Burnt Offerings
by Juliana
“Josh, I don’t burn dinner very often, right?” I asked.
“Sure,” he replied.
“Okay,” I said. “Then no smart comments tonight!”
A few days earlier Josh had remarked, “Well, if there’s one thing you do well, it’s make a good dinner.” I had given him a strange look at the time, and he realized that his “compliment” hadn’t sounded as kind as he had intended it. This was after a day when I had done very few useful things, other than make the dinner he was commenting on. We both knew the implication behind the compliment was, “At least you can do one thing…” We had both laughed as we knew he hadn’t really meant to put voice to the thought we had both already had.
But tonight I sat looking at the disastrous spoils of burnt rice, wondering how it had happened. I’d only been distracted a few minutes but that was all the time required to burn the pot of rice to a crisp. A foul odor filled our house, making me feel sick.
It was about an hour later and the house still reeked, despite the open windows which were now allowing a steady stream of frigid air into the house. My husband was on the phone asking his mother how to deal with a belligerent little boy. (We figured she ought to know, after raising my husband.)
I lifted the lid on the non-“Burnt Offerings” pot of food. A pleasant smell wafted up to me. Smiling, I invited my husband over to get a reprieve from the house full of stench. Still talking on the phone, he leaned over the pot of food and smelled it. Lifting up his face, he crinkled up his nose in the Universal Symbol of I-Just-Smelled-Something-Terrible. Stunned, I dropped my jaw and uttered a grunt of disbelief as he walked away, oblivious.
No, there’s no lesson to learn. I’m not going to make some smart comment to summarize the whole story into one brilliant quip. I’ll just say…to all the other women in the world who have had a similar experience, you’re NOT ALONE!
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
After the Pumpkin Incident
by Juliana
The pumpkin incident (see the previous blog entry) is still only a few hours old, but it’s already starting to pale in comparison to recent catastrophes.
Call it paranoia—call it inexperience—call it a generalized anxiety disorder (you won’t be the first)—or call it whatever you will. I have always felt very uncomfortable leaving Joseph alone while I shower, do chores, etc. Even for a few minutes, I think he must be causing some great catastrophe. This has always led me to watch him closely at almost every minute.
Josh has told me I’m ridiculous and I should just put him in his crib while I shower. I still shower when Joseph is napping or asleep for the night. People tell me I can do the dishes while Joseph is playing in the kitchen. That just reminds me of the time we were at my Mom’s house, and she was unloading the dishwasher. We all turned our backs for approximately one one-millioneth of a second, and we turned back, Joseph was running across the kitchen blissfully holding up two steak knives. At any rate, I always like to do my chores when Joseph is sleeping so I don’t have any unpleasant surprises to come back to.
Well, today I was thinking, “I shouldn’t be so paranoid. Joseph is fine—he’s just playing happily in the other room.” So I got out the vacuum to clean up the remainders of the pumpkin incident, and ran the vacuum around the family room. One room. That’s all. I didn’t even go down the hall. It must have taken, oh, three minutes? Well, my anxiety disorder (or whatever you want to call it) kicked in and I thought, “I better go check on Joseph.”
I walked down the hall, and heard a loud, “Splooooooooooosh..” I looked into the bathroom at the end of the hall. All I could see was water pouring over the edge of the sink, streaming onto the tile floor below. I ran as fast as I could and looked into the bathroom. Joseph was standing on the toilet, with the water in the sink on full-blast. He had learned a new trick. If you pull up on that thingee behind the faucet, it makes the water stay in the bowl! Oh the joys of childhood!
I looked helplessly at the situation, not knowing what to do first. Instinct kicked in and I simultaneously unstopped the sink and turned off the rushing water. I then picked up Joseph, who was drenched from head to foot, and deposited him in his crib, trying to sound very serious and harsh as I told him what a bad thing he had done. I opened the linen closet and grabbed the only two towels I could find, thinking how this was like stopping Niagara Falls with a paper towel. I did the best I could cleaning up the floor, then noticed a small dripping coming from inside our cabinets.
I opened the bottom drawer, which had half an inch of water swishing back and forth in it. I mopped it out and proceeded to do the same thing with the middle drawer. I then opened the top drawer, which I discovered to be filled to the top with water and soggy toys. It was around this time that I felt my temperature rising a little higher than comfortable. I tried to breathe deeply as I thought through the situation. Eventually I figured out how to take the whole drawer out of the cabinet and dump the water into the bathtub.
Around this time, I started to notice happy, playful sounds coming from Joseph’s crib. I walked into his room, dripping drawer in hand, and saw Joseph jumping happily up and down in his crib. I was in no mood for this. I put the drawer down on the floor, hoping it might drain a bit more, and starting peeling off Joseph’s soggy clothing.
I tried to explain to him what a bad thing he had done, and I think he eventually got the point because I haven’t seen him that cooperative for a diaper change since he was about 12 hours old. I went back into the bathroom to finish up a few things, and with the help of a few more towels, got the situation pretty well under control. I went back into Joseph’s bedroom and found something for him to wear. I felt so angry about the situation, but at the same time I didn’t feel any anger for Joseph at all. I simply wanted him to learn so that this behavior wouldn’t be a problem in the future. I said, “You’re getting the longest time out of your life, kid. Have a good nap.” I kissed him on the forehead and walked out of the room. He started crying.
It’s funny about being a parent. You can feel devastated by a brand-new bathroom dripping water onto unsealed tile grout… but then when you hear your child cry because they’re being punished, that pain is even worse.
But you have to suck it up and try to do the things that are best for everyone involved. Sometimes that means letting your baby cry it out, so they can grow up. And sometimes that means sitting on your hands and knees in an inch of water trying not to blow your top. And sometimes that means getting out the vacuum the next day, and learning to trust your child again.
by Juliana
The pumpkin incident (see the previous blog entry) is still only a few hours old, but it’s already starting to pale in comparison to recent catastrophes.
Call it paranoia—call it inexperience—call it a generalized anxiety disorder (you won’t be the first)—or call it whatever you will. I have always felt very uncomfortable leaving Joseph alone while I shower, do chores, etc. Even for a few minutes, I think he must be causing some great catastrophe. This has always led me to watch him closely at almost every minute.
Josh has told me I’m ridiculous and I should just put him in his crib while I shower. I still shower when Joseph is napping or asleep for the night. People tell me I can do the dishes while Joseph is playing in the kitchen. That just reminds me of the time we were at my Mom’s house, and she was unloading the dishwasher. We all turned our backs for approximately one one-millioneth of a second, and we turned back, Joseph was running across the kitchen blissfully holding up two steak knives. At any rate, I always like to do my chores when Joseph is sleeping so I don’t have any unpleasant surprises to come back to.
Well, today I was thinking, “I shouldn’t be so paranoid. Joseph is fine—he’s just playing happily in the other room.” So I got out the vacuum to clean up the remainders of the pumpkin incident, and ran the vacuum around the family room. One room. That’s all. I didn’t even go down the hall. It must have taken, oh, three minutes? Well, my anxiety disorder (or whatever you want to call it) kicked in and I thought, “I better go check on Joseph.”
I walked down the hall, and heard a loud, “Splooooooooooosh..” I looked into the bathroom at the end of the hall. All I could see was water pouring over the edge of the sink, streaming onto the tile floor below. I ran as fast as I could and looked into the bathroom. Joseph was standing on the toilet, with the water in the sink on full-blast. He had learned a new trick. If you pull up on that thingee behind the faucet, it makes the water stay in the bowl! Oh the joys of childhood!
I looked helplessly at the situation, not knowing what to do first. Instinct kicked in and I simultaneously unstopped the sink and turned off the rushing water. I then picked up Joseph, who was drenched from head to foot, and deposited him in his crib, trying to sound very serious and harsh as I told him what a bad thing he had done. I opened the linen closet and grabbed the only two towels I could find, thinking how this was like stopping Niagara Falls with a paper towel. I did the best I could cleaning up the floor, then noticed a small dripping coming from inside our cabinets.
I opened the bottom drawer, which had half an inch of water swishing back and forth in it. I mopped it out and proceeded to do the same thing with the middle drawer. I then opened the top drawer, which I discovered to be filled to the top with water and soggy toys. It was around this time that I felt my temperature rising a little higher than comfortable. I tried to breathe deeply as I thought through the situation. Eventually I figured out how to take the whole drawer out of the cabinet and dump the water into the bathtub.
Around this time, I started to notice happy, playful sounds coming from Joseph’s crib. I walked into his room, dripping drawer in hand, and saw Joseph jumping happily up and down in his crib. I was in no mood for this. I put the drawer down on the floor, hoping it might drain a bit more, and starting peeling off Joseph’s soggy clothing.
I tried to explain to him what a bad thing he had done, and I think he eventually got the point because I haven’t seen him that cooperative for a diaper change since he was about 12 hours old. I went back into the bathroom to finish up a few things, and with the help of a few more towels, got the situation pretty well under control. I went back into Joseph’s bedroom and found something for him to wear. I felt so angry about the situation, but at the same time I didn’t feel any anger for Joseph at all. I simply wanted him to learn so that this behavior wouldn’t be a problem in the future. I said, “You’re getting the longest time out of your life, kid. Have a good nap.” I kissed him on the forehead and walked out of the room. He started crying.
It’s funny about being a parent. You can feel devastated by a brand-new bathroom dripping water onto unsealed tile grout… but then when you hear your child cry because they’re being punished, that pain is even worse.
But you have to suck it up and try to do the things that are best for everyone involved. Sometimes that means letting your baby cry it out, so they can grow up. And sometimes that means sitting on your hands and knees in an inch of water trying not to blow your top. And sometimes that means getting out the vacuum the next day, and learning to trust your child again.
Now I really don't like Halloween
by Juliana
Learn a lesson from me: Don’t keep Halloween around until Thanksgiving. I don’t particularly like Halloween, so I don’t generally put up any decorations for the holiday. Something about a holiday which celebrates ugliness and fear just doesn’t appeal to me. But every time we would drive to the grocery store, my 20-month-old son’s eyes would grow huge and he would point excitedly at the pumpkins. After a month of this, I finally decided to walk him over to the “pumpkin patch” to choose one of his own.
He immediately fell in love with one and pointed to it excitedly. We purchased it, brought it home, and tried to find a good spot for it. It was somewhat crooked and wouldn’t sit up straight, so we rested it against a wall in our foyer for a couple weeks. After telling my husband the story of how Joseph had chosen it, he remarked, “I always wondered how they sold off all those ugly pumpkins.” But I never thought our pumpkin was ugly. Until yesterday.
The pumpkin had been retired to a spot in our family room, resting against our fireplace. I noticed that it had begun to change shape slightly. It no longer stood quite as erect and proud as it once had. It now seemed stooped with old age, decaying before our eyes. I brought this to my husband’s attention and asked, “What should we do with it now?”
“Throw it in the garbage can,” he said.
I frowned. That wasn’t right. “No,” I said. “You’re supposed to throw in the back yard and watch them rot against the fence.”
My husband shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”
The pumpkin was quite heavy as I lifted it, but I carried it over to the back door without any trouble. Then I gingerly held it by it’s stem, trying not to touch the soft and rotting part on the bottom. I counted aloud, swinging it up, ready to be tossed it the yard, “One… two…three!” But before I quite got to three, the pumpkin swung back into the house, tearing free of it’s stem. All the force which I hoped would send it a good distance into our frozen yard was turned backwards onto my brand new, white-colored carpet. With a gentle “squash” (fitting, eh?) the pumpkin collapsed onto our family room floor.
A small portion of the inner pumpkin looked familiar and pumpkin-like, but the majority looked like a soft, rotten mess. The seeds were black with apparent mold. I stared in horror at the mess before me, right inside our doorway. The bitter cold wind coming in from the open door brought me back to reality.
I’ll spare you the details of staying up late, trying to make our orange carpet white again. Just believe me when I say: Don’t keep Halloween around until Thanksgiving.
And next time you’re at my house, don’t be surprised to see the remains of a rotting pumpkin just outside my back door, and the fingerprint it left just inside.
by Juliana
Learn a lesson from me: Don’t keep Halloween around until Thanksgiving. I don’t particularly like Halloween, so I don’t generally put up any decorations for the holiday. Something about a holiday which celebrates ugliness and fear just doesn’t appeal to me. But every time we would drive to the grocery store, my 20-month-old son’s eyes would grow huge and he would point excitedly at the pumpkins. After a month of this, I finally decided to walk him over to the “pumpkin patch” to choose one of his own.
He immediately fell in love with one and pointed to it excitedly. We purchased it, brought it home, and tried to find a good spot for it. It was somewhat crooked and wouldn’t sit up straight, so we rested it against a wall in our foyer for a couple weeks. After telling my husband the story of how Joseph had chosen it, he remarked, “I always wondered how they sold off all those ugly pumpkins.” But I never thought our pumpkin was ugly. Until yesterday.
The pumpkin had been retired to a spot in our family room, resting against our fireplace. I noticed that it had begun to change shape slightly. It no longer stood quite as erect and proud as it once had. It now seemed stooped with old age, decaying before our eyes. I brought this to my husband’s attention and asked, “What should we do with it now?”
“Throw it in the garbage can,” he said.
I frowned. That wasn’t right. “No,” I said. “You’re supposed to throw in the back yard and watch them rot against the fence.”
My husband shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”
The pumpkin was quite heavy as I lifted it, but I carried it over to the back door without any trouble. Then I gingerly held it by it’s stem, trying not to touch the soft and rotting part on the bottom. I counted aloud, swinging it up, ready to be tossed it the yard, “One… two…three!” But before I quite got to three, the pumpkin swung back into the house, tearing free of it’s stem. All the force which I hoped would send it a good distance into our frozen yard was turned backwards onto my brand new, white-colored carpet. With a gentle “squash” (fitting, eh?) the pumpkin collapsed onto our family room floor.
A small portion of the inner pumpkin looked familiar and pumpkin-like, but the majority looked like a soft, rotten mess. The seeds were black with apparent mold. I stared in horror at the mess before me, right inside our doorway. The bitter cold wind coming in from the open door brought me back to reality.
I’ll spare you the details of staying up late, trying to make our orange carpet white again. Just believe me when I say: Don’t keep Halloween around until Thanksgiving.
And next time you’re at my house, don’t be surprised to see the remains of a rotting pumpkin just outside my back door, and the fingerprint it left just inside.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
My Moment of Feminism...just one!
by Juliana
I’ve never really been a feminist at all, but I do have one little complaint to make about modern culture. Why is it that people always assume my husband takes care of all the finances? In reality, I write the bills, balance the checkbook, etc. Yet when the tenants of our apartment write out the monthly rent check, they always write it out to my husband!
Another example of this is with our construction loan. I spent hours and hours calling lenders and finding the best rates, closing costs, etc. I slaved over finding a program that would work for us, getting the down payment together, putting together the documents, etc. But every time they send us a check for reimbursement, who is the check written out to? My husband!!
Just a little heads-up to those in the world of finance: if the men are out there working nine to five every day, who do you think is going to be spending time with the budget and bills? Who’s going to be getting checks in the mail and wanting to deposit them? Probably the one who stays at home, the wife!
by Juliana
I’ve never really been a feminist at all, but I do have one little complaint to make about modern culture. Why is it that people always assume my husband takes care of all the finances? In reality, I write the bills, balance the checkbook, etc. Yet when the tenants of our apartment write out the monthly rent check, they always write it out to my husband!
Another example of this is with our construction loan. I spent hours and hours calling lenders and finding the best rates, closing costs, etc. I slaved over finding a program that would work for us, getting the down payment together, putting together the documents, etc. But every time they send us a check for reimbursement, who is the check written out to? My husband!!
Just a little heads-up to those in the world of finance: if the men are out there working nine to five every day, who do you think is going to be spending time with the budget and bills? Who’s going to be getting checks in the mail and wanting to deposit them? Probably the one who stays at home, the wife!
My Titanic Singing
by Juliana
My husband comes from a very musical family; I do not. In my family, just singing “Happy Birthday to You” is a pitiful event. Nonetheless, we all enjoy and love music.
I have tried to develop my singing voice so that it would be more pleasant to my husband, but I still haven’t been too successful. This was obvious the other day as I was singing along to the Titanic theme song. As I started the line, “And I know that my heart will go on…” my husband chimed in loudly, singing, “And I know that this song will go on and on and on and on!”
This is kind of like all the times he says to me, “Yes, Juliana, of course I love to hear you sing. It means that you’re trying to develop your musical talents!” That’s the only reason!
by Juliana
My husband comes from a very musical family; I do not. In my family, just singing “Happy Birthday to You” is a pitiful event. Nonetheless, we all enjoy and love music.
I have tried to develop my singing voice so that it would be more pleasant to my husband, but I still haven’t been too successful. This was obvious the other day as I was singing along to the Titanic theme song. As I started the line, “And I know that my heart will go on…” my husband chimed in loudly, singing, “And I know that this song will go on and on and on and on!”
This is kind of like all the times he says to me, “Yes, Juliana, of course I love to hear you sing. It means that you’re trying to develop your musical talents!” That’s the only reason!
Friday, August 01, 2003
Children are geniuses
by Juliana
I held open the box of crackers for my son, Joseph. He immediately grabbed a huge handful, delight in his eyes. After removing his overflowing hand from the box, he looked down and saw one more cracker on the floor. I immediately thought of the movie Cinderella, where the little mouse Gus painstakingly gathers every last morsel of food, ignorant of the approaching cat.
There was no approaching cat here, but my little Joseph was equally determined to not let one piece of food be left out. With his free hand, he carefully took one cracker from the full hand. Then he reached his full hand down to the floor and picked up the spare cracker. Does it make sense to me? No… I would have used the empty hand to pick up the cracker from the floor. Did it make sense to Joseph? Of course! He knew his hand was already full, so he made space to get the last cracker! What a genius!
On the next round of crackers, he reached in and pulled out a hand that was overflowing. No fewer than five crackers fell to the floor. He looked at them for a moment, then shook his full fist to drop another one there. Then, peacefully, he sat down and started eating!
by Juliana
I held open the box of crackers for my son, Joseph. He immediately grabbed a huge handful, delight in his eyes. After removing his overflowing hand from the box, he looked down and saw one more cracker on the floor. I immediately thought of the movie Cinderella, where the little mouse Gus painstakingly gathers every last morsel of food, ignorant of the approaching cat.
There was no approaching cat here, but my little Joseph was equally determined to not let one piece of food be left out. With his free hand, he carefully took one cracker from the full hand. Then he reached his full hand down to the floor and picked up the spare cracker. Does it make sense to me? No… I would have used the empty hand to pick up the cracker from the floor. Did it make sense to Joseph? Of course! He knew his hand was already full, so he made space to get the last cracker! What a genius!
On the next round of crackers, he reached in and pulled out a hand that was overflowing. No fewer than five crackers fell to the floor. He looked at them for a moment, then shook his full fist to drop another one there. Then, peacefully, he sat down and started eating!
Saturday, July 12, 2003
"Dear Gabby"
by Juliana
Do you ever read “Dear Abby” or “Miss Manners”? Half the time you agree with what they say 100%, and the other half of the time you think, “How in the world could she say that? That’s ridiculous!” I guess that’s the blessing of writing that type of column: people love you when you’re right because they feel justified in their personal feelings, and they love you when you’re wrong because then they have an excuse to write a scathing letter attacking you. Definitely a win-win.
The articles they write usually go something like this:
“Dear Gabby,
“My husband and I have been married for 17 years. Every day, I’ve done my best to keep the house clean and take care of the kids. Every night of that marriage, I have had dinner ready and waiting at 6 o’clock. I set the table with real linens, serve a nice meal, and try to make the atmosphere as nice as I can so he can relax after a long day at work. And for 17 years now, he can do nothing but complain!
“He never thanks me for my hard work or tells me what a great job I’ve done. He simply complains about wanting DIFFERENT food, as if what I’ve prepared isn’t good enough. And he complains about the house not being clean enough, not realizing how much work it is to care for the children.
“Gabby, how can I live with a husband who is SOOO ungrateful??
“Starving for gratitude in Wichiluuka, Oregon”
“Dear Starving,
“Your husband needs a big reality check.! You’re absolutely right to feel neglected. Taking care of children absorbs a lot of time, and it’s not likely that he’d be able to do better on his own. Most wives seldom take the time to prepare homemade dinners the way you do…much less every night! Tell your husband how you feel, and tell him that if he doesn’t like the way you cook and clean, he can do it for himself in the future because you’ll get a divorce! That ought to fix the problem!”
“Dear Gabby,
“My adorable wife and I have been married for nearly 20 years. I have worked full-time for each of those years and supported her financially while she raised the kids. When we got married, we agreed that I would earn the money and she would take care of the family and fix the meals.
“As much as I love my wife, I’ve always felt like she got the better end of the deal! She spends most of the day watching soap operas and talking on the phone, neglecting the housework and the kids. When I’m almost home, she throws together the same dinner every day: hamburger casserole. It was great the first week or so of marriage, but after that I just couldn’t stand the same thing every night. She never prepares fresh vegetables or other low-fat foods, so I’ve gained weight and have bad health. I try to eat sensibly on my own, but I’m stumped on this one!
“Gabby, help me know how to speak to my wife and make her know how I feel. I work long, hard hours every day to take care of our family and I feel like she isn’t living up to her end of the bargain!
“Starved for real food in Oregon”
“Dear starved in Oregon,
“Nobody would blame you one bit! You work long, hard hours every day with the understanding that your wife’s full-time work is the house. It sounds like she needs to spend less time thinking about herself and more time thinking about the family.
“The best way to give her a wake-up call is to take the kids on a Hawaiian vacation and leave her behind. Tell her that when she does some real work, she can have a real vacation. And until then, she can just enjoy the time alone.”
“Dear Gabby is written by Gabby von Baron, also known as Hester Slokovich. Dear Gabby was originally written by Candy Tutulukama, and then by RheeAnne Smith. The most recent Gabbys were Jane Horn and Pierre Vertruse.”
Do you see what I mean? It’s purely subjective. The trouble is that you only hear one viewpoint from one person. The problem is presented in a purely biased way and cannot be accurately gauged from a few paragraphs. If it were up to me, all of these columns would read something like this:
“Dear Gabby,
“My husband beats me every night. Last night, he tried to kill me with a kitchen knife. Should I leave him?
“Scared in Galalooka”
“Dear Scared,
“Maybe from YOUR perspective. How do you know he wasn’t trying to help you cut your meat? And when you say “beats me every night” are we talking about scrabble or connect four?
“With the information you provided, there’s no way to really tell who’s right and who’s wrong. Maybe it’s time to grow up and learn how to work out your own stupid problems!”
Definitely better!
by Juliana
Do you ever read “Dear Abby” or “Miss Manners”? Half the time you agree with what they say 100%, and the other half of the time you think, “How in the world could she say that? That’s ridiculous!” I guess that’s the blessing of writing that type of column: people love you when you’re right because they feel justified in their personal feelings, and they love you when you’re wrong because then they have an excuse to write a scathing letter attacking you. Definitely a win-win.
The articles they write usually go something like this:
“Dear Gabby,
“My husband and I have been married for 17 years. Every day, I’ve done my best to keep the house clean and take care of the kids. Every night of that marriage, I have had dinner ready and waiting at 6 o’clock. I set the table with real linens, serve a nice meal, and try to make the atmosphere as nice as I can so he can relax after a long day at work. And for 17 years now, he can do nothing but complain!
“He never thanks me for my hard work or tells me what a great job I’ve done. He simply complains about wanting DIFFERENT food, as if what I’ve prepared isn’t good enough. And he complains about the house not being clean enough, not realizing how much work it is to care for the children.
“Gabby, how can I live with a husband who is SOOO ungrateful??
“Starving for gratitude in Wichiluuka, Oregon”
“Dear Starving,
“Your husband needs a big reality check.! You’re absolutely right to feel neglected. Taking care of children absorbs a lot of time, and it’s not likely that he’d be able to do better on his own. Most wives seldom take the time to prepare homemade dinners the way you do…much less every night! Tell your husband how you feel, and tell him that if he doesn’t like the way you cook and clean, he can do it for himself in the future because you’ll get a divorce! That ought to fix the problem!”
“Dear Gabby,
“My adorable wife and I have been married for nearly 20 years. I have worked full-time for each of those years and supported her financially while she raised the kids. When we got married, we agreed that I would earn the money and she would take care of the family and fix the meals.
“As much as I love my wife, I’ve always felt like she got the better end of the deal! She spends most of the day watching soap operas and talking on the phone, neglecting the housework and the kids. When I’m almost home, she throws together the same dinner every day: hamburger casserole. It was great the first week or so of marriage, but after that I just couldn’t stand the same thing every night. She never prepares fresh vegetables or other low-fat foods, so I’ve gained weight and have bad health. I try to eat sensibly on my own, but I’m stumped on this one!
“Gabby, help me know how to speak to my wife and make her know how I feel. I work long, hard hours every day to take care of our family and I feel like she isn’t living up to her end of the bargain!
“Starved for real food in Oregon”
“Dear starved in Oregon,
“Nobody would blame you one bit! You work long, hard hours every day with the understanding that your wife’s full-time work is the house. It sounds like she needs to spend less time thinking about herself and more time thinking about the family.
“The best way to give her a wake-up call is to take the kids on a Hawaiian vacation and leave her behind. Tell her that when she does some real work, she can have a real vacation. And until then, she can just enjoy the time alone.”
“Dear Gabby is written by Gabby von Baron, also known as Hester Slokovich. Dear Gabby was originally written by Candy Tutulukama, and then by RheeAnne Smith. The most recent Gabbys were Jane Horn and Pierre Vertruse.”
Do you see what I mean? It’s purely subjective. The trouble is that you only hear one viewpoint from one person. The problem is presented in a purely biased way and cannot be accurately gauged from a few paragraphs. If it were up to me, all of these columns would read something like this:
“Dear Gabby,
“My husband beats me every night. Last night, he tried to kill me with a kitchen knife. Should I leave him?
“Scared in Galalooka”
“Dear Scared,
“Maybe from YOUR perspective. How do you know he wasn’t trying to help you cut your meat? And when you say “beats me every night” are we talking about scrabble or connect four?
“With the information you provided, there’s no way to really tell who’s right and who’s wrong. Maybe it’s time to grow up and learn how to work out your own stupid problems!”
Definitely better!
Friday, July 11, 2003
"An Old Friend"
by Juliana
It was one of those days that I hadn’t invested much in. I hadn’t showered yet, hadn’t really done anything with my hair, and hadn’t put on any makeup. I’d exercised that morning, which added to my disheveled look, and hadn’t bothered to get cleaned up afterwards. Now it was time to go out running some errands, and I wondered briefly if it was worth the effort to doll myself up at this point.
I was on my way to meet with some construction subcontractors who I never planned to see again, and whose opinion was not exactly priceless to me. I headed for the door, but on second thought, turned back. “It’ll only take a minute to brush my hair again,” I thought. So I brushed my hair and pulled it back into its ponytail. Not exactly glamorous, but not quite so careless, either. I headed for the door again, but turned back once more. This time I quickly applied a little blush, eye shadow and powder. As a finishing touch, I blotted on a little lipstick and smiled at myself in the mirror. Definitely not gorgeous… “Am I ever?” I wondered … but at least an improvement.
I picked up my 16-month-old son and we headed out the door one last time. After going to the paint store for color samples, the insulation company to pay a bill, and to our house under construction to view the finish carpentry, I decided to drop in one last place. I needed to get an estimate for our shower surround, so I stopped at a showroom that carried the kind of thing I was looking for.
I walked in and started to think about what colors and styles I liked, while I quickly scanned the showroom for a salesman. There was one person on the far end talking with a customer. He looked busy so I looked around for someone else. Not seeing anybody, I slowly made my way over to the other side of the room.
As I got closer, the salesman looked up and noticed me. As our eyes met, I was surprised with recognition. That salesman was in my classes in elementary school! Memories rushed back to me in an instant. I remembered sitting next to each other in Mrs. Hobby’s 3rd grade class, eyeing each other intensely. We had just been handed a math worksheet and the race was on. This was our standard exercise. We were both excellent at math—better, in fact, than anybody else in our class—and we knew each other as the only fair competition.
So each day we would grab our worksheets quickly and work intensely until finished. As soon as we were done, we’d grab the worksheets in hand and race to the front of the room to turn them in. I remember we usually got to the front of the room at the same time, having mastered each of the problems quickly. It was a friendly race: competitive… but fun.
We weren’t really friends outside of class. Even then he was the “popular” one and I was just on the outside looking in. But each day as we raced through our homework, we had one small connection. That connection continued the next year when we were in 4th grade together. I don’t remember any in-class competitions that year. I just remember that the “smart kids” in the class got to study together for the spelling bee. He and I and a couple other students would sit outside in the hall, under the coat hooks, reading through lists of words. We’d quiz each other, laugh and have a good time. It’s strange how simple memories like that can last through the years.
The next year I went away to a different school and didn’t see him again until high school. By now, his social status definitely outstripped mine. I came to the school knowing very few people, practically friendless, and he was obviously one of the “in crowd.” I remember seeing him walking through the halls wearing his football jersey and knowing that we would never speak to each other. Elementary school was a long time ago and I knew it meant nothing now. High school was much more fierce in the social arena. The cool kids just didn’t talk to the uncool kids, and the uncool kids looked way less cool if they even tried. So of course I never even said hi. It was like our past was erased.
But now here he was again! I knew, from the look on his face, that he remembered me. I wondered to myself: is it like high school or elementary? “I remember you,” I said.
“Yeah, I remember you, too,” he said.
We smiled at each other. Definitely elementary. He had another customer waiting, so I didn’t chit chat or anything. We talked for a few minutes about who I should contact to get an estimate and then I left.
As I left I smiled, and couldn’t help wondering, “If we see each other at a high school reunion, will it be like high school… or elementary?” I thought for a few minutes and knew the answer. Things might change in the real world, but high school will always be the same… even 10 or 20 years later. Definitely high school.
by Juliana
It was one of those days that I hadn’t invested much in. I hadn’t showered yet, hadn’t really done anything with my hair, and hadn’t put on any makeup. I’d exercised that morning, which added to my disheveled look, and hadn’t bothered to get cleaned up afterwards. Now it was time to go out running some errands, and I wondered briefly if it was worth the effort to doll myself up at this point.
I was on my way to meet with some construction subcontractors who I never planned to see again, and whose opinion was not exactly priceless to me. I headed for the door, but on second thought, turned back. “It’ll only take a minute to brush my hair again,” I thought. So I brushed my hair and pulled it back into its ponytail. Not exactly glamorous, but not quite so careless, either. I headed for the door again, but turned back once more. This time I quickly applied a little blush, eye shadow and powder. As a finishing touch, I blotted on a little lipstick and smiled at myself in the mirror. Definitely not gorgeous… “Am I ever?” I wondered … but at least an improvement.
I picked up my 16-month-old son and we headed out the door one last time. After going to the paint store for color samples, the insulation company to pay a bill, and to our house under construction to view the finish carpentry, I decided to drop in one last place. I needed to get an estimate for our shower surround, so I stopped at a showroom that carried the kind of thing I was looking for.
I walked in and started to think about what colors and styles I liked, while I quickly scanned the showroom for a salesman. There was one person on the far end talking with a customer. He looked busy so I looked around for someone else. Not seeing anybody, I slowly made my way over to the other side of the room.
As I got closer, the salesman looked up and noticed me. As our eyes met, I was surprised with recognition. That salesman was in my classes in elementary school! Memories rushed back to me in an instant. I remembered sitting next to each other in Mrs. Hobby’s 3rd grade class, eyeing each other intensely. We had just been handed a math worksheet and the race was on. This was our standard exercise. We were both excellent at math—better, in fact, than anybody else in our class—and we knew each other as the only fair competition.
So each day we would grab our worksheets quickly and work intensely until finished. As soon as we were done, we’d grab the worksheets in hand and race to the front of the room to turn them in. I remember we usually got to the front of the room at the same time, having mastered each of the problems quickly. It was a friendly race: competitive… but fun.
We weren’t really friends outside of class. Even then he was the “popular” one and I was just on the outside looking in. But each day as we raced through our homework, we had one small connection. That connection continued the next year when we were in 4th grade together. I don’t remember any in-class competitions that year. I just remember that the “smart kids” in the class got to study together for the spelling bee. He and I and a couple other students would sit outside in the hall, under the coat hooks, reading through lists of words. We’d quiz each other, laugh and have a good time. It’s strange how simple memories like that can last through the years.
The next year I went away to a different school and didn’t see him again until high school. By now, his social status definitely outstripped mine. I came to the school knowing very few people, practically friendless, and he was obviously one of the “in crowd.” I remember seeing him walking through the halls wearing his football jersey and knowing that we would never speak to each other. Elementary school was a long time ago and I knew it meant nothing now. High school was much more fierce in the social arena. The cool kids just didn’t talk to the uncool kids, and the uncool kids looked way less cool if they even tried. So of course I never even said hi. It was like our past was erased.
But now here he was again! I knew, from the look on his face, that he remembered me. I wondered to myself: is it like high school or elementary? “I remember you,” I said.
“Yeah, I remember you, too,” he said.
We smiled at each other. Definitely elementary. He had another customer waiting, so I didn’t chit chat or anything. We talked for a few minutes about who I should contact to get an estimate and then I left.
As I left I smiled, and couldn’t help wondering, “If we see each other at a high school reunion, will it be like high school… or elementary?” I thought for a few minutes and knew the answer. Things might change in the real world, but high school will always be the same… even 10 or 20 years later. Definitely high school.
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