A Commonplace Book

1. “You look peaceful today:” Jacinta, a preschool mom, told me as I was dropping Gwen off. Most days, I feel a little haggard, so this was nice to hear. Her comment actually made me feel peaceful.

2. Cinnamon Chip Bread: near our home, there is a locally-owned bread shop, where they mill their own flour. They don’t always have the cinnamon chip, but they did today, and it was steaming hot. It’s now cooling on my kitchen counter, and my whole house smells like fresh cinnamon bread.

3.  Hot Surveyor: this guy was smokin’–tall, tan, salt and pepper curly hair, beard, wooden bead bracelet. I’ve always been drawn to someone a little hippyish (those who have seen Reg know what I mean). However, it wasn’t his general hotness, but the fact that he was at least five years older than me (mid to late 40’s) that I find inspiring. It’s uplifting to know that there are folks in their 40’s (who aren’t on TV ) who can still turn heads. 

4. Nina: my dearest friend Nina called from New York last night, and we shared some deep from the gut laughter. Nina is truly one of the smartest people I know, and she’s built an amazing career in journalism to prove it. Still, she’s got enough of the YO in her to root for Jess on Rock of Love. Connecting with her made me feel loved all morning.

5. Student Papers: I completely overhauled my remedial course this semester, and if this first batch of papers is any indication, the new design is going to work. Typically, remedial course essays contain too much of what my colleague Chris describes as “received phrases,” which are essentially meaningless fluff or what a former, less tactful, colleague used to call “golly gee talk.” The essays I’ve read yesterday and this morning show some real originality and insight, and one in particular earned a SOCKO, my highest praise (props TR).

I remember watching something on television where two men were in a bar fight, and a third man stepped in, broke up the fight, and said, “keep it real.” Now, I’d heard this expression many times before, but I hadn’t really contemplated the meaning until that television moment a couple of years ago. I love “keep it real.” To me it means to recognize and honor the humanity that we have in common, to drop our defenses, and to stop posturing—to put down our fists.

I recently had an exchange that wasn’t real. My longtime (20 years) hairdresser and friend, Kim, is going through some hard financial times. Her husband lost his job and the family’s health insurance, her son has been sick, and things seem a little bleak right now. So I pulled the sneak-some-extra-money-in trick, the way old ladies do when they want to help “the kids.” In retrospect, that move may not have come off as I had hoped.

It turned out that because Kim was rushing Mira’s haircut to fit in extra clients, the haircut came out a little crooked. I called her the next day to make arrangements to get Mira’s hair fixed. It wasn’t long into the conversation before I was on the end of a daytime-talk-T.V.-style rant about how I think I’m better than her, about how I was talking down to her. She then said, “and I’m going to send you that money back.”

We needed the “keep it real”guy.

I spent too many fruitless minutes trying to explain that I didn’t “have an attitude” and that I wasn’t upset. Kim yelled “I wish all I had to worry about was an eight-year-old’s haircut.” Finally, I ended the call by telling Kim that she had it all wrong and that I couldn’t accept that kind of treatment. I said, “I won’t be back,” and I hung up the phone. I HATE this kind of theater, but she wouldn’t let me speak long enough to end the call properly, and at that point, enough had been said.

Why did money have to complicate things so much? Why was Kim unable to see that money is just money? That human relationships are more important than money? Or was it my fault for sneaking the money. Why was I so uncomfortable with just handing her the money and telling her that I wanted to help? My intentions were to be generous without embarrassing Kim, so on some level, sneaking her the money says that I had to know it was going to offend her.

It was all just so unreal.

But then, when someone who works for tips discusses her overwhelming financial fears with a client, isn’t she kind of asking for money? Wouldn’t it be a little inhuman not to tip more than usual? Or was it the size of the snuck-in tip, twice the cost of the haircuts (or 100%), that was the problem?

And here’s the thing, the real thing—now, after this incident, I do feel better than Kim. I feel superior about the way I handled our conflict. I feel superior that I wasn’t the person who brought up the issue of the money, which, in my opinion, was a little crass.

And if I’m really being real, I have to admit that I arrived at this place of superiority a little too quickly for my own comfort. Because, truth be told, it’s easy for someone who isn’t struggling to support a family with three kids to have a healthier and more spiritual, let’s-just-all-share-it-man attitude about money.

Still, I know that my intentions behind the tip were real, as real as can be. I was connecting with Kim’s money troubles on the most basic of human levels—I knew that it could happen to me at any time. Really, for the typical American family, job loss is not out of the question and serious financial peril is always a possibility. And so I superstitiously felt that by giving Kim a little extra, I could somehow make myself luckier, less likely to suffer a similar reality.

If I could talk to Kim again, this is what I would say. This and, “let’s keep it real.”

If there were ever a figure of speech that “gets under my skin,” it is “don’t dwell on it,” which essentially means that one should always try to ignore injustices, hardships or offenses. “Don’t dwell on it” is advice handed down from the uninvolved or the purposefully ignorant. Like “he’s in a better place,” “don’t dwell on it” is a platitude that barely passes as an attempt at support. At worst, it’s condescension. At best, it’s dismissal.

“Don’t dwell on it” implies that a less emotional response to life’s trials and abuses is classier. Wasn’t it William Faulkner who wrote “between pain and nothing, I’d always choose pain?” The painful feelings of guilt remind us to treat people kindly or to prioritize differently. The pain that we feel at the hands of others reminds us that we need to clarify relationships and set boundaries. To be human is to dwell in the pain for a while.

While I agree that a few days or a week or so after an incident or abuse (depending, of course), the time for dwelling has past, it is usually the case that “don’t dwell on it” is advised in the moment when dwelling is the exact right course of action. If mother-in-law puts the baby to sleep on his belly, the baby’s safety depends on us dwelling on it. When a child is disrespectful, dwelling on it helps us teach her about honor.

Dwell: 1. to stay, remain. 2. abide as a permanent residence; reside. 3. (usually with on) dilate [expand, make larger, distend] upon, as a topic.

“Dilating upon a topic” is the difference between watching Springer and discerning the cultural implications of Springer. Dwelling on it is a sign of intelligence, of a sense of social responsibility, of compassion. Are we dwelling too much when we question the incarceration of the Jena 6? When we demand to know how billions of dollars in the form of bricks of cash ended up missing in Iraq ? Lincoln dwelled, as did Thoreau and Angelou, as does Jon Stewart. It would seem then, that to dwell puts us in good company.

When we dwell, we make ourselves vulnerable. We offer this portion of our lives (even if it is a small portion) to the causes of rightness and fairness, and so it is true that we should take care about upon what we choose to dwell. And, of course, we can’t ignore that dwelling may open us up to ridicule or risk. Sometimes our own health depends on what and in whom we invest our energy; sometimes, a desirable outcome isn’t possible or worth the cost.

 

Perhaps then the best response to “don’t dwell on it” is what Whitman would say: “I do not give lectures or a little charity. When I give I give myself.”

I just received a Tupperware party invitation from, of all people, Henrietta! As if!

I’ve always sort of resented the Tupperware/Pampered Chef/Tastefully Simple/ Home Interiors/etc. invite everyone who crosses your path approach as a way to get lots of free stuff. There isn’t any way to turn down these invitations without lying. I’m a nervous liar, so usually, I claim I have a “meeting” or I fake a last-minute child illness (Gwennie and projectile vomit and/or high fever is the current plan).

Otherwise, these invitations are difficult to turn down because it means (essentially) telling the schoolmate’s mom, work friend, or in this case, psychotic neighbor, that I’m either not willing to spend the money to help her win her hostess incentive, or that I’m not into the products, or that I really just don’t want to spend time with her and whatever weird friends she has. I never know what to say. I usually just try to ignore the invitation, but inevitably, the hostess calls to see if I’m coming. I screen the call, naturally, but then there are two invitations out there.

This process is really difficult with preschool moms because I actually see them a few times a week. One mom even brought the catalog to school when I made my usual “meeting” excuse in case I wanted to order anything from “the book.” It was a Home Interiors party, and because I don’t usually choose to decorate my house with tacky, mass-produced, angel-themed crap, I can assure you there was nothing I wanted from “the book,” but then I had to take it home and pretend to look at it for a couple of days, which of course, only prolongs the inevitable insult to the mom’s taste.

Tupperware? Why would I buy Tupperware? We have enough Cool Whip/take out/deli containers to cover us, and we also have some really nice OP (other people’s) Rubbermaid. Pampered Chef products are quite nice, and the parties are often worth attending for the yummy food; however, sometimes these parties can have a strange vibe. First of all, without question, guests are expected to buy something. Then there is the pressure not to be cheap so that the hostess can reach her (free stuff) goal. Because we all know that the after party conversation goes something like… “Lucy only spent $7 on cinnamon and toaster tongs…”

Another source of Pampered Chef sociaphobia for me comes from being in a room with Supermom/Superwife times 20. So much worry about being creative at dinnertime, having a great food presentation, making something the whole family will like, makes me feel incredibly inadequate. My typical approach to dinner is something like “here’s what I made, and anyone who doesn’t want it can eat Cheerios.” At these parties, there is always great discussion of which products we “can’t live without,” and there is always one woman who has almost everything in the catalog and only attends the party to see if there’s “anything new.” I purchased all of my pots and pans in a box at Target, so I can’t really relate (but I do love the toaster tongs).

Finally, there is the inevitable “you can make a bazillion gajillioin dollars and vacation in Hawaii 17 times a year if you chooose to become Tupperware/Pampered Chef/Home Interiors consultant just like me” pitch. There is also a built-in incentive for the hostes that if a guest books a party at her party, the hostess gets even more free stuff. Waaaayyyy too much pressure.

Even though dodging invitations can be a tricky business, it really is better to avoid these parties altogther, which is the Tupperware, et al path I’ve chosen. That is, unless you are deeply committed to creative dinners and meal presentation, or you need your food storage containers to match your decor and stack easily, or you enjoy buying your angel-themed, rose colored, over-the-couch art and matching brass sconces all at the same time. Unless you’ve got a bucket of frozen booze on the refreshment table (props Crse), I’ll be home serving up the Cheerios.

The dialogue in which I was engaged while drinking my morning coffee.

Gwen: Mommy, look at my butt.

Me: Yes, honey (sip)

Gwen: (pulling down underwear) Mommy, do you like my butt?

Me: Gwen, honey, your butt is a private part and you really shouldn’t show it to people.

Gwen: I like my butt. I’ll show her to myself…

Me: (sip)

Gwen: she’s a part of me and I like her! Come on butt! Let’s go to the playroom!

(any advice for how to begin the keeping-her-off-the-pole childraising program?)

Look at my butt! (later today)

The dialogue in which Gwen and I engaged over lunch:

Gwen: Mommy, which part of the three bears is your favorite?

Me: I guess I like it when Goldilocks tries out the chairs.

Gwen: I like it when the bears come home and Goldilocks is like “oh shit, bears!” Is “shit” a bad word?

Me: Well, it’s a word that we don’t want to say at school or church.

Gwen: Ok Mommy. I like my Curious George panties.

Me: Curious George is cute.

Gwen: I’m going to wear the orange ones to school and show them to Audrey. She loves Curious George.

Me: Gwennie, we talked about this earlier, you shouldn’t show people your butt.

Gwen: I’m not going to show her my butt, I’m just going to show her my panties.

Me: Your panties are on your butt.

Qwen: But I won’t pull them down, Mommy, I promise.

(It seems that I’m contributing to butt exhibitionism by purchasing Curious George panties)

My relationship with Judy, also known as Mrs. Lipsticky, has given this date with some much-needed new meaning. All my love goes out to my fabulous friend on her day.

 

To quote my favorite spiritual guide, Ralph Waldo Emerson (RWE):

“We talk better than we are wont….For long hours we can continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest, secretest experience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance, shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers.”

To (BFF) Nina and the Manhattanites, I know I don’t have to say anything, and I know that words will fail. Instead, I send love, and I hope for peace.

 

“The problems that exist in the world today cannot be solved by the level of thinking that created them.” 

-Albert Einstein

 

 

Friends old and new, you’ll have to bear with me because I’m feeling a little mushy today, and I have to send out some props to my sister, Roxy the rock star (a Gwen term—it’s the highest praise a four-year-old can think of).

 

Roxy has always been super-fantastic as far as sisters go, but this weekend marked the monthiversary of biblical-level tribulation for Roxy and Vic. A month ago, Roxy took Vic to the ER for a weird reaction to a bug bite. Doctors diagnosed him with cellulitis and sepsis. Vic was rushed to the ICU, where he stayed for two-and-a-half weeks getting IV anti-biotics and hyperbaric treatments (and became the first person I know, beside Michael Jackson, to hang out in the hyperbaric chamber).

 

Did I mention that Roxy and Vic have three children? Did I mention that Vic’s mother, Bunny, is a little, well overbearing (there was a particularly weird incident that I won’t discuss here out of respect for Vic, but trust me when I tell you it was so far over the line, the line wasn’t visible from where Bunny was standing). Bunny moved into the ICU and spent her time criticizing everything about Roxy and Vic’s lives. She practically threatened to remove the cats from the house because they would compromise the sterility of the home environment. R and V have three kids—there goes your sterility right there. Especially the littlest, five-year-old CJ. I love my nephew madly, but he’s a drooly little sucker.

 

Anyway, during the time when Vic was sick, Roxy also finished up the soccer season; she was the team’s only coach (although next year we’re going to make Reg help because he’s a psycho on the sidelines and we need to channel that energy in a more constructive way). Then, about a week after Vic got out of the hospital, Roxy, Vic, and the kids moved into their new home (and I have to pause for a moment and send our super-big props to Reg, Gill Smoke, and Wes for their kick-ass work). But before they moved in, they had been working on the house, and they were in mid-improvement when Vic got sick. Roxy worked alone to get the house as ready as possible for the move, and I’m talking serious work like pulling up carpet and steaming down wall paper.

 

After the move, Vic underwent surgery, and then on the day Vic got out of the hospital for the second time, Roxy threw the best birthday party ever for CJ; it was camp-themed with a fire pit, smores, and ghost in the graveyard for 16 children. Then she got all three kids ready for back to school (which included negotiating new bus pick-ups).

 

Vic is recovering, but he’s still receiving IV antibiotics, and a nurse comes to their house every other day to perform a procedure that requires an apparatus Vic and Roxy refer to as the “puss (rhymes with us) vac” (huge yuk factor).

 

We all know that the most important thing is that Vic lived, and there was a terrifyingly iffy time frame when we weren’t sure if he would. We’re all so unspeakably grateful. However, perhaps in our gratitude, we may have not fully and properly acknowledged the person who kept and continues to keep it all together. So here’s to you Roxy—a rock star of a wife, sister, aunt (and daughter-in-law, even if Bunny’s too self-absorbed to see it).

 

Vic, for Christmas, diamonds are nice.

Last Tuesday, I received exactly one day’s notice for Mira’s classroom orientation (on Wednesday), and of course, it was at a time when Reg was working. And double of course, no kids allowed, so I had to find a baby-sitter. Then, I get to said orientation and meet the teacher, who, although she seems funny and lively, is one of those funny and lively people who don’t listen when other people are speaking. Not the best quality in a second grade teacher. I approached her to talk about Mira who had a shitty first two days of school (Mira even begged me to call the school and get her taken out of this teacher’s class). I try to explain to Mrs. Fuukes that Reg and I are both college professors, and that because we just started our new schedules, Mira’s world has changed substantially and that she’s having some adjustment problems. I add that we’ve had the same experience for the last two years, so I know the problem is temporary.

After spending two half days with my child in a room with 23 other kids and then not listening to me for two minutes, this educator asks “Have you had Mira tested for depression?” As if it’s completely unusual that a child who has no one she knows in her class because the school has a policy of splitting up friends every year might be a little sad. But interestingly, those nasty little twins Veruca and Nelly have never been separated because twins are special and because their mom is a member of the yoga suit mafia–a.k.a the PTA. Now, Mira earned 100% on all of her work in these two days, and she didn’t cry at school at all, which isn’t necessarily unusual for little kids in the first week. My niece, Bobbi, cried after school every day last week, and she’s in third grade. My point is, this beginning of the year nervousness is quite common. But because Mira seemed, in Mrs. Fuukes words “anxious,” I should be alarmed. Well, of course my daughter is anxious, lady. She doesn’t know you or anyone else in the room and it’s only the second day of school.

I was feeling quite judgemental about Fuukes–that she is one of those medicate-the-kids-because-I’m-too-old-to-be-doing-this teachers. Anyone who has ever met Mira knows that she’s a little bit of a perfectionist but far from depressed. Most of the time, she’s the most joyful kid around. I actually had to drop a couple of names of people Fuukes and I both know to get her away from this line of conversation, and believe me, this kind of social gaming gives me a headache. I was wishing I would have had a cocktail before this meeting (which will undoubtedly become my new way of coping with Mrs. Fuukes–much in the same way I cope with my mother-in-law). But finally, I got the conversation back to Mira’s temporary uncomfortable state and assured Mrs. Fuukes that it would pass, said I looked forward to working with her, and left the building.

Then Thursday, in the world of college education, my three comp courses had their first reading assignment. They had to read (count them) six pages, on which I quizzed them. It’s the second week of the semester, and they knew this quiz was coming. I hate to quiz college students, but if I don’t quiz them, they won’t read at all, even if it’s only six pages. Now, these are real college students not disabled college students, not high school students taking college classes, but people who have completed twelve years of schooling and earned a diploma. Three of them asked me if I was going to provide them with paper and pen/pencil. I still have no response to that. So I took a deep cleansing breath, and I reminded myself that the other 22 students in my class were prepared. In my next class, two “texty girls” were disruptive the whole time, and they didn’t pick up on any of the teacher hints: standing by their desks, calling on them, stopping class until they paid attention. (BTW, if anyone out there knows any college kids or high school kids who are about to become college kids, give them the heads up that texting during class is a one-way ticket to the shit list).

And suddenly, I feel very much connected to Mrs. Fuukes. I felt old and tired and snarky, and I wanted to start medicating the little suckers (and myself). Fortunately, that feeling passed quickly. My afternoon class was engaged and prepared. They laughed at my jokes, and one student even stopped by to say that although he usually hated English, he could tell that my class was going to be the exception. And friends, the truth is that nothing energizes me like a new school year and meeting my new students, and I suspect it’s the same for all teachers. We just need to constantly remind ourselves that good energy follows good (and bad follows bad). The texty-girls and the pencilless will always be a part of the experience, but they don’t define it–not even close.

It is the first anniversary of Steve Irwin’s death, and my RT people know that four years ago, right after Gwen was born, the Croc Hunter and the whole gang at Australia Zoo played a very important role in our family. Mira became a little obsessed with the whole Irwin clan, to the point where she insisted we call her “Bindi,” and she called her father and me “Steve” and “Terry.” Perhaps her imaginary family helped her deal with the “baby koala” who stole her mommy? So, work “crikey” into a conversation today in honor of Steve-O–a true wildlife rock star.