To me,
My daughter’s friend, the debate fiend, coaches me in modifying this harangue and offers that generalizations never work. The remark that links all postal workers together in the mean category—as if the nature of the job makes meanness inherent—is against all the rules.
Gee whiz, T.
Then, wouldn’t you know, there would came a day—two days later—that I needed help from my mail carrier and when that day came, I could only hope that no one with a postal affiliation had forwarded my thoughts in the form of an internote to my postal worker, the identity of whom could have been discovered after a thirty-second address and zip code search.
That was the first thing the husband noted, “Are you not aware of the danger in castigating the service industry? You are asking for spit in your burger and to have your favorite skirt misplaced by the cleaners. “Have you lost your everluvin’ mind?”
For him that question was actually rhetorical, (which is also against all debate rules,) but he did raise a valid question. Should we grant a certain degree of civility to persons who share our planet purely due to the threat of retaliation?[1]
Anyway, back to the personal postal problem: That same week, the teenager daughter had been assisting the neighbor with collecting, sorting and forwarding their mail while they were on an extended vacation and during the ice storm, someone slid into their mailbox and shattered it.
One guess—Yup, it’s a federal offense to deliver mail to any address not expressly stated on the package or envelope without written notification or authorization by the addressee.
Delivery to the front door is verboten once the route has been designated a driving route and … you guessed it, that too is against policy.
I had nearly reached the end of my tether, having already overextended the tensile strength of every stretch of my imagination, when the postal worker released the final shot, “Besides that, I won’t do it because she’s mean.”
To me,
Turns out the neighbor shares my general opinion of the postal industry and has had the nerve to make her views known to the postal supervisor. Oops, T
Reality bite: …which affirms once and for all the length and breadth of the husband’s brilliance.
[1] This is the enlightenment I gain when I spend my time magazine articles from “Applied Ethics,” reading fortuitously placed at my doctor’s office—just a guess that doctors don’t read the magazines from their own waiting rooms.
Friday
Thursday
…aromatic
Today on TV, the focus is again on mean people taking the form of rude sales clerks. It recommends a form of turning the other cheek—by walking away without purchasing anything.
Turns out sales clerks are sick of being unappreciated and tired of customers treating them like automatons and have started acting like machines and the customer is tired of not being granted due consideration and so in turn, treat sales clerks as if they are robots who should work faster and harder and more efficiently.
It’s another form of a never-ending pride cycle working around and around, overtime!
There was no mention on the program of humanizing these individuals, by making an effort on both sides to be less rushed, less curt and make more courteous contact.
Once again, T.V. over estimates the viewer’s mental capacity as they identify the problem, yet fail to offer me any solution.
To me:
In light of a weeks worth of disconnected input on the subject of mean, I’m rethinking my expectation theory that everyone comes up to my own expectations. Hmmm, T.
Turns out sales clerks are sick of being unappreciated and tired of customers treating them like automatons and have started acting like machines and the customer is tired of not being granted due consideration and so in turn, treat sales clerks as if they are robots who should work faster and harder and more efficiently.
It’s another form of a never-ending pride cycle working around and around, overtime!
There was no mention on the program of humanizing these individuals, by making an effort on both sides to be less rushed, less curt and make more courteous contact.
Once again, T.V. over estimates the viewer’s mental capacity as they identify the problem, yet fail to offer me any solution.
To me:
In light of a weeks worth of disconnected input on the subject of mean, I’m rethinking my expectation theory that everyone comes up to my own expectations. Hmmm, T.
Wednesday
..nice v. mean
I'm imagining what might have happened if I had apologized to the postal worker with the "rules" of apology: first, said I was sorry, then second, admitted my bad at parking in front of the box. Third, I could have reaffirmed the problem from his perspective and fourth, promised never to do it again.
Would I have to slink away demoralized, or could I have emerged victorious in having the upper hand?
I thought I would test my theory. I hate visiting the doctor as medical receptionists are idiots who require unnecessary redundant paperwork and then the scheduler is an idiot for whom I have to wait an additional thirty minutes, the nurse is an idiot who can’t understand simple English and doctors are idiots (medical automatons) who throw pills at problems.
However, I was willing to put nicety to the test and off I went to my di-annual (once a decade) doctor visit to put it to the test.
After complimenting the intake clerk on her earrings, I had such a delightfully lengthy conversation with the scheduling receptionist that I was late for the doctor who was waiting for me in the room. The doctor was so amiable that she convinced me I really did need that eight-year over-due physical and I went right out to my new-found friend, the scheduling secretary and scheduled it!
Throughout the rest of the day, I ran a 3:1 ratio of nice to mean and was feeling heartened in spite of the dental receptionist who ignored me—a potential customer while I stood there in front of her at her desk and waited for her to acknowledge my presence, waiting and waiting twelve minutes and when she finally deigned to notice me, it was with disdain that I didn’t have ready answers to all the insurance questions that she asked and it was obvious that she didn’t feel it was her job to take the time to research this in between solitaire games. Whew!
But in retrospect, I should have admired her earrings and initiated conversation by asking how many solitaire games she’d won in the last half hour.
Conversely, a fast-food employee thanked me for coming and said that he “appreciated my business.”
A video rental clerk forgave my late return with a smile and a “that has happened to me and I work here,” response.
And three boy-scouting volunteers strolled with me patiently through the convoluted paperwork procedures, again and again and again.
All of these experiences combine to make me revise my opinions of mean people and realize that there are a whole lot of put-upon people who are sick and tired of it and my personal expectations need to be placed even higher.
If I would only expect the best… OF ME, they would respond accordingly. Up until now, I have made no effort to see the situation from the other side’s perspective, I have merely redirected my anger into vindictive pride.
To me,
I have been writing with pride in my heart, and that doesn’t make for a healthy soul. I must write to gain resolution, not to increase my anger nor harbor bitterness. Tear it all up and start over, T
Reality Bite: Flashes of inspiration aren’t accidental, but are God's carefully coordinated response to correspond with my current level of learning.
Tuesday
…altered
To me
I write essays as therapy and expect my hot air to fill the distasteful bubble and lift the offensive odor away and out of my thoughts.
When I use humor maliciously, ill-will lingers and I’ve succeeded in only deflating myself to the level of the offender. Pew, T
So, I’ve perfected the technique of making something noxious become palatable, and each time I’m successful, I take the opportunity to point out that in most cases, the only change that occurred was in my perspective and attitude.
To me,
Verbal potpourri works well on my faults. I sprinkle it atop all my quirks and inadequacies, and have convinced myself that I have discovered writing’s real purpose—to use humor and laugh at myself and minimize mean, angry, bitter and vindictive. Might be too late, T.
So after this lengthy exercise, I should be able to convince myself to slog through the waist-high muck and shovel the piles of sulfurous words aside.
And on a side note, I can stick with my goal and keep writing this book.
Reality Bite: The adventurer who braves the stench and plods through the repulsive pile just might find the pony.[1] .
[1] Is the metaphor too obscure?
I write essays as therapy and expect my hot air to fill the distasteful bubble and lift the offensive odor away and out of my thoughts.
When I use humor maliciously, ill-will lingers and I’ve succeeded in only deflating myself to the level of the offender. Pew, T
So, I’ve perfected the technique of making something noxious become palatable, and each time I’m successful, I take the opportunity to point out that in most cases, the only change that occurred was in my perspective and attitude.
To me,
Verbal potpourri works well on my faults. I sprinkle it atop all my quirks and inadequacies, and have convinced myself that I have discovered writing’s real purpose—to use humor and laugh at myself and minimize mean, angry, bitter and vindictive. Might be too late, T.
So after this lengthy exercise, I should be able to convince myself to slog through the waist-high muck and shovel the piles of sulfurous words aside.
And on a side note, I can stick with my goal and keep writing this book.
Reality Bite: The adventurer who braves the stench and plods through the repulsive pile just might find the pony.[1] .
[1] Is the metaphor too obscure?
Friday
…rabid miscues
While we’re on the subject of imperception, I’d like to state that I’m not really what you think I am, but I’d like to be what I think you think I am. (See, everyone is better off when I don’t think.)
To me,
Socializing is a contest of who can create the greatest misconception of their life. My house is clean, the children spotless and the food magnificent. I now invite total strangers to observe the fairy tale me. If one of them becomes a friend, will they be disappointed to discover the real me? Or will they be relieved?
I guess it depends on how much stock they put in their own delusions. Seeking a true friend, T.
I hate standing tippy-toed at the top of somebody else’s pedestal, because I am the dunce of the dance, and putting me anywhere near the top of anything will guarantee a terrific tumble.
I look around and it seems as if everyone else is dancing effortlessly, on beat and with practiced precision. But later when I collapse in the wings gasping a frantic breather in between scenes, I hear the murmurings of the other performers, and I realize that they too are trying to dance up to another’s expectation.
During any of my life productions, the sidelines are the safest spot to be. Just sit back and enjoy the show because any intervention would just compound the chaos behind the scenes. The husband can’t help and the family can’t mitigate the damage because most of my life is an inadvertent calamity that is certainly not intended to impress anyone.
If I worry less often about what people think, I might realize how often they don’t[1] … or is it how seldom they do?
The degree of difficulty chosen for life’s performance is directly related to the risk of injury and the amount of medication that will be needed to assure an auspicious outcome.
[1] Am I dangling again? Or is it just the participle?
To me,
Socializing is a contest of who can create the greatest misconception of their life. My house is clean, the children spotless and the food magnificent. I now invite total strangers to observe the fairy tale me. If one of them becomes a friend, will they be disappointed to discover the real me? Or will they be relieved?
I guess it depends on how much stock they put in their own delusions. Seeking a true friend, T.
I hate standing tippy-toed at the top of somebody else’s pedestal, because I am the dunce of the dance, and putting me anywhere near the top of anything will guarantee a terrific tumble.
I look around and it seems as if everyone else is dancing effortlessly, on beat and with practiced precision. But later when I collapse in the wings gasping a frantic breather in between scenes, I hear the murmurings of the other performers, and I realize that they too are trying to dance up to another’s expectation.
During any of my life productions, the sidelines are the safest spot to be. Just sit back and enjoy the show because any intervention would just compound the chaos behind the scenes. The husband can’t help and the family can’t mitigate the damage because most of my life is an inadvertent calamity that is certainly not intended to impress anyone.
If I worry less often about what people think, I might realize how often they don’t[1] … or is it how seldom they do?
The degree of difficulty chosen for life’s performance is directly related to the risk of injury and the amount of medication that will be needed to assure an auspicious outcome.
[1] Am I dangling again? Or is it just the participle?
Tuesday
…computer controlled chaos
January!
What excitement a new calendar brings! It’s like eating a pickle. Just thinking about it starts a twinkle at my toes that trickles up my spine, and flutters past the fingertips, escaping through my scalp. At the office products store, I stand here tempted. The shrink-wrapped computer package held reverently in my hands winks to me its infinite potential and a glimmer of hope shines through.
This new calendar is a CCC (a computerized calendar creator) and I feel like my tech buds just may burst! The new year approaches and this newest technology promises that I can “index the insanity,” “direct the deeds” and “catalog the chaos.” An on-line calendar may be just the answer to my organizational conundrum.
The program loads itself without incident, which is in and of itself propitious. My part in the process is minimal and eagerly I click to check the overall calendar for today. I take note of the three activities that pop to the screen, all three have the potential to be conflicts—but they are all carefully confined within their own half-hour time-lines. There are no overlaps or encroachments. Handled carefully with precision, the afternoon’s planned events appear to be achievable.
Then the piano teacher calls. I sense a possible souring of the recipe, but when I access the file and input the changes, the overview assures me that this is a mere touch of soda sprinkled into the vast vat of vinegar.
Next, the carpool leader telephones with a change. Could I please drive? Each of the two half-hour time spaces that this commitment fills are blank, but I sense the increased fizz as I begin my day. I begin by packing everyone a lunch, roust the youngest from bed early, drop him at a neighbor’s to catch the bus, pick up the other six kids, drive them to school, and then zip to my next obligation. Success! This computer calendar is a most effective stabilizer.
Over the years as a professional family activity planner, I’ve had many opportunities to evaluate my failures and I think I’ve identified the bomb that blasts my day to bits.
The volatile variable is the rebellion of inanimate objects around me. Usually it is the keys, but today it is the unruly purse that opted to stay home. I drive home to retrieve the persnickety pocketbook and enroute I notice that the eldest son has surrounded himself with belongings that seem to possess this same trait. Some of his seditious school stuff has escaped onto the depths of the car floor and I debate lassoing it and dragging it back his way, but I resist.
It's a mommy moment: One must always be prepared to enforce consequences! Whatever would he do if this trait should follow him into adulthood?
Reality Bite: When one takes a bubbling mixture and compresses it into a small space, the potential explosion could prove disastrous.
What excitement a new calendar brings! It’s like eating a pickle. Just thinking about it starts a twinkle at my toes that trickles up my spine, and flutters past the fingertips, escaping through my scalp. At the office products store, I stand here tempted. The shrink-wrapped computer package held reverently in my hands winks to me its infinite potential and a glimmer of hope shines through.
This new calendar is a CCC (a computerized calendar creator) and I feel like my tech buds just may burst! The new year approaches and this newest technology promises that I can “index the insanity,” “direct the deeds” and “catalog the chaos.” An on-line calendar may be just the answer to my organizational conundrum.
The program loads itself without incident, which is in and of itself propitious. My part in the process is minimal and eagerly I click to check the overall calendar for today. I take note of the three activities that pop to the screen, all three have the potential to be conflicts—but they are all carefully confined within their own half-hour time-lines. There are no overlaps or encroachments. Handled carefully with precision, the afternoon’s planned events appear to be achievable.
Then the piano teacher calls. I sense a possible souring of the recipe, but when I access the file and input the changes, the overview assures me that this is a mere touch of soda sprinkled into the vast vat of vinegar.
Next, the carpool leader telephones with a change. Could I please drive? Each of the two half-hour time spaces that this commitment fills are blank, but I sense the increased fizz as I begin my day. I begin by packing everyone a lunch, roust the youngest from bed early, drop him at a neighbor’s to catch the bus, pick up the other six kids, drive them to school, and then zip to my next obligation. Success! This computer calendar is a most effective stabilizer.
Over the years as a professional family activity planner, I’ve had many opportunities to evaluate my failures and I think I’ve identified the bomb that blasts my day to bits.
The volatile variable is the rebellion of inanimate objects around me. Usually it is the keys, but today it is the unruly purse that opted to stay home. I drive home to retrieve the persnickety pocketbook and enroute I notice that the eldest son has surrounded himself with belongings that seem to possess this same trait. Some of his seditious school stuff has escaped onto the depths of the car floor and I debate lassoing it and dragging it back his way, but I resist.
It's a mommy moment: One must always be prepared to enforce consequences! Whatever would he do if this trait should follow him into adulthood?
Reality Bite: When one takes a bubbling mixture and compresses it into a small space, the potential explosion could prove disastrous.
Monday
…volatility
computerized chaos... continued
I make it back to class for the final twenty minutes, and then scarf lunch while I drive to the shelter and hold babies for three joyful hours, drive back and pick up the six car-poolers from school, drop everyone at home, and check the CCC (computerized chaos compartmentalizer) which is beeping an alarm. The screen screamed that I'd forgotten the piano lessons.
With no time to spare, I drop off the eldest son five minutes late, pick up the youngest from school ten minutes late, drop off the youngest at piano fifteen minutes late, rip to the school to pick up the daughter from drivers ed. twenty minutes late, drop her off at piano and pick up the youngest twenty-five minutes late, dash to the library to pick up reference material, get stuck in traffic and pick up the daughter thirty minutes late.
I make it home only long enough to dash in and glare vicious darts at the craven crisis creator. Lacking the time to access it completely, I dredge up an image of the calendar screen in my mind, and mentally scratch through appointments, canceling the sports practices, and then I drive and drop the daughter off twenty minutes early to her vocal music class so I can be on time to the training class for the eldest son’s newest endeavor, (doing a good turn daily).
I return home hours later, but I’m barred from checking the calendar, because the computer is engaged by frantic homework essayists. I don my split personality and race between two different subjects on two different floors of the house, one typing on the cutting edge computer and the other downstairs on the antique—a year-old version. I dash back and forth, up and down and edit the daughter’s persuasive essay on attitude while I examine the son’s view on the historical implications of the oil industry.
Reality Bite: Chem 101: What happens one shakes a compressed volatile mixture?
I make it back to class for the final twenty minutes, and then scarf lunch while I drive to the shelter and hold babies for three joyful hours, drive back and pick up the six car-poolers from school, drop everyone at home, and check the CCC (computerized chaos compartmentalizer) which is beeping an alarm. The screen screamed that I'd forgotten the piano lessons.
With no time to spare, I drop off the eldest son five minutes late, pick up the youngest from school ten minutes late, drop off the youngest at piano fifteen minutes late, rip to the school to pick up the daughter from drivers ed. twenty minutes late, drop her off at piano and pick up the youngest twenty-five minutes late, dash to the library to pick up reference material, get stuck in traffic and pick up the daughter thirty minutes late.
I make it home only long enough to dash in and glare vicious darts at the craven crisis creator. Lacking the time to access it completely, I dredge up an image of the calendar screen in my mind, and mentally scratch through appointments, canceling the sports practices, and then I drive and drop the daughter off twenty minutes early to her vocal music class so I can be on time to the training class for the eldest son’s newest endeavor, (doing a good turn daily).
I return home hours later, but I’m barred from checking the calendar, because the computer is engaged by frantic homework essayists. I don my split personality and race between two different subjects on two different floors of the house, one typing on the cutting edge computer and the other downstairs on the antique—a year-old version. I dash back and forth, up and down and edit the daughter’s persuasive essay on attitude while I examine the son’s view on the historical implications of the oil industry.
Reality Bite: Chem 101: What happens one shakes a compressed volatile mixture?
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