for me. I looked at you and said, “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.” I think my meaning was totally lost on you. You smiled back at me warmly like I was an idiot and you had no idea why I was addressing you.
I was addressing you, dear lady, because you were rude and judgemental throughout our thirty minutes of sitting four feet away from you and I had had just about enough. When a baby cries and before his mama can even pick him up to walk away you loudly proclaim, “OH GOD,” well, gal, you got some issues.
Trufano’s is a family joint. This is no Alinea. This is a family run business in a residential neighborhood. There were no less than six babies in car seats that I saw, at least a dozen toddlers through tweens. Much of the menu is offered family style and it was 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon. Sheesh. If a family with a baby is not able to eat at that kind of restaurant at that time of day, well, then, banish us all for the 18 years until our kids are raised and out of the house.
You might like that.
I left the table with my baby because I didn’t want to disturb those around me. When you go out to eat at a restaurant, as I always tell my son, no one wants to hear crying and misbehaving. Restaurants are special, because you are eating in community with others. That means if our kids are causing a disturbance, we act as responsible parents and leave the room, so as not to disturb. That’s just what we do. That means, also, that you don’t obviously communicate to the family sitting next to you that you find their mere presence a nuisance. I wish it were as easy to teach you as it is my son about those important lessons in civility and community.
In the end, I didn’t come back to the table. I really didn’t want to see you again. I will enjoy the food for lunch today. Baby and I were happily welcomed at an empty spot at the bar in the next room and folks around us actually enjoyed him and oohed and aahed over him, asking after his name and pinching his formidable cheeks. You know, like most folks respond to a baby in a family restaurant.
The offending food photo. It will make a good lunch today!
I don’t know your story and after I hit publish on this post, I’ll forget about you, dear lady. But honestly? I feel badly for you. You must be sad and that must suck. Here’s to a brighter future for you, full of quiet and solitude. Oh, and my guess is that whole yoga thing is not working for you, so it’s sort of pointless to invest in the Lululemon gear.
Namaste, dear lady. Namaste.
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Mary Tyler Mom 