Shortly after starting at my current I company, I sat a reserved position with the name of someone who I had gone to school with starting in the first grade. I pondered leaving a note signed, "The laughing hyenna was here." I wasn't quite sure if she was one in the same or if she would even remember that nickname that she called me sometimes in first grade. I don't know if it was here or Danny who gave it to me, but I think they both liked to say it. She said that the name fit as I laughed just like the hyennas at the zoo.
When I finally saw someone occupying the desk that matched a mental image of what my friend may look like, I confronted her to find out if she were my friend from grade school who I last saw at age twelve. She was. She said she would not have recognized me as my hair is a much darker blonde. I access memories quite easily of first grade and grade school in general and running into her may make what I call my Norman Rockwell years more concrete. Home life and school were great in those years. My school was a small Catholic school with a small town feel.
My first grade teacher was a nun with dark brown hair and very pale skin. She wore dark rimmed glasses that were not very stylish but probably about the norm for the 70's. I have little sound bites of her and my class. My family thinks I remember everything. Of course, that is not true. But there is so much that I recollect from first grade that may equal my memories in a given year in high school.
One day before the school day started, I was walking around with jerking movements acting like I was a robot or something thereabouts. Sister let me do it for a time and then said it was time to wind down as the school day would be starting. I followed her cue and said my batteries were running out. Later, I would read a report card with her comments from first grade where she wrote about my coming out of a shell. I don't remember being in a shell. Perhaps I was very observational without talking at times until I got to know people, which is different than being shy.
The boy's plaid pants that my mom had me wear under my uniform to keep my legs warm on a walk on a cold winter morning were the subject of conversation one school day. The fact that they were boys pants was pointed out by one of my classmates. Sister started talking about hand-me-downs and how if you had an older brother that you may receive boys clothes. Wow, that was just like me. I felt special.
After randomly questioning us as to what we had for breakfast one morning and pointing out the food groups, sister said the french toast that my mom made would have all the groups if I had some fruit with it. After all, it is made with milk, eggs, and bread. She queried if I had orange juice. I thought I must have. I don't think I knew about food groups before that. I beamed at the new found knowledge of my healthy breakfast.
Sister had us students seated on the ground one day and she must have been reading a story. Danny who was my best friend in the class as we sat next to each other and talked a lot the easy conversations of youth. While seated on the ground, Danny scratched me out of the blue. I liked Danny, but I wanted him to know I would not take this. I promptly bit his arm. I am not sure if Danny's offence was seen by Sister. Mine did not pass her by. She asked if I had my rabbi shots? I am sure I looked dumbfounded as sarcasm was beyond me at that age. At that moment, our teacher's aide was there and I was ushered out of the room with her. The aide asked me why I bit Danny. I offered the oft repeated, "I dunno."
In my first grade mind, Sister had made one incredible mistake during the year. She had picked another students doll to be the baby Jesus. The event may had already come and gone, but I still wanted her to know how wrong she was. For show and tell, I took my newborn baby doll that could pass for a boy unlike the obvious girl looking doll chosen. I think I expected her to comment on what a perfect choice for the nativity my doll would be. The events of the day took a different course. I walked my doll around the room for other students to view. Questions of what can it do were made. This was the era of dolls that could eat and perhaps even craw. Sister came to my rescue in saying the doll was for loving.
This was the year I started reading first with sight and see flashcards and then easy readers. We practiced our addition. For music, we had rhythm sticks. During one music lesson, sister held my attention as she told the story behind the writing of "The Star Spangled Banner." They say your first grade experience sets the tone for your future school experience. I received a great start!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
In Their Eyes(Guest Post by Barb)
I noticed such kindness in the eyes of one of my Sunbeam's fathers. I think at that moment he was holding his daughter and talking to me. I had seen him before but the kindness never really stuck me before. Maybe it was the covering that glasses provide that kept me from my initial observance. Intelligence is what we are often conditioned to find behind lenses. Those were very difficult days for me and the warmth found there was something that I took in with gratitude. I don't recall anything he ever said to me. I was very shy and probably said very little if anything to him.
About four years later, I would actively seek to stare into a Sunday School teacher's eyes. It was my third area in my mission field. That was the area that I would hit what was known as "the wall." I know what my trials were in the area but not exactly right at that time. I just remember feeling that if I stared into his eyes that it would help me to hang in there. Again, it was not about him or I having any type of friendship. It was not about having feelings for this man. I did not know him other than the fact that he seemed strong and nice. I don't think we ever had dinner at his home so he probably lived in the Elder's area. In addition, we only had very casual and limited contact. He did not seem uncomfortable to my knowledge. I just wanted something to lean on or hold onto when I was a shell. I gazed intently into his eyes as he taught trying to shut everything else out.
Several years later, I noticed the eyes of my professor during a lecture. I thought I may have detected his eyes watering. This professor seemed to ignore me in lectures never calling on me when I raised my hand. After my second test, he let me know how he thought I was so promising after the first one and was disappointed on my performance on the second. I think the moment when I encountered the humanity in his eyes was much later in the semester. In that moment, I saw more than a professor in front of me. I wondered what trials or sorrows he might have in his life that I do not think I ever considered. Through my sister, I would learn that he was diagnosed with dementia. I am not sure of the exact timing of diagnosis in regards to my class. Through his early stages of dementia, I thought how perhaps he would understand more what it was like for those who did not have his ability to recall trivia and data.
It was a few years after his diagnosis that I saw his by line in the alumni paper. I took that as a wonderful sign that he is still functioning well as he is able to organize his thoughts in a literary manner. I do not know if he felt connected to me as I tried to search his mind and heart as I looked into his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, I was a source of compassion or strength for him right when he needed it.
About four years later, I would actively seek to stare into a Sunday School teacher's eyes. It was my third area in my mission field. That was the area that I would hit what was known as "the wall." I know what my trials were in the area but not exactly right at that time. I just remember feeling that if I stared into his eyes that it would help me to hang in there. Again, it was not about him or I having any type of friendship. It was not about having feelings for this man. I did not know him other than the fact that he seemed strong and nice. I don't think we ever had dinner at his home so he probably lived in the Elder's area. In addition, we only had very casual and limited contact. He did not seem uncomfortable to my knowledge. I just wanted something to lean on or hold onto when I was a shell. I gazed intently into his eyes as he taught trying to shut everything else out.
Several years later, I noticed the eyes of my professor during a lecture. I thought I may have detected his eyes watering. This professor seemed to ignore me in lectures never calling on me when I raised my hand. After my second test, he let me know how he thought I was so promising after the first one and was disappointed on my performance on the second. I think the moment when I encountered the humanity in his eyes was much later in the semester. In that moment, I saw more than a professor in front of me. I wondered what trials or sorrows he might have in his life that I do not think I ever considered. Through my sister, I would learn that he was diagnosed with dementia. I am not sure of the exact timing of diagnosis in regards to my class. Through his early stages of dementia, I thought how perhaps he would understand more what it was like for those who did not have his ability to recall trivia and data.
It was a few years after his diagnosis that I saw his by line in the alumni paper. I took that as a wonderful sign that he is still functioning well as he is able to organize his thoughts in a literary manner. I do not know if he felt connected to me as I tried to search his mind and heart as I looked into his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, I was a source of compassion or strength for him right when he needed it.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Kindness Goes a Long Way(Guest post by Barb)
He sat with me in silence. It was one of the acts of kindness that I recall with fondness to this day. I have had a few occassions through the years when I can be rather hyper. This was one such time. A group of Young Single Adults were talking about a trip they were planning to Utah. I do not know if I had thought about it before, but I know in that moment I felt like I really needed to go to Utah to visit some old companions. They said there was not room. I think I added something about riding in the trunk or on top of the car. I didn't think that seemed entirely far-fetched in my state of mind. It really was unrealistic for me to even think of such a thing. Going places was very hard for me by that point and I scarcely went to Church due to my condition. I did go to Young Single Adults and School, and Work(unless this was between jobs), and Institute. But it was hard as I have problems everywhere I go. I may have broken myself of the habit of asking people if something was safe that was racing through my mind at this time having asked one too many people who made me feel like I was a pain in my asking. Eventually, I would just stop going and that is probably for the best. Avoidance of going places is still a strategy that serves me well today in surviving.
Then I told the small group that it was okay that I understood that they were not my friends. I didn't mean anything buy it. I don't remember if they usually hung out together or such, but I was thinking that they must as they arranged to go to Utah together.I think the one man and the woman in turn said they were my friends. I kind of knew the one and was fairly good friends with his brother. I think I replied I did not know him and think I made some comment of like nature to the woman who I don't think I knew. She seemed nice. That young men said that I had an attitude. I promptly agreed in the moment with a complete lack of attitude in my acceptance of his pronouncment.
The other young man said he was my friend.(This is the one who would stay). He was in my ward and I do recall inviting him to an activity shortly after he came home from his mission. I think he really thanked me for letting me know. We would see each other at Church or Institute and he was always friendly. But we were by no means close.
I'm not sure exactly the order of events or all that was said. I do recall telling him that he was just nice to me because I was not active in Church. From what I had gleaned, he had been a very hard working missionary. I think he was serving in some capacity as a Stake or Ward Missionary during that time frame. I sensed a little astonishement at my accusation in his voice when he asked if I thought he could be nice to me for so long for that reason. I am not sure exactly when the others left and it was just the two of us.
At one point, I had a very forlorn feeling come over me. It was then that he sat with me in silence. Time seemed suspended. Then, I dismissed him saying something about how I didn't need him. He must have left shortly after that point. I must have been carrying on to the point that those in the next room heard me as I think somebody repeated something I said. Of course, that is embarassing to know that my display was more public than was supposed by me.
I called the young man later to apologize and let him know that I did not mean anything by it. I said that it was more about the definition of friends versus acquintance.
"My friend" would fall from his lips often when I would see him in the future. I don't think he used that term of endearment before that time. He paid for me to go to a movie once after Institute Graduation. I think that was after the incident.
A couple times he would ask me questions that were a little personal and say that is what friends do is ask questions. I think one of the questions was whether I was afraid to die.
When I was trying to move out of an abusive situation, he gave me a ride to an elderly ladies home that I had heard about through the school list of those who take in borders. I had never talked to him about my situation and he wanted to know why I was moving out. I did not go into how very bad things could be. I just glossed over by saying that my dad yelled at me. He told me that no home is perfect and that I should just leave when he yelled at me at that time and tell him that he ruined my day. That is not so easy when you do not drive and also when you do not like to go places when you feel contaminated. I would only go places immediately after bathing and getting dressed and incidents are not likely to follow such a time table. Although he did not understand, it was so nice that he cared enough to ask and give advice. He thought the lady was nice when he took me. She thought he seemed like a fine LDS boy when I informed her of our faith. She was RLDS herself. Moving in with her fell through ,by the way, as she decided not to take in another border at the time.
I haven't seen this young man for years. He is married now with children. I think of him sometimes when I need to remember that men can be nice to women and not want anything out of it. I have an inner smile when I think of how he seemed to always try to insert "my friend" at least once when we ran across each other. I think of how comforting it was to have someone just sit with me. I do not doubt that he is my friend. He won more than my friendship. He won my respect.
Then I told the small group that it was okay that I understood that they were not my friends. I didn't mean anything buy it. I don't remember if they usually hung out together or such, but I was thinking that they must as they arranged to go to Utah together.I think the one man and the woman in turn said they were my friends. I kind of knew the one and was fairly good friends with his brother. I think I replied I did not know him and think I made some comment of like nature to the woman who I don't think I knew. She seemed nice. That young men said that I had an attitude. I promptly agreed in the moment with a complete lack of attitude in my acceptance of his pronouncment.
The other young man said he was my friend.(This is the one who would stay). He was in my ward and I do recall inviting him to an activity shortly after he came home from his mission. I think he really thanked me for letting me know. We would see each other at Church or Institute and he was always friendly. But we were by no means close.
I'm not sure exactly the order of events or all that was said. I do recall telling him that he was just nice to me because I was not active in Church. From what I had gleaned, he had been a very hard working missionary. I think he was serving in some capacity as a Stake or Ward Missionary during that time frame. I sensed a little astonishement at my accusation in his voice when he asked if I thought he could be nice to me for so long for that reason. I am not sure exactly when the others left and it was just the two of us.
At one point, I had a very forlorn feeling come over me. It was then that he sat with me in silence. Time seemed suspended. Then, I dismissed him saying something about how I didn't need him. He must have left shortly after that point. I must have been carrying on to the point that those in the next room heard me as I think somebody repeated something I said. Of course, that is embarassing to know that my display was more public than was supposed by me.
I called the young man later to apologize and let him know that I did not mean anything by it. I said that it was more about the definition of friends versus acquintance.
"My friend" would fall from his lips often when I would see him in the future. I don't think he used that term of endearment before that time. He paid for me to go to a movie once after Institute Graduation. I think that was after the incident.
A couple times he would ask me questions that were a little personal and say that is what friends do is ask questions. I think one of the questions was whether I was afraid to die.
When I was trying to move out of an abusive situation, he gave me a ride to an elderly ladies home that I had heard about through the school list of those who take in borders. I had never talked to him about my situation and he wanted to know why I was moving out. I did not go into how very bad things could be. I just glossed over by saying that my dad yelled at me. He told me that no home is perfect and that I should just leave when he yelled at me at that time and tell him that he ruined my day. That is not so easy when you do not drive and also when you do not like to go places when you feel contaminated. I would only go places immediately after bathing and getting dressed and incidents are not likely to follow such a time table. Although he did not understand, it was so nice that he cared enough to ask and give advice. He thought the lady was nice when he took me. She thought he seemed like a fine LDS boy when I informed her of our faith. She was RLDS herself. Moving in with her fell through ,by the way, as she decided not to take in another border at the time.
I haven't seen this young man for years. He is married now with children. I think of him sometimes when I need to remember that men can be nice to women and not want anything out of it. I have an inner smile when I think of how he seemed to always try to insert "my friend" at least once when we ran across each other. I think of how comforting it was to have someone just sit with me. I do not doubt that he is my friend. He won more than my friendship. He won my respect.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Tagged by bookslinger
Barb e-mailed me and explained tagged. Hmmmm......I think you guys pretty much know everything about me.
1. How much I weigh - you will never know that. Only one person knows that, the doctor's nurse. She lets me fudge, so the doctor doesn't even know.
2. How's my sex life? You will never know.
3. How much money is in my checkbook? I never discuss money.
4. I am an extroverted introvert. There's an official word for it. I'm not shy and am very friendly, but I need to be alone 99% of the time. And I hate parties and get-togethers. I even tell my kids to go home after awhile. People who don't know me well are always surprised by that one because I seem so outgoing.
5. I am the laziest person on the planet. My favorite thing is to just lay on the couch and eat popcorn and click the remote. Or just lay. Lie? I can lay in one position for a whole hour and just feel my muscles relax and enjoy the whole process. People who know me well know this is no exaggeration.
I tag Jeff Lindsay, also. I miss your posts, Jeff.
Merry Christmas, everyone! We are having nine people for Christmas Eve dinner, Prime Rib and Shrimp. I am dreading it.
1. How much I weigh - you will never know that. Only one person knows that, the doctor's nurse. She lets me fudge, so the doctor doesn't even know.
2. How's my sex life? You will never know.
3. How much money is in my checkbook? I never discuss money.
4. I am an extroverted introvert. There's an official word for it. I'm not shy and am very friendly, but I need to be alone 99% of the time. And I hate parties and get-togethers. I even tell my kids to go home after awhile. People who don't know me well are always surprised by that one because I seem so outgoing.
5. I am the laziest person on the planet. My favorite thing is to just lay on the couch and eat popcorn and click the remote. Or just lay. Lie? I can lay in one position for a whole hour and just feel my muscles relax and enjoy the whole process. People who know me well know this is no exaggeration.
I tag Jeff Lindsay, also. I miss your posts, Jeff.
Merry Christmas, everyone! We are having nine people for Christmas Eve dinner, Prime Rib and Shrimp. I am dreading it.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Epiphany
I've had an epiphany. I love visiting teaching and I have a testimony of this program in furthering God's work and serving others. I bellyache about those who don't and I complain about the hypocrisy of those who attend church regularly and bear their testimonies and don't do their visiting teaching. I know who they are because I'm the coordinater in my ward. Which is a totally thankless calling and I don't recommend it.
But somebody made an idle comment the other day that perhaps these people don't have a testimony of that particular principle, but they have a testimony of others. And I thought, "yeah, like how I don't like to go to church. I don't have a testimony of the importance of attending meetings."
And now I'm nicer to the ones who don't have that testimony, but have testimonies that I don't have. I'm also looking at myself nicer because it's not that I'm lazy and church is boring, it's that I don't have a testimony of it. Yet.
But somebody made an idle comment the other day that perhaps these people don't have a testimony of that particular principle, but they have a testimony of others. And I thought, "yeah, like how I don't like to go to church. I don't have a testimony of the importance of attending meetings."
And now I'm nicer to the ones who don't have that testimony, but have testimonies that I don't have. I'm also looking at myself nicer because it's not that I'm lazy and church is boring, it's that I don't have a testimony of it. Yet.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Fast Food Times(Guest Post by Barb)
Working at a national fastfood hamburger chain was a very pivitol experience in my young adult years. Therefore, this is probably going to be long.
I started working at the fastfood job at 18 when I was in my first semester of college. I consider it to be my first real job. I was so nervous! In high school, I had so much anxiety about my future and could not envision my sucessfully holding a job due to my spacey nature.
I remember being trained to make hamburgers in the back and thinking it was cool when I learned how to fold the paper around them. They did not keep me in the back long. I was quickly moved to work up front.
Shortly after starting there, I waited on my grandpa and his lady friend of many years. His lady friend remarked how I looked just like my grandpa's grandaughter. They did not know I was working there. Finally, I said something like, grandpa with a tone of endearment and they knew it was me. We would have a good laugh over that through the years.
I gained a reputation as a somone who tried to stay busy. However, I was not noted for my quickness in filling orders. Once a co-worker saw me move faster than usual and said she never saw me move so fast. I was so surprised the first time they called me in for over-time. They actually wanted me around! There were a few weak areas such as the fact that when reviewed, I did not smile when waiting on the customers. I was very polite though. They liked how I was constantly picking up in the dining room when it slowed down enough. I think I was forever giving too many fries. I may have given too many napkins too. We had a slow volume store and managers were very edgy about profits. The owner owned a few in our area and one elsewhere. Once he came in to let us know that he just bought his son a BMW.
Having the owner around made me uneasy. I was even more nervous when the person who I think was the district manager would come around. He would stand behind my shoulder and I would feel so tense. The managers were usually pretty satisifed with my work and did not give a lot of feedback. There was a manager who started to work there a little while after I did. She was a nice person. However, she followed me around constantly. She had a pointer for everything from how to do the fries to cleaning the window. Finally, it was just too much and a stream of tears started falling and falling. I waited on the customer and kept going until I was composed again. I think she made an effort to be more laidback from there on out.
I was very shy and quiet in those days. I would apologize for the smallest things. If someone was mopping, I would say I was sorry if I happened to be in the way. I was also very meek when I needed to ask the back workers about the status of an item. I would be just audible enough for them to hear me. I think I was incapable of raising my voice in that setting.
I did gain skills such a dove-tailing as I had to stock things up and also start shutting down the salad bar between waiting on customers when I was on the closing shift.
Sometimes they would have me do the prep work on the salad bar. I always felt very inefficient as I had to ask a lot of questions of the regular prep person. One day day I was doing dishes and had the bright idea to make sure I got the tomatoe slicer very clean by taking the cloth against the blade. Don't try that one at home as I had to go directly to the doctor's office to get stitched up. Upon my return, they told me to take my break and get back to work. While my fingers were still in bandages, I worked a holiday when it was slow and had to try to find cleaning projects to do that I could manuever.
I consider myself to be one of the least mechanical people on the planet. I was so impressed when I was able to take the shake maching apart and later learn how to put it back together. When I closed, I would wash the parts. I liked the order of having an indented place in plastic to put the parts.
Closing was fun for me because we would play the popular music of the day into the front microphone. It could get to be long on my feet though. I think I started at 5 pm once and we did not get out of there until 5 am. That is not supposed to happen.
They had trouble getting me to take my breaks as I was supposed to as I was such a nervous type then that I did not like sitting out there. I was always worried if I was doing a good job. I also would not order their regular food, which was related to my shyness. I would order a shake. It was weird. They thought that I did not like the food when in reality I often had their food at home with my family.
Then, it came time to quit. Not to many months later, I had to return as I could not get the schedule I needed at my other job to work around my school schedule. One of my former managers hired me back on the spot. I so did not want to work there. My home life was stressful at that point to put it mildly, school was stressful as I wanted high grades, and this job was stressful. I think I had a break when I did not work and cocentrated on my studies. I had liked the job that I worked in the interim. It was telemarking- my niche in life.
Then, I quit again and vowed never to go back. After my mission, I was not able to get Sundays off at my telemarking job where I had worked previously. I had gained weight as a missionary and thought this would be convenient as it was close enough to home to walk and also that I would get exercise on the job. This was during the break between my first semester and second semester back to school after my mission that I started working there.
I was abysmal as usual in the back. I was moved up front and the one supervisor said kindly how things should be easier as that was what I was used to doing. I was all confused. The cash register was different. I do not recall having difficulty reading the print out before. In addition to combos, they had dinners. I had trouble reading the print out and also remembering what went with a dinner or a combo. There were only combos before. Ironically, I had thought that I would concentrate so well when I returned to this job that I would outshine my former performance and fill the orders so efficiently.
There were new health regulations and also a video about food safety that was new. I had episodes of ocd. One of these caused nightmares for me. This was when it all started spiralling out of control.
I couldn't go on. All the managers were different than my previous two times working there. One of the managers was rude and sarcastic in the little sampling of the week that I worked there.
He was on duty when I walked the frigid walk from my home. Oh, how bittter cold it was. I don't think I was scheduled that day. I don't think I told my parents I was quiting. It felt like one of those windshields and temperatures that were dangerous to be out in for more than a few minutes and I had a strange feeling about me like I almost didn't care if I were being marred for life from the damage of the low temperature. It was a strange and surreal determination. I told the manager I was quiting and asked him if he wanted me to work the next day I was scheduled. He said yes. I worked that day and one of my duties was to mop the floor, which was something I was never very good at as I got it too wet and probably sudsy. It was really a back staff duty before when I worked there so I may not have had a chance before. I did my time and left.
When my grandpa found out I no longer worked there, he said that he did not go there anymore. They went to the other hamburger chain just a few blocks away. The coffee going downhill at my place of employement was the reason that he offered.
Sometimes we go through the drive thru there. That was a position that I worked there quite often that not all the register people could do. You had to be able to do the math in counting back the dollars. There was a coin maching that would give the change. After working there so long, I often knew without even thinking the amount of change on some items. Yes, I gained a lot of confidence there. As you see, I also lost a part of myself there that I have never entirely regained. My worries multiplied in so many directions starting at that point. What started as isolated incidents became every moment of my day on some level of having ocd part of my being. I didn't know as I quit that my life was turning that inside out. It was like up was down and down was up.
I like to imagine that there is a disembodied me in there. The part of me that was able to function and somehow if I were to go in back there that I would get it back.
But how I hope that I never have to go back!
I started working at the fastfood job at 18 when I was in my first semester of college. I consider it to be my first real job. I was so nervous! In high school, I had so much anxiety about my future and could not envision my sucessfully holding a job due to my spacey nature.
I remember being trained to make hamburgers in the back and thinking it was cool when I learned how to fold the paper around them. They did not keep me in the back long. I was quickly moved to work up front.
Shortly after starting there, I waited on my grandpa and his lady friend of many years. His lady friend remarked how I looked just like my grandpa's grandaughter. They did not know I was working there. Finally, I said something like, grandpa with a tone of endearment and they knew it was me. We would have a good laugh over that through the years.
I gained a reputation as a somone who tried to stay busy. However, I was not noted for my quickness in filling orders. Once a co-worker saw me move faster than usual and said she never saw me move so fast. I was so surprised the first time they called me in for over-time. They actually wanted me around! There were a few weak areas such as the fact that when reviewed, I did not smile when waiting on the customers. I was very polite though. They liked how I was constantly picking up in the dining room when it slowed down enough. I think I was forever giving too many fries. I may have given too many napkins too. We had a slow volume store and managers were very edgy about profits. The owner owned a few in our area and one elsewhere. Once he came in to let us know that he just bought his son a BMW.
Having the owner around made me uneasy. I was even more nervous when the person who I think was the district manager would come around. He would stand behind my shoulder and I would feel so tense. The managers were usually pretty satisifed with my work and did not give a lot of feedback. There was a manager who started to work there a little while after I did. She was a nice person. However, she followed me around constantly. She had a pointer for everything from how to do the fries to cleaning the window. Finally, it was just too much and a stream of tears started falling and falling. I waited on the customer and kept going until I was composed again. I think she made an effort to be more laidback from there on out.
I was very shy and quiet in those days. I would apologize for the smallest things. If someone was mopping, I would say I was sorry if I happened to be in the way. I was also very meek when I needed to ask the back workers about the status of an item. I would be just audible enough for them to hear me. I think I was incapable of raising my voice in that setting.
I did gain skills such a dove-tailing as I had to stock things up and also start shutting down the salad bar between waiting on customers when I was on the closing shift.
Sometimes they would have me do the prep work on the salad bar. I always felt very inefficient as I had to ask a lot of questions of the regular prep person. One day day I was doing dishes and had the bright idea to make sure I got the tomatoe slicer very clean by taking the cloth against the blade. Don't try that one at home as I had to go directly to the doctor's office to get stitched up. Upon my return, they told me to take my break and get back to work. While my fingers were still in bandages, I worked a holiday when it was slow and had to try to find cleaning projects to do that I could manuever.
I consider myself to be one of the least mechanical people on the planet. I was so impressed when I was able to take the shake maching apart and later learn how to put it back together. When I closed, I would wash the parts. I liked the order of having an indented place in plastic to put the parts.
Closing was fun for me because we would play the popular music of the day into the front microphone. It could get to be long on my feet though. I think I started at 5 pm once and we did not get out of there until 5 am. That is not supposed to happen.
They had trouble getting me to take my breaks as I was supposed to as I was such a nervous type then that I did not like sitting out there. I was always worried if I was doing a good job. I also would not order their regular food, which was related to my shyness. I would order a shake. It was weird. They thought that I did not like the food when in reality I often had their food at home with my family.
Then, it came time to quit. Not to many months later, I had to return as I could not get the schedule I needed at my other job to work around my school schedule. One of my former managers hired me back on the spot. I so did not want to work there. My home life was stressful at that point to put it mildly, school was stressful as I wanted high grades, and this job was stressful. I think I had a break when I did not work and cocentrated on my studies. I had liked the job that I worked in the interim. It was telemarking- my niche in life.
Then, I quit again and vowed never to go back. After my mission, I was not able to get Sundays off at my telemarking job where I had worked previously. I had gained weight as a missionary and thought this would be convenient as it was close enough to home to walk and also that I would get exercise on the job. This was during the break between my first semester and second semester back to school after my mission that I started working there.
I was abysmal as usual in the back. I was moved up front and the one supervisor said kindly how things should be easier as that was what I was used to doing. I was all confused. The cash register was different. I do not recall having difficulty reading the print out before. In addition to combos, they had dinners. I had trouble reading the print out and also remembering what went with a dinner or a combo. There were only combos before. Ironically, I had thought that I would concentrate so well when I returned to this job that I would outshine my former performance and fill the orders so efficiently.
There were new health regulations and also a video about food safety that was new. I had episodes of ocd. One of these caused nightmares for me. This was when it all started spiralling out of control.
I couldn't go on. All the managers were different than my previous two times working there. One of the managers was rude and sarcastic in the little sampling of the week that I worked there.
He was on duty when I walked the frigid walk from my home. Oh, how bittter cold it was. I don't think I was scheduled that day. I don't think I told my parents I was quiting. It felt like one of those windshields and temperatures that were dangerous to be out in for more than a few minutes and I had a strange feeling about me like I almost didn't care if I were being marred for life from the damage of the low temperature. It was a strange and surreal determination. I told the manager I was quiting and asked him if he wanted me to work the next day I was scheduled. He said yes. I worked that day and one of my duties was to mop the floor, which was something I was never very good at as I got it too wet and probably sudsy. It was really a back staff duty before when I worked there so I may not have had a chance before. I did my time and left.
When my grandpa found out I no longer worked there, he said that he did not go there anymore. They went to the other hamburger chain just a few blocks away. The coffee going downhill at my place of employement was the reason that he offered.
Sometimes we go through the drive thru there. That was a position that I worked there quite often that not all the register people could do. You had to be able to do the math in counting back the dollars. There was a coin maching that would give the change. After working there so long, I often knew without even thinking the amount of change on some items. Yes, I gained a lot of confidence there. As you see, I also lost a part of myself there that I have never entirely regained. My worries multiplied in so many directions starting at that point. What started as isolated incidents became every moment of my day on some level of having ocd part of my being. I didn't know as I quit that my life was turning that inside out. It was like up was down and down was up.
I like to imagine that there is a disembodied me in there. The part of me that was able to function and somehow if I were to go in back there that I would get it back.
But how I hope that I never have to go back!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Happy Grateful Day
Happy, Happy, Thanksgiving!
Well, like the early Pilgrims, I am thankful that I live in America and have enough food to eat. I'm thankful that the natives are mostly friendly.
Today and tomorrow I will attempt to manage my material blessings to accommodate the company that is coming for the holiday. Bill and I struggled to feed our children well for years and now we finally have that total year's supply. A lot of it is piled over the basement floor and I need to clean it up and freshen the bedrooms down there for the company.
I will be warm as I do this. I will get to take a hot shower afterward and will have a clean bathroom available for breaks. I will have lots of fresh, clean, cool water to drink and snacks up the ying-yang. I will not have to worry that gangs of thugs are going to break into my house and rape me or burn me alive.
I am going uptown to the bank later. I have enough money to get cash to be able to treat my grandchildren to Santaland and the movies. Odds are a car bomb isn't going to go off while we're at the parade.
There is much in my life that is good. What is good in yours?
Well, like the early Pilgrims, I am thankful that I live in America and have enough food to eat. I'm thankful that the natives are mostly friendly.
Today and tomorrow I will attempt to manage my material blessings to accommodate the company that is coming for the holiday. Bill and I struggled to feed our children well for years and now we finally have that total year's supply. A lot of it is piled over the basement floor and I need to clean it up and freshen the bedrooms down there for the company.
I will be warm as I do this. I will get to take a hot shower afterward and will have a clean bathroom available for breaks. I will have lots of fresh, clean, cool water to drink and snacks up the ying-yang. I will not have to worry that gangs of thugs are going to break into my house and rape me or burn me alive.
I am going uptown to the bank later. I have enough money to get cash to be able to treat my grandchildren to Santaland and the movies. Odds are a car bomb isn't going to go off while we're at the parade.
There is much in my life that is good. What is good in yours?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Talking From the Heart(Guest Post by Barb)
About twenty years ago when I was in my teen years and still Catholic, I had some thoughts about using the lay population in the Catholic Church in a way to bring more life to the meeting. My ideas were very simple and probably not far reaching like the changes in Vatican II effecting the lay members. Before drifting off to sleep, I found myself thiking about how Mass would be more meaningful if people would stand up and share the feelings from their heart from time to time.
These thoughts were not tied to anything I had heard or seen at the time that I recollect. They may have been oddly out of place in the mind of a very content Catholic such as myself. I loved the beauty of the Catholic Mass. I enjoyed the parts where the flock would speak in unison a piece of creed or a prayer such as the Lord's prayer. I felt accomplished with the parts that I memorized through the repettition of attending Mass through the years. I liked the short sermons that seemed to make the Gospel readings of the day applicable to our lives. From the pettitions of prayer read as statements where the audience would respond with a phrase such as "Glory be to God" to the part of Mass somewhere in the middle where people were to share the sign of peace by shaking hands with people who were sometimes strangers if I did not know them from my Catholic school affiliations to the end when the Priest would tell us to go in peace but not as the world gives it, I found comfort in the Mass.
I recall as a youth hearing the Priest make the supplication that we were not worthy to receive the Communion but if God would only say the word we would be healed. Being of a rather literal mindset even later that children gernerally are, I would wonder what the "word" was. I would try to have very holy and noble thoughts as I grew and would approach the front of the Church where Communion was served. The meetings were also broken up with appropriate times to stand, to sit, and to kneel. The culmination of all this order was apart of what I expected from Church.
When I joined the LDS Church, I felt the Holy Spirit very present at the meetings. Yet, I longed for the traditions of old in the Catholic Church. The meetings seemed so plain and I felt so naked as I sat there without a kneeler and the only time I could speak was to say "Amen" or to join in song. Even the music seemed wrong in the LDS Church as I was accustomed to singing to guitar music. The melodies that I liked of the Catholic Church were simple and the tempo was what I was comfortable with. One of my favorite songs in the Catholic Church that we often song was about being raised up on Eagles wings. Such an experience. My voice seemed under the LDS music and airy and probably from the throat, which is always a no no in singing. But I could not find my way with the music.
Later I would have some favorites in the LDS Hymms such as "I Know that My Reedemer lives."
After becoming LDS, I don't know when it was that I had a vaguely remembered that I had pondered about bringing life to a meeting by people speaking from the heart. Upon reflecting on what I had envisoned before going to sleep one fine night, it was very much like Testimony Meeting and also the many occassions when members give talks in Sacrament, Family Home Evening, and Sunday School, Relief Society etc. It really is special to hear people speak with conviction whether it is polished or more humble in delivery. Some of my favorite talks or testimonies through the years were very basic. A sister who converted about a year before my entering her area shared a talk based on Articles of Faith and her understanding. I recall how a long-time member was touched by her words.
I heard a talk by a young man so drenched in enthusiasm as he was for the moment sober and sharing how Alma 32 applied right to his life. I am not sure if he stayed on the road of sobriety. If heart were enough, he would of surely been set free.
I also like talks of those who have become mature in the Gospel. I see a certain peace in those who have sought to live by drawing close to God and serving Him and especially love to hear Missionary Couples speak.. A testimony that stands out was a talk on sanctifcation by one of my friends from Young Single Adults who spoke of how he gained his testimony. That effort was required on his part surprised me as I figured he had his testimony handed to him on a silver platter based on his being related to the President Spencer. W. Kimball.
One of the older sisters in the ward who was a Stake Missionary really tried hard to ease my transition. She made an effort on what would have been Palm Sunday in the Catholic Church to be sensitive to the fact that we would not witness that tradition in LDS services. She also shared her testimony in private to me about when her son died and how her husband said that now is the time for them to decide if they really believe what they had been taught about Jesus Christ.
Through the years, I have come to love the LDS Sacrament Meeting, Stake Conferences, General Conferences, and Fast and Testimony Meetings as people speak right from the heart. As I have quietly listened to talks and testimonies, I have felt many messages so relevant to me and my life. And I have have loved the conviction of the members who share what they hold so precious.
These thoughts were not tied to anything I had heard or seen at the time that I recollect. They may have been oddly out of place in the mind of a very content Catholic such as myself. I loved the beauty of the Catholic Mass. I enjoyed the parts where the flock would speak in unison a piece of creed or a prayer such as the Lord's prayer. I felt accomplished with the parts that I memorized through the repettition of attending Mass through the years. I liked the short sermons that seemed to make the Gospel readings of the day applicable to our lives. From the pettitions of prayer read as statements where the audience would respond with a phrase such as "Glory be to God" to the part of Mass somewhere in the middle where people were to share the sign of peace by shaking hands with people who were sometimes strangers if I did not know them from my Catholic school affiliations to the end when the Priest would tell us to go in peace but not as the world gives it, I found comfort in the Mass.
I recall as a youth hearing the Priest make the supplication that we were not worthy to receive the Communion but if God would only say the word we would be healed. Being of a rather literal mindset even later that children gernerally are, I would wonder what the "word" was. I would try to have very holy and noble thoughts as I grew and would approach the front of the Church where Communion was served. The meetings were also broken up with appropriate times to stand, to sit, and to kneel. The culmination of all this order was apart of what I expected from Church.
When I joined the LDS Church, I felt the Holy Spirit very present at the meetings. Yet, I longed for the traditions of old in the Catholic Church. The meetings seemed so plain and I felt so naked as I sat there without a kneeler and the only time I could speak was to say "Amen" or to join in song. Even the music seemed wrong in the LDS Church as I was accustomed to singing to guitar music. The melodies that I liked of the Catholic Church were simple and the tempo was what I was comfortable with. One of my favorite songs in the Catholic Church that we often song was about being raised up on Eagles wings. Such an experience. My voice seemed under the LDS music and airy and probably from the throat, which is always a no no in singing. But I could not find my way with the music.
Later I would have some favorites in the LDS Hymms such as "I Know that My Reedemer lives."
After becoming LDS, I don't know when it was that I had a vaguely remembered that I had pondered about bringing life to a meeting by people speaking from the heart. Upon reflecting on what I had envisoned before going to sleep one fine night, it was very much like Testimony Meeting and also the many occassions when members give talks in Sacrament, Family Home Evening, and Sunday School, Relief Society etc. It really is special to hear people speak with conviction whether it is polished or more humble in delivery. Some of my favorite talks or testimonies through the years were very basic. A sister who converted about a year before my entering her area shared a talk based on Articles of Faith and her understanding. I recall how a long-time member was touched by her words.
I heard a talk by a young man so drenched in enthusiasm as he was for the moment sober and sharing how Alma 32 applied right to his life. I am not sure if he stayed on the road of sobriety. If heart were enough, he would of surely been set free.
I also like talks of those who have become mature in the Gospel. I see a certain peace in those who have sought to live by drawing close to God and serving Him and especially love to hear Missionary Couples speak.. A testimony that stands out was a talk on sanctifcation by one of my friends from Young Single Adults who spoke of how he gained his testimony. That effort was required on his part surprised me as I figured he had his testimony handed to him on a silver platter based on his being related to the President Spencer. W. Kimball.
One of the older sisters in the ward who was a Stake Missionary really tried hard to ease my transition. She made an effort on what would have been Palm Sunday in the Catholic Church to be sensitive to the fact that we would not witness that tradition in LDS services. She also shared her testimony in private to me about when her son died and how her husband said that now is the time for them to decide if they really believe what they had been taught about Jesus Christ.
Through the years, I have come to love the LDS Sacrament Meeting, Stake Conferences, General Conferences, and Fast and Testimony Meetings as people speak right from the heart. As I have quietly listened to talks and testimonies, I have felt many messages so relevant to me and my life. And I have have loved the conviction of the members who share what they hold so precious.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Autumn, my friend (guest post by Barb)
Autumn was my five-year-old friend in the last area where I served on my mission. She had a way of looking right in my face and twisting her mouth in a positions where lips are stretched thin in various contortions. Her eagerness was very infectious and very energizing.
I remember how much Autumn liked one of my companions who had been serving there before I entered the area. I was in a three-some and it seemed to be Sister Lee who she called Sister Wee who Autumn gravitated to the most at that time. It probably wasn't too prophetic of Sister Lee to tell me that soon Autumn would be drawn to me in like matter. On visits to her parents home who were active members who allowed us to do laundry in their home and despite a limited budget would often feed us, Autumn seemed delightfully under foot at times. I recall her mother driving us somewhere with Autumn present. Autumn said she was going to draw a picture that included me. I let her know that I would send it home and instructed her not to draw the weight that I had gained as a missionary.
Autumn's primary was having a special missionary activity where adults who served missions would discuss their missions with children in small sections. My companion and I were invited to talk to the children about missionary work. I had heard a sister talk in my home ward to the primary children about missionary work and how her children when small loved to be missionaries and wanted to share the Book of Mormon. It is always easy to hit the angle about inviting children to primary too although it did not occur to me at the time.
I had an idea right before class to do some sort of object lesson with a pencil that I borrowed for that purpose. I must have heard a quote somewhere where Mother Teresa said she was like a pencil in God's hand or an instrument in his hand and I think I quoted her and shared the thoughts I had tied together in my head prior to my talk. My companion praised me for being a good speaker.
Later I would learn Autumn's assessment. Autumn said that she did not understand what I was trying to say.
-by Barb
I remember how much Autumn liked one of my companions who had been serving there before I entered the area. I was in a three-some and it seemed to be Sister Lee who she called Sister Wee who Autumn gravitated to the most at that time. It probably wasn't too prophetic of Sister Lee to tell me that soon Autumn would be drawn to me in like matter. On visits to her parents home who were active members who allowed us to do laundry in their home and despite a limited budget would often feed us, Autumn seemed delightfully under foot at times. I recall her mother driving us somewhere with Autumn present. Autumn said she was going to draw a picture that included me. I let her know that I would send it home and instructed her not to draw the weight that I had gained as a missionary.
Autumn's primary was having a special missionary activity where adults who served missions would discuss their missions with children in small sections. My companion and I were invited to talk to the children about missionary work. I had heard a sister talk in my home ward to the primary children about missionary work and how her children when small loved to be missionaries and wanted to share the Book of Mormon. It is always easy to hit the angle about inviting children to primary too although it did not occur to me at the time.
I had an idea right before class to do some sort of object lesson with a pencil that I borrowed for that purpose. I must have heard a quote somewhere where Mother Teresa said she was like a pencil in God's hand or an instrument in his hand and I think I quoted her and shared the thoughts I had tied together in my head prior to my talk. My companion praised me for being a good speaker.
Later I would learn Autumn's assessment. Autumn said that she did not understand what I was trying to say.
-by Barb
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Hugging the Baby
Because my mother chose to live her life as a leech on society and I felt the humiliation of that, begging for food in poverty and degradation, I'm touchy about accepting favors, charity, accolades, gifts, or compliments. **That doesn't include those of you who constantly help keep my computer going, I don't know why my brain has made an exception there, but I will still be e-mailing you to fix something.**
But it hurts me to have to lean on others, including my husband. I'm very independent and I will crawl on a broken leg to do my laundry and the things I consider my part of the bargain in our marriage. I snap at him when he hovers. I feel guilty because I don't work and pay my way. I know that's not right, I know it, but it's how I'm wired. I take care of. Nobody takes care of me.
I've been ill the last few months, struggling to do basic things like get out of bed. And Bill has taken over a few things, the shopping. I stumble through my household chores in the few good hours I have a day and feel like a total slug because I literally lay around the rest of the time (or sit at the computer, that doesn't seem to tax my energy too much, although I haven't been as up to that as usual, either.)
In a desperate attempt to save our marriage (an attempt that has been going on for 25 years now:)) we are going to a therapist. Yesterday I told him how awful I felt that Bill was taking care of me and he smiled and said, "Did you ever have that one child who wouldn't cuddle? The one who would stiffen in your arms and want to get down and play? The one who you kind of enjoyed it when they were sick because you could hold them and rock them and love them?"
I said, "well, not really, but I had a grandchild like that."
He said, "that's you. You're the baby who won't let him love you and take care of you. He's enjoying this and he wants to take care of you. Let him."
I was like, "oh." Isn't that the most precious concept? I don't know how long I'll be able to let him be nice to me, but you know, I could get used to the foot rubs.
PS, I'm not dying, I'm just aging rather rapidly.
But it hurts me to have to lean on others, including my husband. I'm very independent and I will crawl on a broken leg to do my laundry and the things I consider my part of the bargain in our marriage. I snap at him when he hovers. I feel guilty because I don't work and pay my way. I know that's not right, I know it, but it's how I'm wired. I take care of. Nobody takes care of me.
I've been ill the last few months, struggling to do basic things like get out of bed. And Bill has taken over a few things, the shopping. I stumble through my household chores in the few good hours I have a day and feel like a total slug because I literally lay around the rest of the time (or sit at the computer, that doesn't seem to tax my energy too much, although I haven't been as up to that as usual, either.)
In a desperate attempt to save our marriage (an attempt that has been going on for 25 years now:)) we are going to a therapist. Yesterday I told him how awful I felt that Bill was taking care of me and he smiled and said, "Did you ever have that one child who wouldn't cuddle? The one who would stiffen in your arms and want to get down and play? The one who you kind of enjoyed it when they were sick because you could hold them and rock them and love them?"
I said, "well, not really, but I had a grandchild like that."
He said, "that's you. You're the baby who won't let him love you and take care of you. He's enjoying this and he wants to take care of you. Let him."
I was like, "oh." Isn't that the most precious concept? I don't know how long I'll be able to let him be nice to me, but you know, I could get used to the foot rubs.
PS, I'm not dying, I'm just aging rather rapidly.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Book Review: His Favorite Wife, by Susan Ray Schmidt
I got this book yesterday at about 2 pm. I was busy until 9 pm, went to bed, read my scriptures, picked up Susan's book, and didn't fall asleep until 4 am. I finished the book. I just devoured it.
I ordered this book after reading a post on Viva Ned Flanders about Krakauer's book and being reminded of a quick news story I'd seen on TV about a woman (Susan) who'd written a book. She was commenting, as I recall, on Rena Chynoweth's listing on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted.
And I thought, "hey! I think a girl named Susan, who was married to Ervil LeBaron's brother lived across the street from me." So I checked it out and sure enough, she was the girl across the street with all the kids.
Memory is funny. I thought she was 27, had seven kids, and the oldest was a boy. She was 27, had six kids, and the oldest was a girl. I honestly don't know why we didn't become better friends, we were both young single mothers. I think I must have looked down on her, even shunned her, I don't know.
I'm pretty ashamed of myself after reading her story. You guys, this woman paid her dues in the school of life early and hard.
I've read a couple of books about fundamentalists, besides Krakauer's book. The thing that struck me the most is how much those men neglected their families' physical welfare. I remember one girl writing about taking onion sandwiches to school. Susan and her children did without in similar manners.
I'm rambling, but I recommend this book. For one thing, she tells some of the history in Krakauer (I cannot remember the name, it's early)--the missionary problem overseas after the war. It looks like they're all offshoots, related to each other, somehow. Oh, and here's a teaser: she almost married Ervil LeBaron. You'll want to know how that went. She was a pretty smart and strong 14 year old.
But more, she tells a love story. She loved her husband and he loved her. He was screwed up, she was a kid, but she loved him. She tells their story with unflinching honesty and expertise.
You guys, really good book. And I sort of knew her. Isn't life just so strange?
I ordered this book after reading a post on Viva Ned Flanders about Krakauer's book and being reminded of a quick news story I'd seen on TV about a woman (Susan) who'd written a book. She was commenting, as I recall, on Rena Chynoweth's listing on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted.
And I thought, "hey! I think a girl named Susan, who was married to Ervil LeBaron's brother lived across the street from me." So I checked it out and sure enough, she was the girl across the street with all the kids.
Memory is funny. I thought she was 27, had seven kids, and the oldest was a boy. She was 27, had six kids, and the oldest was a girl. I honestly don't know why we didn't become better friends, we were both young single mothers. I think I must have looked down on her, even shunned her, I don't know.
I'm pretty ashamed of myself after reading her story. You guys, this woman paid her dues in the school of life early and hard.
I've read a couple of books about fundamentalists, besides Krakauer's book. The thing that struck me the most is how much those men neglected their families' physical welfare. I remember one girl writing about taking onion sandwiches to school. Susan and her children did without in similar manners.
I'm rambling, but I recommend this book. For one thing, she tells some of the history in Krakauer (I cannot remember the name, it's early)--the missionary problem overseas after the war. It looks like they're all offshoots, related to each other, somehow. Oh, and here's a teaser: she almost married Ervil LeBaron. You'll want to know how that went. She was a pretty smart and strong 14 year old.
But more, she tells a love story. She loved her husband and he loved her. He was screwed up, she was a kid, but she loved him. She tells their story with unflinching honesty and expertise.
You guys, really good book. And I sort of knew her. Isn't life just so strange?
Friday, October 13, 2006
Everybody needs a kick-butt grandma
My grandma was a mean old lady. She'd make us go get our own stick and then she'd whip us with it. She beat the crap out of me once, for no good reason. It was absolutely abuse and I'll never forgive her for it.
On the other hand, she and Grandpa provided me with the only real home I had as a child. Most of the time, she was a pretty good grandma, not a perfect person, but she was overburdened. Long story.
I spanked Rowan yesterday. She keeps getting in all the mailboxes in my neighborhood. She opened a neighbor's mail one day and I found it in the yard. She opens my mail.
Yesterday I was out talking to a neighbor and I saw her head toward the mail boxes. Again! I yelled, "Rowan, you stay out of those mailboxes."
She ignored me and kept going.
I yelled again, "Don't you touch those mailboxes."
Nothing.
"Rowan, do NOT open that mailbox."
She did it. She opened the mailbox.
I lost it. I grabbed her arm, turned her around, and I smacked her a good one on her bottom. Just once, but I made sure it stung.
She didn't cry, she didn't seem upset, she got back on her bike and I said, "now you trade off with Janey in a minute" and she said, "okay, Grams."
I've spanked her once before, when she was three and wouldn't stay out of the wood stove. I hit her on her diaper then, softly, she was insulted, but she didn't cry. She never got in the stove again.
Last night, Bill and I were watching CSI and one of the stars made the comment (after a bunch of teenagers had gotten picked up for murders and beatings) "they need a Grandma to whup their butts." And Bill and I laughed and said, "Rowan's covered with that."
I'm all for corporal punishment in cases like this. A swat works for Rowan. Max is a different story. He takes it personal and acts out worse. We have to reason with him, but I also have to be consistent and follow up. I've never spanked any of my other grandchildren and I hope I never have to.
Of course, I cuddle them constantly. I think it balances out.
On the other hand, she and Grandpa provided me with the only real home I had as a child. Most of the time, she was a pretty good grandma, not a perfect person, but she was overburdened. Long story.
I spanked Rowan yesterday. She keeps getting in all the mailboxes in my neighborhood. She opened a neighbor's mail one day and I found it in the yard. She opens my mail.
Yesterday I was out talking to a neighbor and I saw her head toward the mail boxes. Again! I yelled, "Rowan, you stay out of those mailboxes."
She ignored me and kept going.
I yelled again, "Don't you touch those mailboxes."
Nothing.
"Rowan, do NOT open that mailbox."
She did it. She opened the mailbox.
I lost it. I grabbed her arm, turned her around, and I smacked her a good one on her bottom. Just once, but I made sure it stung.
She didn't cry, she didn't seem upset, she got back on her bike and I said, "now you trade off with Janey in a minute" and she said, "okay, Grams."
I've spanked her once before, when she was three and wouldn't stay out of the wood stove. I hit her on her diaper then, softly, she was insulted, but she didn't cry. She never got in the stove again.
Last night, Bill and I were watching CSI and one of the stars made the comment (after a bunch of teenagers had gotten picked up for murders and beatings) "they need a Grandma to whup their butts." And Bill and I laughed and said, "Rowan's covered with that."
I'm all for corporal punishment in cases like this. A swat works for Rowan. Max is a different story. He takes it personal and acts out worse. We have to reason with him, but I also have to be consistent and follow up. I've never spanked any of my other grandchildren and I hope I never have to.
Of course, I cuddle them constantly. I think it balances out.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Nuculear?
It's no secret that I like President Bush. I think he's a good person, trying to do the best he can in difficult situations. I don't like some of the things he's done, but I can say the same thing about God.
But I'm listening to his news conference as we speak and I am just about to fly to Washington and speak to him because it's bothering me. That is his pronounciation of the word nuclear.
He's the president of the (arguably) most powerful and rich country in the world and none of his advisors has mentioned to him that he's mispronouncing a word that he uses in almost every speech?
I keep wondering if he's doing it on purpose to sound dumb so people will underestimate him. I don't care, I want him to fix that.
But I'm listening to his news conference as we speak and I am just about to fly to Washington and speak to him because it's bothering me. That is his pronounciation of the word nuclear.
He's the president of the (arguably) most powerful and rich country in the world and none of his advisors has mentioned to him that he's mispronouncing a word that he uses in almost every speech?
I keep wondering if he's doing it on purpose to sound dumb so people will underestimate him. I don't care, I want him to fix that.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
How Ya Doin?
So, how's everybody doing? I'm a mess. My chronic fatigue (yes, I own it) is back again with a super vengeance, worse than before and I am a true believer in this disease. Yesterday I literally couldn't get up till after 1 pm.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Tim Russert for President
I've found my candidate. I've always liked Tim Russert, even though he is a confessed Democrat, I think he's the most reasonable reporter on TV. He doesn't bluster like Bill O'Reilly, but he doesn't get that hysterical look in eye that Katie Couric does when she's interviewing Republicans. He's respectful to all and he asks the questions I would ask.
I loved Tim's book about his dad, Big Russ. Despite my frequent irritation with my husband, I never underestimate his importance to our family and in my life. Because my father was absent and an abusive drunk when he was around, I realize what my husband gives to our children. He drives me and the kids crazy at times (you wouldn't believe the car ballet we have twice a week when we water the lawn), but he's the first one we reach out to when we need have a problem. Like Camilla Kimball, I'm starting to call him "Dad."
I read his newest book, "Wisdom of Our Fathers" in two days. It would have been one, but I had to help at a funeral.
Here are a couple of excerpts I loved (I dog ear the best parts :)):
(This is long, but you guys, it's so worth it):
The Room:
My father lived through the Holocaust. He had survived Auschwitz, the same camp Elie Wiesel had been in, and they were the same age. When I was fourteen I was reading Wiesel's ""Night" in school, but I had no idea that the Auschwitz he wrote about, where he had lived for a year, was the same place my father had been. But I did wonder why Wiesel hadn't been as lucky or as clever as my father and his companions.
My father's place was a kinder, gentler Auschwitz. As he described it, there was never a moment where people were dying in front of him. The worst had happened the first night, when they killed his parents and siblings. But from that moment on, as he described it, things were "not so bad."
He and the other boys kept outsmarting their Nazi captors, often by stealing food right from under their noses. As a child, I used to picture my dad in the cast of a black and white televeision show called Oscar and His Merry Men Meet the Nazis.
His four children, his kinderlach, as he called us, knew there was more to the story. We knew our playful and briny father had lost both parents, three younger sisters, and his older brother at Auschwitz. We knew which ones had died just a few hours after Dr. Mengele's "selection," and how Mengele, with his blue eyes, stared each inmate down as he decided who would live and who would die.
We also knew who had survived--at least for awhile--and who died just before the camp was liberated. We didn't know ther names. We didn't knwo what they looked like. We didn't know how the children sounded when they were torn from the arms of their parents. My father didn't want to frighten us. He wanted his children to feel safe in America "the best place to live."
But when he was very very sick in the hospital, and I knew we were losing him, I realized there was no going back. If I didn't make my move now, I could never again have access to his memories. If he died now, I would lose not only my father, I would also lose all the answers he held. Although he was very tired and sick, I said, "Dad, I need to ask you about your time in Auschwitz. I need to ask you some things. It's important."
He looked at me with real anger in his eyes. "Debbie, from the time you were a little girl, you always asked your questions. And I always told you, 'We got food, we got bread, we divided it up, we didn't suffer, It was fine.' And you kept bothering me and asking me these questions. And I kept telling you, as if I were in a room, 'Go away. Stop knocking on the door! I do not want to let you in this room. 'And yet you keep coming back, saying, 'Let me in.' So I'll ask you one more time to go away. If you knock again, this time, I'll let you in. But if I let you in this room, Debbie, you will never ever get out. So. Do you want to knock again and come in?"
I said, "Yes, I do, Dad." He was crying. He had covers on his body because he was very skinny and weak at the time, but he kicked off all the covers as if he were kicking down a door. "Fine," he said. "Come in, then. Come into a room that you can never leave."
"Can I ask you my questios?"
"You're in the room. You can ask me anything."
I asked him everything I ever wanted to ask. I asked him to tell me the real story, and he did. It was painful. And scary. And sickening. I felt that part of me had died.
My father was right. Once you're in that room, you can't get out. It's always with you.
-----Debra A. Fisher, Rye Brook, NY, occupation therapist, daughter of Oscar W. Fisher, importer (1928-1993)
And on a lighter note:
The Heisman
You wouldn't want to see a father do this too often, but once in a lifetime? What a memory!
My dad was born and raised in Ohio, and after WWII he attended Ohio State University.
I was in the eighth grade, sitting in math class, when I heard the school secretary over the intercom that I should come immediatedly to the office because my father was waiting for me there. Of course I feared the worst, but when i saw him standing there, he had a big grin on his face. When I asked why he had come, he said, "Archie Griffin won the Heisman Trophy aobut an hour ago and I wanted to tell you first." Archie Giffin was the great Ohio State halfback, and my father was so excited he just couldn't help himself.
--Jeremy Kahn, Olny, MD, sales, son of Jerry H. Kahn, insurance broker (1923-1990)
You guys, this is a wonderful book. I recommend it, and I'm going to read it to Bill on our next road trip.
And I'm going to draft Tim Russert for president. I think he'd rock.
I loved Tim's book about his dad, Big Russ. Despite my frequent irritation with my husband, I never underestimate his importance to our family and in my life. Because my father was absent and an abusive drunk when he was around, I realize what my husband gives to our children. He drives me and the kids crazy at times (you wouldn't believe the car ballet we have twice a week when we water the lawn), but he's the first one we reach out to when we need have a problem. Like Camilla Kimball, I'm starting to call him "Dad."
I read his newest book, "Wisdom of Our Fathers" in two days. It would have been one, but I had to help at a funeral.
Here are a couple of excerpts I loved (I dog ear the best parts :)):
(This is long, but you guys, it's so worth it):
The Room:
My father lived through the Holocaust. He had survived Auschwitz, the same camp Elie Wiesel had been in, and they were the same age. When I was fourteen I was reading Wiesel's ""Night" in school, but I had no idea that the Auschwitz he wrote about, where he had lived for a year, was the same place my father had been. But I did wonder why Wiesel hadn't been as lucky or as clever as my father and his companions.
My father's place was a kinder, gentler Auschwitz. As he described it, there was never a moment where people were dying in front of him. The worst had happened the first night, when they killed his parents and siblings. But from that moment on, as he described it, things were "not so bad."
He and the other boys kept outsmarting their Nazi captors, often by stealing food right from under their noses. As a child, I used to picture my dad in the cast of a black and white televeision show called Oscar and His Merry Men Meet the Nazis.
His four children, his kinderlach, as he called us, knew there was more to the story. We knew our playful and briny father had lost both parents, three younger sisters, and his older brother at Auschwitz. We knew which ones had died just a few hours after Dr. Mengele's "selection," and how Mengele, with his blue eyes, stared each inmate down as he decided who would live and who would die.
We also knew who had survived--at least for awhile--and who died just before the camp was liberated. We didn't know ther names. We didn't knwo what they looked like. We didn't know how the children sounded when they were torn from the arms of their parents. My father didn't want to frighten us. He wanted his children to feel safe in America "the best place to live."
But when he was very very sick in the hospital, and I knew we were losing him, I realized there was no going back. If I didn't make my move now, I could never again have access to his memories. If he died now, I would lose not only my father, I would also lose all the answers he held. Although he was very tired and sick, I said, "Dad, I need to ask you about your time in Auschwitz. I need to ask you some things. It's important."
He looked at me with real anger in his eyes. "Debbie, from the time you were a little girl, you always asked your questions. And I always told you, 'We got food, we got bread, we divided it up, we didn't suffer, It was fine.' And you kept bothering me and asking me these questions. And I kept telling you, as if I were in a room, 'Go away. Stop knocking on the door! I do not want to let you in this room. 'And yet you keep coming back, saying, 'Let me in.' So I'll ask you one more time to go away. If you knock again, this time, I'll let you in. But if I let you in this room, Debbie, you will never ever get out. So. Do you want to knock again and come in?"
I said, "Yes, I do, Dad." He was crying. He had covers on his body because he was very skinny and weak at the time, but he kicked off all the covers as if he were kicking down a door. "Fine," he said. "Come in, then. Come into a room that you can never leave."
"Can I ask you my questios?"
"You're in the room. You can ask me anything."
I asked him everything I ever wanted to ask. I asked him to tell me the real story, and he did. It was painful. And scary. And sickening. I felt that part of me had died.
My father was right. Once you're in that room, you can't get out. It's always with you.
-----Debra A. Fisher, Rye Brook, NY, occupation therapist, daughter of Oscar W. Fisher, importer (1928-1993)
And on a lighter note:
The Heisman
You wouldn't want to see a father do this too often, but once in a lifetime? What a memory!
My dad was born and raised in Ohio, and after WWII he attended Ohio State University.
I was in the eighth grade, sitting in math class, when I heard the school secretary over the intercom that I should come immediatedly to the office because my father was waiting for me there. Of course I feared the worst, but when i saw him standing there, he had a big grin on his face. When I asked why he had come, he said, "Archie Griffin won the Heisman Trophy aobut an hour ago and I wanted to tell you first." Archie Giffin was the great Ohio State halfback, and my father was so excited he just couldn't help himself.
--Jeremy Kahn, Olny, MD, sales, son of Jerry H. Kahn, insurance broker (1923-1990)
You guys, this is a wonderful book. I recommend it, and I'm going to read it to Bill on our next road trip.
And I'm going to draft Tim Russert for president. I think he'd rock.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Three things I've figured out about real sex offenders
I have a problem with the sex offender registry, which is why I I put the caveat "real" in there. I think there are quite a few guys on the sex offender registry who simply had consensual sex with a 16 year old girl who looked like she was 18, when they were 20. I feel really bad for those kids.
On the other hand, I know there are a lot of dangerous offenders who do not register. They slip in and out of our communities largely without incident. I'd like to see the registry make qualifications about the nature of the crimes and the age of the victims vs. the offender. Additionally, there needs to be a more concrete way of keeping track of dangerous offenders.
But because of my experience with my friend's son this last year, I've come to some very strong convictions about the nature of true offenders.
1. Offenders will always lie about their crimes, and probably about a lot of other things, as well. They have to learn to be very good liars--heck, I'm convinced they even believe their own lies. They have to, to keep telling them.
They will say things like, "it only happened once" or " I was drunk/on drugs and didn't realize what I was doing."
The other two things I've figured out are related to the lying:
2. They will conveniently forget the facts of their crimes. "It was so long ago." "I was pretty young myself and I don't remember exactly what happened. SOMETHING happened, but it's all a blur to me."
3. They believe that their victims enjoyed the abuse. Especially if the victim is a young child and the abuse wasn't violent, the abuser will convince themselves, and attempt to convince others, that the child somehow invited it. They believe no harm was done.
Did you know that even women who are violently raped can have an orgasm? And that young children can have orgasms? I cannot imagine the burden of guilt this puts on the victim. I believe this is a big reason why so much of this abuse is unreported. A victim must see these things in black and white and if the abuser brought pleasure to them, they believe they are at fault.
This case in my ward exemplifies these three things. The hard part for me to deal with is not what happened all those years ago--it happened approximately 20 years ago and went on for an unknown number of years. No one except perhaps the perpetrater knows how many victims there were.
What has tormented me in this case is how the family, particularly the mother and sisters of the abuser, has treated the victims and their families. The polarity in our ward has been intense, but the families of the victims hunkered down and stuck to their guns. This boy would have been convicted in juvenile court had his lawyer decided he should plead not guilty. His crimes would not have been publicized, he would not have had jail time, or had to register as a sex offender.
But when he chose to plead not guilty in the face of overwhelming evidence, the judge decided to bump the case to adult court, where he was forced to admit his guilt in a plea bargan.
His family, in return, feels they have been victimized. His stepfather (his father passed away) has accused the girls of simply enticing this boy, then turning on him. He was 13-17 (as far as we know)--his victims ranged in age from 5-8. When they got over the age of 8, they resisted and he went on to other victims.
His family feels these girls are simply promiscuous liars out for attention and possibly money, although I doubt anyone will ever file for restitution. I wouldn't touch their money, that's for sure.
His father was the bishop while this was going on. Because my James had caught this boy abusing our daughter, had pulled him off her, and punched him and reported it to us, we knew years before the other parents. We just didn't know there were other parents. Bill met with our bishop and told him discreetly about the problem and we let it go. We loved that kid and his family. When we found out that others had reported the problem to the bishop and that his mother was aware of one other incident, as well, we were appalled, just shocked to our toes.
We don't hate our bishop or condemn him. The times were different then. He did take some action, but probably, like us, he had no idea of the severity of the problem. They were truly different times.
But now there is awareness. His mother and stepfather are pillars of our ward and community. Several months before the abuse was made known, she gave a wonderful talk in my sister's ward about how we need to be vigilant and kind to the abused among us. She spoke of her friend (me) who had been sexually abused and how much she loved and sympathized with me, with my sister sitting in the congregation.
Now, though, that shoe is on the other foot. She refuses to believe the depth of this boy's deviant behaviors. She believes the two things I listed above because her son has lied to her and he's very good at it.
So I chose sides, against one of my oldest and dearest friends. But I've learned valuable lessons.
I don't know if they will help anyone out there, but know this: sex offenders are some of the best liars on the planet. Thanks for listening.
On the other hand, I know there are a lot of dangerous offenders who do not register. They slip in and out of our communities largely without incident. I'd like to see the registry make qualifications about the nature of the crimes and the age of the victims vs. the offender. Additionally, there needs to be a more concrete way of keeping track of dangerous offenders.
But because of my experience with my friend's son this last year, I've come to some very strong convictions about the nature of true offenders.
1. Offenders will always lie about their crimes, and probably about a lot of other things, as well. They have to learn to be very good liars--heck, I'm convinced they even believe their own lies. They have to, to keep telling them.
They will say things like, "it only happened once" or " I was drunk/on drugs and didn't realize what I was doing."
The other two things I've figured out are related to the lying:
2. They will conveniently forget the facts of their crimes. "It was so long ago." "I was pretty young myself and I don't remember exactly what happened. SOMETHING happened, but it's all a blur to me."
3. They believe that their victims enjoyed the abuse. Especially if the victim is a young child and the abuse wasn't violent, the abuser will convince themselves, and attempt to convince others, that the child somehow invited it. They believe no harm was done.
Did you know that even women who are violently raped can have an orgasm? And that young children can have orgasms? I cannot imagine the burden of guilt this puts on the victim. I believe this is a big reason why so much of this abuse is unreported. A victim must see these things in black and white and if the abuser brought pleasure to them, they believe they are at fault.
This case in my ward exemplifies these three things. The hard part for me to deal with is not what happened all those years ago--it happened approximately 20 years ago and went on for an unknown number of years. No one except perhaps the perpetrater knows how many victims there were.
What has tormented me in this case is how the family, particularly the mother and sisters of the abuser, has treated the victims and their families. The polarity in our ward has been intense, but the families of the victims hunkered down and stuck to their guns. This boy would have been convicted in juvenile court had his lawyer decided he should plead not guilty. His crimes would not have been publicized, he would not have had jail time, or had to register as a sex offender.
But when he chose to plead not guilty in the face of overwhelming evidence, the judge decided to bump the case to adult court, where he was forced to admit his guilt in a plea bargan.
His family, in return, feels they have been victimized. His stepfather (his father passed away) has accused the girls of simply enticing this boy, then turning on him. He was 13-17 (as far as we know)--his victims ranged in age from 5-8. When they got over the age of 8, they resisted and he went on to other victims.
His family feels these girls are simply promiscuous liars out for attention and possibly money, although I doubt anyone will ever file for restitution. I wouldn't touch their money, that's for sure.
His father was the bishop while this was going on. Because my James had caught this boy abusing our daughter, had pulled him off her, and punched him and reported it to us, we knew years before the other parents. We just didn't know there were other parents. Bill met with our bishop and told him discreetly about the problem and we let it go. We loved that kid and his family. When we found out that others had reported the problem to the bishop and that his mother was aware of one other incident, as well, we were appalled, just shocked to our toes.
We don't hate our bishop or condemn him. The times were different then. He did take some action, but probably, like us, he had no idea of the severity of the problem. They were truly different times.
But now there is awareness. His mother and stepfather are pillars of our ward and community. Several months before the abuse was made known, she gave a wonderful talk in my sister's ward about how we need to be vigilant and kind to the abused among us. She spoke of her friend (me) who had been sexually abused and how much she loved and sympathized with me, with my sister sitting in the congregation.
Now, though, that shoe is on the other foot. She refuses to believe the depth of this boy's deviant behaviors. She believes the two things I listed above because her son has lied to her and he's very good at it.
So I chose sides, against one of my oldest and dearest friends. But I've learned valuable lessons.
I don't know if they will help anyone out there, but know this: sex offenders are some of the best liars on the planet. Thanks for listening.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Do you feel comfortable in church?
Ned Flanders posts on his problems with the church are profound and though provoking, and Ann's honesty have validated my feelings. Last night as I was reading the latest post, I remembered something that happened last week.
I have chronic fatigue/epstein-barr and haven't been to church much in the last couple of months. Even before I had this latest relapse of illness, I had mixed emotions about church. My stake president doesn't like me (I bossed him and he took offense).
A former friend despises me. I also, as you would imagine, have many good and wonderful friends.
But church isn't about friendship. I have stayed active and in the church because I believe. I've said often that if I ever left the church, it would be because of the bad words who I run into fairly regularly. I told my sister, just the other day, as she was wondering if she should take the sacrament because she smokes, that she's just as good as the jerk sitting next to her who doesn't smoke. We're all sinners in the chapel during sacrament.
To my point: I had to go in on a Saturday to post the visiting teaching stats. I took my little grandson and his friend and their basketball and parked them in the gym as I walked down the silent building to the clerks office. I drank in the quiet of the surroundings and realized that I loved it there. I thought how sad it was that I don't feel that on Sundays when people are there.
The next day I attended church for the first time in a month with Bill and Maxwell for moral support. And I pondered the implication of the peaceful feeling I'd had the day before versus the onery feeling I had. I argued in my head with people who walked in and thought bad thoughts about them. Well, not all of them, many of them are good friends, like I said.
I believe that I am the problem and that no matter where I go, I will take myself. It's troubling to sit in a meeting and hear a testimony and not be able to agree. I agree with the truthfulness of the gospel, I just don't agree with the scorekeeping, the comparisons I hear, the crap. I wonder if I'll be able to stick it out and keep my mouth shut and remain faithful. I wonder if I'll get kicked out because I finally break and tell my stake president where to go.
It's a scary feeling to see the church with its flaws, to believe, and to not belong. I wonder where God stands in those equations.
I have chronic fatigue/epstein-barr and haven't been to church much in the last couple of months. Even before I had this latest relapse of illness, I had mixed emotions about church. My stake president doesn't like me (I bossed him and he took offense).
A former friend despises me. I also, as you would imagine, have many good and wonderful friends.
But church isn't about friendship. I have stayed active and in the church because I believe. I've said often that if I ever left the church, it would be because of the bad words who I run into fairly regularly. I told my sister, just the other day, as she was wondering if she should take the sacrament because she smokes, that she's just as good as the jerk sitting next to her who doesn't smoke. We're all sinners in the chapel during sacrament.
To my point: I had to go in on a Saturday to post the visiting teaching stats. I took my little grandson and his friend and their basketball and parked them in the gym as I walked down the silent building to the clerks office. I drank in the quiet of the surroundings and realized that I loved it there. I thought how sad it was that I don't feel that on Sundays when people are there.
The next day I attended church for the first time in a month with Bill and Maxwell for moral support. And I pondered the implication of the peaceful feeling I'd had the day before versus the onery feeling I had. I argued in my head with people who walked in and thought bad thoughts about them. Well, not all of them, many of them are good friends, like I said.
I believe that I am the problem and that no matter where I go, I will take myself. It's troubling to sit in a meeting and hear a testimony and not be able to agree. I agree with the truthfulness of the gospel, I just don't agree with the scorekeeping, the comparisons I hear, the crap. I wonder if I'll be able to stick it out and keep my mouth shut and remain faithful. I wonder if I'll get kicked out because I finally break and tell my stake president where to go.
It's a scary feeling to see the church with its flaws, to believe, and to not belong. I wonder where God stands in those equations.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
One week at the MTC and that's all they can take
We've had three missionaries come home after one week at the MTC in the last year. One was a girl who had panic attacks. Now she's overweight and we rarely see her. I think it's a classic sign of sexual abuse in her case.
Two boys only lasted a week, the last one had his farewell, left and came home in August. One is inactive, the other comes to church, looking stressed. I want to hug him and say, "hon, it's okay. You did the best you could." Probably Tiny whatever just ran them off.
Not really, you guys. I think these kids weren't ready to go on missions. Thank God they realized it soon after they left and didn't do themselves harm trying valiantly to measure up.
I just want them to know I love them.
Two boys only lasted a week, the last one had his farewell, left and came home in August. One is inactive, the other comes to church, looking stressed. I want to hug him and say, "hon, it's okay. You did the best you could." Probably Tiny whatever just ran them off.
Not really, you guys. I think these kids weren't ready to go on missions. Thank God they realized it soon after they left and didn't do themselves harm trying valiantly to measure up.
I just want them to know I love them.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Blogging thickens the skin
I write a column for our local paper once a month as part of a writers group. Last week my column was critical of The Vent, a practice I loathe. Our paper prints anonymous blurbs on Saturday. These usually are gripes about a neighbor's barking dog, or the local sheriff, or maybe a rant about Mormonism. It varies, but it's almost always a gripe.
I hate it. I think it's not good journalism. So I wrote a blistering column for last Wednesday, calling people cowards and urging them to grow a spine.
As you can imagine, people got mad at me. In this Saturday's vent, people complained about me and disagreed. Although they didn't sign their names, so I feel they made my point.
Yesterday at church several people came up and hugged me and attempted to comfort me because others were mad at me. I just laughed.
They don't know about the verbal fistfights we get on in blogging. What happened last week was mild compared to what I've been through here.
So thanks, you guys, for being here. It's been good for me :)
I hate it. I think it's not good journalism. So I wrote a blistering column for last Wednesday, calling people cowards and urging them to grow a spine.
As you can imagine, people got mad at me. In this Saturday's vent, people complained about me and disagreed. Although they didn't sign their names, so I feel they made my point.
Yesterday at church several people came up and hugged me and attempted to comfort me because others were mad at me. I just laughed.
They don't know about the verbal fistfights we get on in blogging. What happened last week was mild compared to what I've been through here.
So thanks, you guys, for being here. It's been good for me :)
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Dancing with the Stars
First, let me say that I totally think Rock Star Supernova is fixed. I wondered last year, but this year when the devil woman from Australia lost, I totally smell a rat. I'll never watch that show again. Although I came to understand the appeal of Tommy Lee.
But this week Dancing With the Stars premiered and since Brian Gibson is a writer on that show, I watched with even more interest last night to see who would be voted off. I made Bill watch with me Tuesday night and we laughed because they can all dance better than he can. He's sort of stiff, I dance all around him and he stands there and bops a little. It's discouraging to try to give him a sense of rhythm.
I thought Harry Hamlin just totally sucked. Plus he looks gaunt, and like he's had bad plastic surgery. The poor guy probably has to drink coffee all day just to keep up with his wife. He was so mediocre he made Tucker Carlson and Jerry Springer (yes, Jerry Springer) look good.
I watched carefully to figure out what Brian wrote. Tom (can't remember his last name), the host, just annoys me, he seems so self-involved, but he told a good joke which I knew he couldn't have thought up on his own.
Emmett (don't know his last name) surprised me. He's a good dancer. Poor Sara Evans. I figured Viveca Fox would do well, I've always liked her chutzpah.
Jerry Springer was a hoot to watch, just happy to be there.
I love reality TV. Wife Swap is starting next week and I'll be glued. I try to figure out who they would trade me with, some sappy religious soul with a sweet nature. Bill would be so bored for two weeks and her husband would have to be committed.
Just love to watch these train wrecks.
But this week Dancing With the Stars premiered and since Brian Gibson is a writer on that show, I watched with even more interest last night to see who would be voted off. I made Bill watch with me Tuesday night and we laughed because they can all dance better than he can. He's sort of stiff, I dance all around him and he stands there and bops a little. It's discouraging to try to give him a sense of rhythm.
I thought Harry Hamlin just totally sucked. Plus he looks gaunt, and like he's had bad plastic surgery. The poor guy probably has to drink coffee all day just to keep up with his wife. He was so mediocre he made Tucker Carlson and Jerry Springer (yes, Jerry Springer) look good.
I watched carefully to figure out what Brian wrote. Tom (can't remember his last name), the host, just annoys me, he seems so self-involved, but he told a good joke which I knew he couldn't have thought up on his own.
Emmett (don't know his last name) surprised me. He's a good dancer. Poor Sara Evans. I figured Viveca Fox would do well, I've always liked her chutzpah.
Jerry Springer was a hoot to watch, just happy to be there.
I love reality TV. Wife Swap is starting next week and I'll be glued. I try to figure out who they would trade me with, some sappy religious soul with a sweet nature. Bill would be so bored for two weeks and her husband would have to be committed.
Just love to watch these train wrecks.
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