Jif and I try to teach LG proper table manners. Our example isn't always the best. Elbows on the table is a particular weakness of ours. But honestly, we try. Like a gateway drug, elbows on the table can lead to more egregious violations of etiquette. To the most egregious violations . . .

We're all at the table on Saturday night. Eating, conversing. Every now and then, Jif or I (OK, I) will say, "LG, elbows." Then LG sees an opportunity...

"Daddy, elbow."

Jif smiles/smirks and removes the offending joint. But he does not learn his lesson.

"Daddy, elbow."

Jif does not respond.

"Daddeeeeee! Now BOTH of your elbows are on the table!"

"Yes, but that's only because I'm eating my porkchop with two hands."

Who ARE these people? LG and I begin to laugh, and I say, "You know I'm blogging this."

LG continues to laugh, harder. So hard, in fact, that she commits what might be the most egregious sin of all, at the dinner table. She -- er -- passes gas. Loudly and long.

"LG!!!!"

She laughs harder. "Are you blogging that?"

"No! I wouldn't know how to spell it . . . "

Then my rude daughter becomes thoughtful, helpful, even. "I think maybe f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f . . . "

The gentlemanly Jif offers assistance, "I think maybe a 't' at the end . . ."

I don't know these people.

Sunday Post ~ "When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself." --Tecumseh


1 Chronicles 16:34

file under: &Sunday Post

We celebrated Thanksgiving with Jif's entire family, at his parents' home. It was very special because Nana and PopPop are moving in a few weeks, down-sizing to a smaller place. Here is my SPF attempt at:

Across the hall from my office is what I believed to be a daycare center. Turns out, it is some sort of work-release program for 3- and4-year-olds, from which they operate a turkey farm. As you can imagine, it's been a busy place this week. I've dealt with a turkey or two in my day, so I thought I'd take a moment to offer some last-minute turkey selection guidance, with a little help from my turkey-raising friends across the hall.

Do look for:



A plump, confident bird that will look you right in the eye. All parts should be . . . "in the ballpark," so to speak.

AVOID:



A bird that appears intoxicated, or just effin' goofy. You don't want that.




The upside-down turkey, with crossed legs and shifty eyes. May also exhibit a paranoid demeanor. This bird will NOT digest easily.




Watch for the inbred turkey. Its feathers and legs tend to grow inward. Also be leery of turkeys with excessive glue or other miscellaneous white liquids dripping from their beaks. You just don't know where a turkey like this has been.




This is the "WTF" turkey. Any bird that elicits, as your first response, a startled "WTF?!" is to be avoided. Just say no.


In the true spirit of Thanksgiving, please accept my sincere

THANK YOU,

for visiting me here, for reading, commenting, lurking. Thank you for your interesting, funny, strange comments, and for your kind and encouraging emails. Blogging is so much more fun than I ever would have guessed, thanks to you. Yea, you.

Americans, enjoy your Thanksgiving. Everyone else, enjoy your tomorrow.

Thank someone for something!

file under: &The Kids Across the Hall

Can Sensitivity and Common Sense Coexist?

My client tells me last week that her boy was suspended from high school, 12th grade, for five days, charged with "biased behavior."

Seems his "Living Skills" class was having a discussion on negotiating in the marketplace. The teacher asked them what they could do if they wanted to buy something that they thought was overpriced.

My client's son answered, "I'd try to 'jew' them down." Except even in his thoughts, he didn't put "jew" in quotation marks, because he wouldn't have known to do that. There in the classroom, in addition to students and teacher, was an administrator from the school board, there to observe. The administrator was a Jewish man who took offense, took extreme offense, at the boy's answer. With no confrontation, no explanation, the man went to the office and started the process that would suspend the boy for five days and put a notice of "biased behavior" in his school file. The mom was called. She apologized for what her son had said, adding that, regrettably, she expected he had heard his grandfather use that term. She pleaded, saying that she was certain her son had no idea of the term's origin, or that it even related to a group of people, and certainly no idea that it was an offensive term. So far, the suspension stands, the record stands, and my client is the only person to have taken the time to explain to her son what he did wrong.

My client, who works in education, said that she could not understand why the teacher and/or administrator wouldn't have made use of the "teachable moment," to help the boy and all the other students examine the statement, understand why it would be objectionable, and replace it with something else. I agree with her. I have never used that term; I have heard it, and I find it offensive. And I still say that this situation is political correctness / cultural sensitivity run amok. A little common sense is called for. Incidentally, the teacher thoroughly corroborates, via an email which my client showed me, the story that the boy clearly had no intent to offend, and indeed, appeared to completely lack understanding of why he was in trouble.



Celebration

I got a phone call from a former client, whom I hadn't heard from in a couple of years. When I met her, she was utterly alone. The story she told was one that would not have been realistic enough for a soap opera. If it can go wrong in a person's life, it had gone wrong in this woman's. Illness, disaster, violation, victimization, betrayal by family, friends, church. And you might think, yea, but did she....? Yes, she did. Yea, but was she...? Yes, she was. Imagine a bad scene, and she had been there. She was living in her car when I met her, here in a country that was not her own, staying in this town to complete her cancer therapy.

She was calling to tell me that she has written a book, which will be published next year, and in which she wanted me to know, I get a "shout out." I am not showing false modesty when I say to you, as I said to her, "I didn't do anything." She says I helped her immeasurably, and that she wouldn't have survived if not for me. I don't see it. Indeed, I was often amazed that this woman was not suicidal, and it was not because of anything I was doing. Her needs were so great, anything I had to offer barely made a dent. I actually remember thinking, more than once, that if I were her, I would have to seriously consider suicide. Her past, present, and prospects for the future, seemed that bleak. She amazed me then, and she delights me now. She is indeed, a survivor. I can't tell you how happy, truly happy I was, to hear from her.


Education

Had a little training session for the grad student interns, on interpreting children's art in therapy. Student One holds up a client's drawing of his family, in which she's calling attention to everything but the ONE thing that jumps out at me from across the room.

Me: What is that, there, on the Dad? Is that pubic hair?

Student One (obviously seeing what I see for the first time): Ohmygosh, I didn't even notice that! (looks more closely) No, I think it's like laces, they're like lace-up pants...

Me: His Dad wears lace-up pants? Did he wear these in session? (other students giggle)

Student Two: I think they're balls!

Student One (with absolute seriousness): No, it couldn't be that, he doesn't have any. In fact, that's one of the things we're working on, trying to get him some...

Me: Well, OK, as long as you document that as a goal in your treatment plan.


Perfection

Sometimes clients, even uncooperative ones, will feed me the perfect set-up.

In this family, I'm trying to get the single mom and all three teenagers to take responsibility for their own actions, to stop blaming one another, or anyone else for the choices they make. I am at that point in the session when a concrete example would be useful. Just then, the 13-year-old says something very disrespectful to the mom, such disrespect being another target of treatment.

Mom looks stricken, as she always does when this kid lets loose her venom. I say to the kid, "Gidget, it seems to me that you are so accustomed to being unkind to your mom, I wonder if you even recognize how hurtful your words are to her..."

Gidget says, "Oh, yea. I know I'm being disrespectful. She gets on my nerves so much, she makes me so crazy, that I have to be disrespectful to her!"

Mom retorts, "See? See what I live with!? I had quit smoking today, but you know what? I'm going to smoke! They behave so badly that I'm going back to smoking as soon as we leave here!"

Hmmm. Wonder where Gidget learned her technique...

photo by my friend, Squirl

Sunday Post ~ "Friends ... they cherish one another's hopes. They are kind to one another's dreams." -- Henry David Thoreau


Romans 12:10,15

file under: &Sunday Post

Past



This is a box in my closet that I call my "keeping box." Inside are ticket stubs, little souvenirs, nice notes that people have written to me, sentimental things. Whenever someone writes something to me that makes me feel good, I put it in the box. Then when I don't feel so good, I can take the good stuff out and read it, and feel better. I highly recommend a keeping box, a pretty one, for everyone.



Just a couple of things inside the keeping box: the little baby hat LG wore in the hospital and the "rag" (actually a washcloth with crocheted trim around it) that she used to chew on, which had been made by Jif's great grandmother.

Present



The above mess was present on my kitchen floor this morning when I returned from walking LG to school. I left a box of tea on the counter, and Biscuit the VBD felt the need to dump it on the floor. Indeed, this is a need he feels any and every time tea is left out. He needs a therapist. But it can't be me, because...



This is also my present. Case files. I am working too much.


Future



I'm trying to be mysterious, so work with me here. This is a tease of future posts. Pretty far into the future. No more info is available now, but it will be big, BIG, I tell you, when the time is right.


Blog Princess Kristine sponsors/hosts/orchestrates, etc., SPF. Check with her every week to get the assignment, if you want to play :)

I was late getting my first kiss, compared to my peers. This was because I lived in the country. I remember going to a party at one of my town friends' homes (the one whose dad was a funeral director, and whose house was attached to the funeral home), and listening to the conversation about who kissed how. I had no idea. But the town kids were together every evening. My more rural peers and I only saw each other outside of school on special pre-arranged occasions, which involved parents driving us to get together. It was simply a matter of opportunity meeting preparation. We were in eighth grade when I realized how far behind I was. I resolved to catch up ASAP.

My boyfriend was Mike. He was a year older, a freshman in high school. He was very much a hippie. Big, curly 'fro (he was white), and he wore wire-rimmed glasses and a red fez. I can't defend the fez; at the time, it seemed jaunty. He lived near town, and the only way he and I saw one another was on the school bus. Until the day his mom agreed to drive us both to the movies. Both his mom and dad came to pick me up

::tangent: I wasn't allowed to "date" at that age; as far as I know, I am still not allowed to date, so I don't know what we were calling that little rendezvous, and in hindsight, I'm amazed I was allowed to go. There may have been lying involved. On someone's part. ::end tangent

and I remember a big, blue car (got me a Chrysler that's as big as a whale and we're about to set sail!) and two big parents. They were really, really fat, and looked very much alike. They were hippies, too, but didn't have the 'fros, they had long, straight hair. They were nice, but not a bit parental, as I recall.

The movie was probably a Billy Jack sequel. The kiss occurred when they took me home. I don't know if Mike had arranged this with his parents or not, but as I recall (gosh, I hope I'm senile or something, because this is too bizarre) he kissed me in the big blue car, in front of my house, with the big hippie parents in the front seat. I don't remember the kiss in detail. I do remember thinking things like, "I think he didn't do that right, because . . . is that it? He must not be a 'good kisser.'" In case you haven't gathered yet, I was not in love with Mike. (I'm not in love, don't make a fuss . . . yea, that crap;) That was it. The first kiss.

That was not the most colorful part of the Mike story. The most colorful part was when I tried to break up with him, not too long after that. I guess he could be called a stalker, although the term had not been coined yet. After too many phone calls that I ended abruptly, he came to see me. Hitch-hiked, some 10 or 15 miles. I saw him across the road from my house. My dad was home. My dad had no clue that I was interested in boys, or they in me. And there, across the road from my rural ranch house, was Mike with his red fez. He stood there staring at the house for a long time. I was getting tummy trouble from the anxiety, and prayed he would get tired and leave before my dad noticed him. He got tired, but he didn't leave. He just lay down. In the ditch. With his red-fezzed head sticking up above the ditch-line, staring across the road at my house. Son of a mother...

OK, insert Dad's southern accent here. "Susie, there's some ol' boy a-layin' in the ditch. Do you know that boy?"

Boy? Ditch? I looked out the living room picture window. "Um, I don't think so..."

"I'll go see what he wants."

"NO! I think I know who that is. He rides my bus. I'll go see what he wants!" And out the door I go. He would not leave. I begged. I went back in the house and told my father, "He wants to talk to me, but I don't want to talk to him. I just want him to leave." Then a strange thing happened. My father, who had no respect for hippies, and I would have thought, even less respect for red-fez-wearing, ditch-lying hippies, said to invite him in. I can only imagine that my father remembered what it was like to be a teen-age boy, "sweet on" a girl.

Mike came in and was very polite to my father. We talked on the back porch, and he finally called his parents to bring the blue whale and pick him up.

The next boyfriend was Ricky. I liked him much better. He could have lain in my ditch any day.

::tangent: That reminds me; Mike wasn't truly my first kiss. My VERY first kiss was from an earlier Ricky, Ricky Canterbury. He was from West Virginia and looked just like Howdy Doody. We played baseball. I did love him. We were in third grade. end tangent ::

This is a motif Monday post, brought to you by mrtl. mrtl is also responsible for the tangents in this post. She is the tangent master. Wax on, wax off.

If you didn't do motif Monday, tell us here about your first kiss!

Sunday Post ~ "Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional." -- a woman I met last week


Hebrews 4:16

file under: &Sunday Post

Dominick, the furnace guy, just left. He inspired me to contemplate how one brief encounter can cause a shift in perspective, for better or worse.

I started today knowing pretty much what I was in for. We haven't yet turned on our heat this year. For a couple of reasons. We like to get the oil burner maintenance done before we turn it on each Fall. And we're trying to wear sweaters and use the fireplace, because we're a little worried about oil prices. Believe me, we haven't suffered; we're neither cheap nor hardy, and we'd turn the heat on if we were uncomfortable. Last year when the furnace guy (his name was, um, NotDominick) left, he gave me a speech about how our furnace is operating at only about 70% efficiency, and he's doing me a big favor by "approving" it at all, and next year we'll definitely need a new one. So I wasn't looking forward to what this year's furnace guy would say.

I stayed home today, my day off, to wait for the furnace guy who would arrive between 8 and 12. I hoped it was closer to 8. It wasn't. I HATE waiting for service people in those ungodly huge, unreasonable windows of time they give us for appointments.

He arrived around 2 p.m. He was friendly, and nice to my dog. I'm always relieved to get a "good vibe" from home repair and maintenance people. I've found that part of home-ownership so disconcerting, that letting strange (sometimes VERY strange) men into my home when I'm alone in the house, seemingly even alone in the neighborhood. I imagine men don't think much about things like that. I think other women do, though; don't you? Anyhow, Dominick was friendly, so I didn't give him a hard time about how late he was. I know perfectly well how easy it is to start out the day right on time, and get progressively behinder with each appointment. I did, however, have to say to him, "I was expecting you earlier, so I have some afternoon commitments. If you can give me a ball park as to how long this might take, I'll call my husband to be home when I have to leave."

He looked at me like I needed some special help and said, "I'll be here about 25 minutes."

"Twenty-five minutes?"

"Well, could be 30."

"The guy who came last year was here for two and a half hours."

"I don't know what to tell you, ma'am. Your system is in good shape. I'll vacuum it out and replace a couple of filters, maybe a nozzle."

"I'm not complaining; that' s great. I'm just surprised."

"Well, I could sit down there and balance my checkbook or talk on the phone, and bang on the register every now and then so it sounds to you like I'm doing something, and spend 2 hours here. Or I could do my job in 25 minutes."

"Dominick, DO YOUR JOB!" Woo-hoo!

So I sit at the kitchen table doing banking kinds of things, while Dominick does his job. And sings. He sings, "Who's That Lady (who's that lady?)" and "Cuts Like a Knife," and "I Can't Get Enough of Your Love," and a couple of others, and his voice comes up through the vents into the kitchen. Quite a repertoire, and not a bad voice. Then he's done. He brings me a paper to sign, the same kind of paper that last year's guy pointed to while he told me that my furnace was in such bad shape he could shut me down if he had half a mind to.

But Dominick says, "Your furnace is at 84% efficiency; you're fine."

"But the guy last year said we'd need a new one this year. It was at 70% last year. How could it improve?"

"It didn't improve. It's like this. If you get a new unit, I get a commission. My conscience is more important to me than my commission. I believe in a God. If I weren't running so late, I'd tell you my story and you'd understand just why I believe in a God. But my point is, I believe in being honest with people. Your furnace is fine."

"Thank you for that. I was not looking forward to replacing it; we've got other things going on right now. I'm going to ask for you next year when I schedule the maintenance."

"If I'm still living, that's fine. You have a real nice weekend, Mrs. Fairchild."

You, too, Dominick.

Good things come to those who wait?

The TV is on, but no one has time to watch. I'm catching up on notes for work; Jif is researching something on the computer.

TV announcer guy: Log on to Apprentice TV to see what happens after Martha tells the candidates "You just don't fit in!"!

Jif: Now, that's some good television. We should watch that.

Susie: What's that?

Jif: Martha Stewart telling the Kennedys, "You just don't fit in!"

Susie: No, not the Kennedys, the candidates!

Jif: Oh. Never mind.

Sunday Post ~

Aim above morality.
Be not simply good;
be good for something. --Thoreau

In a restaurant earlier this week, some lame '80s* song comes on the Muzak.

LG asks, "What kind of music is this?"

I'm not in love . . . it's just a silly phase I'm going through...

"I guess you'd call this 'pop,'" I tell her, as I check out the menu.

"There are a lot of different kinds of music, aren't there?" she asks.

"Oh, yea. Dozens, probably hundreds," I agree.

"What are they?"

Jif joins in, "There's rock, metal . . . "

"Country, jazz, pop, hip-hop, alternative, classical . . . " I continue.

"There's rap music," LG contributes.

"Yep, rap . . ." I say.

Then she says, "What is crap music, is that like rap music?"

Jif snorts. "CRAP music?"

"Yea, it comes on the radio a lot, but Mama doesn't like it . . ."

"WHAT?" I am scrambling to catch up, although I think I know where this is heading.

"Yea, you always say, 'I can't listen to crap,' and you change the station."

"Oh, yea. You're right, there is crap music."

"Mama, how do you tell crap music from the other kinds?"

I keep your picture upon the wall . . . it hides a messy stain that's lying there...

"You hear that? Crap music has lyrics like that."

*****

Big boys don't cry, big boys don't cry...

Yea, unless they have to listen to crap like that. That song is by "10cc," whose name always reminded me of having to produce a urine specimen on demand.

So tell me some lyrics that are your idea of "crap music."

CORRECTION: Closet Metro has advised me that this was a '70s song. It sure sounds like '80s, but I stand corrected on that crap.

This past Sunday, my church observed All Saints' Day as we always do. The names are read of loved ones who have died during the past year, and a little something nice is said about each person, and a little bell is rung. If you know the person whose name is read, if that person touched your life in some way, you stand up when their name is spoken, then you sit back down when the bell is rung, and on it goes, down the list. I had many thoughts while I sat there for that service, which is often simultaneously beautiful, moving, discomfitting, distressing. I realized that I had not realized, that I have not gone to a funeral in the past year.

There is sometimes some awkwardness in the service. Like when I sort of knew the person, but didn't know them well, didn't socialize, didn't chat . . . I don't want to disrespect their memory by not standing -- by saying, "that person didn't touch my life" -- because I truly believe that we all are touching one another's lives, whether we ever speak or not. At the same time, I didn't want to stand and claim entitlement to compassion for grief that, rightly or wrongly, I wasn't truly feeling. I know they were dear people; I just didn't know them. I stood for one man-- Andy. I'm not sure, but I may have been the only person who stood for him. He was not a member of the church, he was designated as a "friend" of the church. He was an alcoholic, although he would tell you he was "a drunk." He had many, many years of recovery. Some years ago, when he worked in a treatment facility, he was helpful and encouraging to someone I love who was in that facility. That was his identity to me -- the person who helped someone I love. Whenever I'd see Andy, which wasn't often, I would stop just to ask, "How're you doing?" Well, last year, he wasn't doing well. He went from recovering alcoholic to drunk, again, and he killed himself. And I hated that a lot. So I stood up for Andy, but not for anyone else; I know there were some nice ladies, some beloved church members, some people for whom almost everyone else in the church stood. But I would have felt disingenuous and maybe even a little guilty if I had joined everyone in standing, because some of them, I could have known better if I'd put out the effort. And I should have.

I tell you all that to tell you that I don't pop up and down at that service, thinking, "Oh, I knew that person!" I put thought into my standing -- many would say too much thought. Then the pastor added a name to the end of the list. She gave a little disclaimer, "this person was not a member of the congregation, but..." and she read the name of Rosa Parks. And I put not one fraction of a second's thought into what to do. I nearly sprang up. I don't know how many other people stood. I know everyone didn't. And I was almost immediately aware that there would be those who would judge me -- "She didn't stand for Louise, or for Maggie, who served her food, and sang for her in the choir, but she stood for a woman she never met." Yes, I did.

I told Jif later, I've been standing for Rosa Parks every chance I got since I first heard of her when I was in about third grade. She has been one of my personal heroes, ever since I can remember. What Mrs. Parks did, when she refused to give up her seat -- dear God, it's incalculable the ripples that went out from that beautiful woman keeping her bottom planted on that bus seat. I 'm not qualified to expound on the magnitude of Mrs. Parks' impact on the Civil Rights Movement. There are books written on that alone.

I just feel compelled to share what her action, or her inaction, said to me. She showed me the power of a woman saying no. And if I may be so presumptuous as to amplify, to explain what I heard in her "no," I heard,

"No, I won't follow rules that are immoral or unreasonable."

"No, I won't sacrifice myself to serve a belief system that I don't believe in."

"No, I won't stand when you say stand, or move when you say move; I will be the one who decides when and where I move. I will be in charge of me."

And most importantly to me, I heard, in her "no,"
"You may continue to mistreat me, but I will no longer cooperate with you. You may continue to abuse me -- I can't control what you do -- but I can control what I do, and I will no longer participate in your abuse of me. If you do it now, you're doing it without my cooperation."

And forgive me, Mrs. Parks, but I heard you say, "Rosa don't play that no more."

In spite of what some of my readers have assumed, I'm not a black woman. But I am a woman. And I know that there's some woman who will read this, and who needs to say to someone -- a lover, a boss, a religion, someone -- I will not be complicit in your mistreatment of me. No more.

You all know I love me some Neville Brothers. They wrote a song:

Sister Rosa Parks

December 1, 1955, our freedom movement came alive.
And because of Sister Rosa you know, we don’t ride on the back of the bus no more.

Sister Rosa Parks was tired one day
after a hard day on her job.
And all she wanted was a well-deserved rest,
not a scene from an angry mob.
A bus driver said, "Lady, you got to get up
cuz a white person wants that seat."
But Miss Rosa said, "No, not no more.
I’m gonna sit right here and rest my feet."

Chorus
Thank you, Miss Rosa, you were the spark,
Started our freedom movement
Thank you, Sister Rosa Parks.

Thank you, Miss Rosa you are the spark,
Started our freedom movement
Thank you, Sister Rosa Parks.

Now, the police came without fail
And took Sister Rosa off to jail.
Fourteen dollars was her fine,
Brother Martin Luther King
knew it was our time.
The people of Montgomery sat down to talk
It was decided all God's children should walk
Until segregation was brought to its knees
And we obtained freedom and equality, yeah

Chorus
Thank you, Miss Rosa, you were the spark,
Started our freedom movement
Thank you, Sister Rosa Parks.
We’ll sing it again
Thank you, Miss Rosa, you were the spark,
Started our freedom movement
Thank you, Sister Rosa Parks.

So we dedicate this song to thee
for being the symbol of our dignity.
Thank you, Sister Rosa Parks.