"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!
Saturday, July 12, 2003
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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