Mop Dogs, Family Values, and Wanting More OR How My Morning Run Turned Into a Philosophical Awakening

This morning, I headed out for my morning run, determined to make it a good one, since I haven't been able to get one in this week due to a packed schedule and the soul-crushing humidity.   The morning was cool, Frodo was keeping me going as he snuffled out what was obviously some sort of squirrel leopard, and despite the pains brought from lack of exercise this week, everything was right with the world.

As I turned the corner onto the street that's the top of the neighborhood,  the doglet started whining and snuffling louder.  Given that we'd been run up on by a large Rottweiler mix (that turned out to be a big, friendly puppy), I kept running and ignored him.  Then, up ahead, I spotted a mop dog.  You know, the kind of dog you could use to clean your floor if only it came with a stick attached?  (I'm awful.  Whatever.)  Anyway, the mop dog started running toward us, which gave me the chance to note that--much like the Rottie--it wasn't wearing tags.

The dogs greeted each other with stiff legs and little growls and jumps and I tugged on Frodo's leash and told the other dog to go away.  But the mop dog did NOT go away.  It frisked around us and Frodo frisked with it and there was a general jumble of dogs and leashes and me tugging and I turned to tell the mop dog to go home and leave us alone at the same time that Frodo lunged to say the same thing and...I sprained my ankle again.

Crunch.  Snap.  Me on the ground writhing in pain.  

The unfortunate thing is that, you know, instead of being on the library floor within shouting distance of various family members, I was in somebody's front yard.  By the street.  Hanging on to a leash attached to a dog who'd had quite enough of another dog, thank you kindly.  Which, you know, is embarrassing.

I tried to pull my mess together, because the position which felt best was me pressing my head into the grass with my butt up in the air, which...no.  I managed to fall on my side and then lurch up to sitting where I swatted at the damned mop dog and made it run away.  I might have cried a little, but this was mainly because a truck had approached, slowed, and then KEPT GOING while I rolled around clutching my ankle while the dogs wrestled.  

Let me repeat that:  lady on the ground, dogs wrestling, KEPT GOING.

Let me also go ahead and note for you right here that I could hear folks in the houses around me:  TVs, doors closing, et cetera.  I'm willing to suspend disbelief for a moment and say that it's possible, once again--for those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, nobody came when the Rottie came up, either--, that nobody heard me yelling or noticed me wallowing around on a lawn.  I mean, I have a GREAT imagination. After a few moments of clutching and sobbing softly, I realized that nobody was going to help me.  So.  I called my mother-in-law to come and pick me up, because there was no way I could walk all the way back home.  I was maybe a mile from home, but there was a hill and, also, I just didn't want to hobble.  Call me weak.  I can take it.

My mother-in-law said she'd come get me and I somehow managed to pull myself up and start walking, because there was no way I was going to stay there, lying on the ground amongst people who didn't want to help me.  I limped.  I cried a little.  I almost fell over a few times, but I got my ass off that street.  Four cars passed me, and another one when I turned onto another street.  Nobody stopped.

Finally, I saw my mil's car and I burst into tears.  I mean...SOBBING.  I'm not going to say that I'm not a crier.  I cry.  I cry at Alan Jackson songs and Pampers commercials and at the sight of my little girl skipping merrily into the school building on her first day of Pre-K.  However, I rarely cry-cry in front of people.  Few folks have ever seen the snot-laden, tear-quirting, ugly-face-making extravaganza that is Heather Crying.  I think in the almost twenty years my mil has known me, she's seen me cry-cry once before today.

She patted my shoulder and said that she knew I hurt, but that wasn't it.  What was IT was that I had been completely ignored by my fellow human beings.  I was in pain, in need and there was nobody to help me.  What the hell?  I mean, I would have taken just a friendly shout out the window, you know?  I got no shout.

Anyway, I got back home and iced my ankle down and stopped crying and then I got on the interwebs, because what else was I going to do?  And then I came across the story about the Million Mom movement. I'm not going to link to them, because I think they're acting like asshats, but the gist of it is that a bunch of women, backed by the American Family Association, which has been identified as a hate group because they hate Teh Gays, of course, are trying to force Dancing With the Stars to remove Carson Kressly and Chaz Bono from the show because they are Teh Gay.  Or Teh Transgendered.  (They aren't going to force the show to get rid of David Arquette, the cheating husband, or Kristin Whatsernuts, whose show not only lowered the entire nation's IQ, but also featured lots of Teh Unmarried Sex.  And drinking.  And assininity.)

To be clear:  they want somebody removed from a television show, excluded from public view, locked away from the children because they don't, apparently, have AFA sanctioned sex with the opposite sex.  I went on their FB page and found a whole lot of folks talking about forcing the networks only to show Christian-sanctioned shows and how they were changing the world and how maybe if Cher had been a better mother, Chaz would be wearing a skirt and being a mother.  DID YOU HEAR THAT, MOM?  If you'd been a better mother, I'd be wearing a skirt.  Thank GAWD you didn't totally suck and I was able to be a mother because of it.

Y'all.  Listen.  I know they aren't connected in any way at all, but for some reason, my inconsiderate neighbors and the asshatty mothers against Teh Gay dancers on television coalesced into one thing and now I am just STEWING.

I mean, honestly, are these women such distant, crappy mothers that they are relying on television to ensure that the family values they uphold are taught?  Are they such controlling people that they want to ensure that their family values are the ones taught to my kids?  Do they possess such low muscle tone that they can't turn off the damn television if a non-AFA-sanctioned show comes on?

But even more than that, I'm just pissed that people can't be humans.  You know what?  We aren't born Pagans.  Or Christians.  Or atheists.  We aren't born liberals or conservatives, or Democrats or libertarians or TV watchers.  We're born human.  And we're so busy trying to prove that we're MORE something besides human--we're more wealthy or more busy or more religious or more smart or more hip or more whatEVER that we let our fellow beings lie on the street in pain.  We want to force our fellow human beings to be out of the public eye and hidden from view if they don't match our ideals of how they can best be MORE.  We choose, in trying to be more, to be less.

How is that even possible?

I don't know what the answer is.  I know that my ankle isn't as bad as it was the last time around.  I know that it wasn't a life or death situation that left me hobbling down the street.  I know that Carson Kressley will still be gay whether he's allowed to show his face on television or not.  Chaz Bono will still be a dude even if he can't put on a glitter-spangled  tuxedo.

What I don't know is if my children will grow up in a world in which humanity takes precedence over being or having more.   Given today, I'm leaning toward not so much.

Pardon me while I go ice my ankle and my soul.