A Racist Term Deleted Fire Drill and Dirty Dishes

I've got a lot to complain about right now. Why won't anyone do the dishes?

I'm supposed to do the dishes? There are other people in this house eating. Why do I have to do it all of the time? I've even got an extra guy here and he does no more dishes than the other two. This morning, he asked where he was supposed to put the dirty cutting board because the sink was full. Well, in the dishwasher, I wanted to tell him. I didn't. I should have. It would have been good to tell him that Mike and I expect him to help out since he's getting a free ride here until he gets his own place.

That has ground to a halt too. At first, he was actively looking for his own place to live. Now? Not so much.

On top of that, our schedule is packed. I know these are the last days of me carting Nick from one place to another. I'm now in the passenger seat much of the time since he has his driver's permit. He's a pretty good driver and I almost checked out yesterday. He's not ready for me to check out while he drives. But right now, the driving just makes our schedule that much more crazy, practicing backing around the corner, lane changes. Why does it seem like it takes longer to get places when Nick drives? And I've never played the Chinese fire drill as much as I have these past weeks.

Do you remember doing a Chinese fire drill? High school pranks. Usually, it was when we were at a stop light in a car. Everyone would jump out of the car and run around to get in another door.

No, Nick and I are not doing our Chinese fire drills at stop lights. We're doing them off the road in a safe place.

So, is it bigoted to say Chinese fire drill? Is it derogatory? I'm not sure why they're called Chinese and not Cherokee fire drills or Hoosier fire drills or teenage fire drills.

There's probably something derogatory about it and I'm just clueless.

Sorry, folks. I didn't mean anything by it. I just looked it up. It was originally a commentary about a fiasco in translation during a fire drill in the early 1900s, but later, the term was used in a demeaning way. So there's one more thing I really shouldn't say if I'm going to be polite. It makes sense for me to be polite, but is it still a bigoted thing to say?

It is.

It's like saying you got gypped, which is rude to gypsies, or calling someone an Indian-giver, which is rude to Native Americans. English is a linguistic minefield, but it's worth taking the time to look at the original meanings of common terms we say so that we're not promoting bigotry.

It is, isn't it?

It reminds me of the statues of Southern civil war leaders that recently had to come down. Now, remind me why these people can't be respected again? Is it racist to maintain a statue of your great great grandfather in the local park if he served in the civil war?

So now I can complain that there are terms I grew up saying that I have to relearn now that I'm old. It's hard to relearn so many things. It's like my mind wants to keep going down the same tracks it always did and language cuts a deep groove. 

I'm getting old, people. And that, by itself, causes more problems than it solves. And it still doesn't solve the problem that I am the only one doing the dishes around here. It doesn't. Maybe if I don't do them for another day or two, someone will step up.

Maybe.

Thank you for listening, jules

Dr. KnowItAll, PhD

"Did you like this book? I asked in the used bookstore.

"Of the genre, this book is rather blah, blah, blah, and it falls in the dark period of blah blah blah something else highly intellectual and isn't it obvious that it sourced from me, the speaker, who by proxy is as cool as the author who wrote it? ..." the guy spoke and I have no idea what it was that he said past the word 'rather' because I kind of tuned out. This was not an opinion but an analysis for which I do not, nor do I ever wish to have, the background. Do you ever ask a question that you know within the first three words of the answer that you should never have asked in the first place? I won't go into that bookstore any more. They should teach their cashiers that it's not nice to analyze people's book choices even if they are leaning on the positive side of their analyses? Even if he was asked his opinion?

I just wanted his opinion, not a dissertation.

I got this treatment over The Sandman by Neil Gaiman. I bought a copy today because Jenny, the Bloggess, said she loved it. She didn't say that I'd love it. She's polite that way, respecting that I'll have my own opinion, but I've loved every other book she's said she likes. Sorry, I couldn't find the post where she listed her favorite books and asked her readers to list their favorite books. If you can find that page, it's a reader's orgy.

No, Jenny didn't analyze The Sandman. She just said she liked it, loved it. That was enough for me since she also loves Christopher Moore and Terry Pratchett, two others of my favorites. I showed Nick my new-used book and told him it was a cult classic. I don't know it is a cult classic, but I suspect it is since I've heard it spoken of in those terms since I first heard about it from Jenny. Does that mean that once I read it, I'm part of a cult? And Jenny likes it.

Jenny is my friend. Well, I like to think that Jenny is my friend, but don't we all wish we were friends with that great, crazy author who wrote the book you just felt in your bones when you read it? Yes, Jenny is that author. 'Let's Pretend This Never Happened' is that book. For that cashier, maybe Neil Gaiman is that author, but he could have just said it kept him from committing suicide when he was fifteen and I would have known better what he was saying. He didn't have to go all Dr. KnowItAll, PhD on me. See, Jenny is a better friend than that cashier, isn't she? Even though I don't know her, not really. I only ever read her books and her blog. And once, she signed my book after I waited in line for an hour.

And that makes me one of those people, the tag-alongs, the wannabes, the I-wish-I-were-as-cool-as-Jenny kind of people. But I never will be as cool as that cashier, now, will I? Never.

Thank you for listening, jules

Squelched Controversy

There's a teacher who is leaving Nick's school. He's not one of Nick's teachers, but I heard a little about his story. His crime?  He talked in class about something controversial. He's been quietly reprimanded and has decided to leave rather than teach in the proscribed environment.

Wait? What subjects are not tolerated in high school? When Mike got home and settled himself onto the couch to relax, I asked him, "Which controversial subjects would you want teachers not to discuss in school?"

"None. They should talk about everything." Then he went back reading to his magazine. He likes to keep abreast of what's happening in the world. To him, the answer was as simple as that.

When has it become worthy of a reprimand for a teacher to speak, to encourage discourse, to even allow respectful disagreements? Why can't school be a place where kids learn that the world is full of people with varied opinions? Why can't school be a place where kids learn, with respect, to debate their opinions without others losing the right to believe in their own? When did schools become a place in which a narrow view is taught and nothing outside of that is allowed? Are they going to start banning books next? Are our rights to free speech going down? Is it propaganda that's being taught in lieu of open discourse?

I want my son to be educated by people brave enough to talk through controversies, who encourage kids to tolerate people with other viewpoints, who teach enthusiastic debate, to talk about and write about details and possibilities in our universe and in our cultures. I want my son to be free to discuss everything. This is his time to discover the complexities and nuances of the world, its sciences, religions, political climates, and its cultures. More discussion rather than less is in order at his age. When I was in high school, we talked about transcendental meditation, Buddhism, astral projection, LSD as an experience, and psychokinesis. It didn't mean that I believed all of it, but we discussed these things thoroughly. How much further out there can you get? It did me no harm to try to promote my studied opinions. In fact, it made me stronger and smarter to learn how to talk about varied controversial subjects, and to hone my opinions in healthy debate.

So what is happening here?

For every vociferous parent who squelches open discourse, there are fifty, a hundred, maybe a thousand who quietly hope for the continued right to free speech in schools and the ways it can educate our children to becoming open-minded, creative, and thoughtful adults. Apparently, we're going to have to make some noise.

This teacher is funny. He's creative. I wish he'd been my son's teacher. I hope he continues to teach wherever he goes. I hope he continues to discuss anything and everything, especially that which is controversial.

Thank you for listening, jules

Sharing the Stink

For now, I share a hallway and a bathroom with my nephew. I can't tell you how awkward that is. Oh, he's a good guy. He is. He's thoughtful and relatively neat, but there's something about passing a guy less than half your age in the hall just outside the shitter when one of you has just been in there shitting. And that bathroom, unfortunately, has no fan, only a window that props open and brings in ice-cold fresh air. Afterward, it still smells like your business, just colder.

The worst part is that my nephew is also aware, oh so keenly aware of the awkwardness of our situation. I can imagine him on the other side of his bedroom praying for me to leave the hallway quickly so he can take his morning piss.

So, we've come up with alternate plans for going up and down that short hallway. At ten-thirty, he leaps up to 'go to bed' ten minutes before I might mention it. I've never seen a twenty-something so eager to go to bed. Plus, he's desperately plunging through one apartment or another in an attempt to move out. There are days when it's obvious that the boy should take a break from his search and prop up his feet, but he's on a quest. I don't blame him. I try very hard not to encourage him to a degree that it makes me look like he should be leaving the day after tomorrow, but I've felt my face lighting up whenever he mentions a potential place.

The other day he said, "There's a place I might be able to get into." I'm sure you could see the relief on my face. But he went on to say, "but it doesn't come available until the fifteenth." I tried to keep my face cheerful about ten more days of awkward encounters in the hallway outside the bathroom, but I'm sure the joy left my eyes as the smile stayed plastered to my face.

"Oh, that's no problem," I said. "You can stay as long as you need to." Did you notice that I used the word 'need' instead of 'want?' I'm sure he did. Like I said, he's a sensitive soul and my cheerfulness just seemed to pain him.

A day or two later, he stood towering over me with downcast eyes and said, "That apartment isn't going to be free until the twentieth." He didn't apologize but the boy seemed absolutely small. That's hard for someone who's six foot four with size thirteen shoes. For a moment, I forgot the stupid bathroom/hallway problem and felt the pain of living with your aunt, uncle, and cousin when you are in your twenties. We all know it's only for a few weeks because the job is there, just not the apartment. But somehow it's worse than living with your parents. You can't quite relax into your usual routine. It's more akin to living with your grandma only Grandma is better at making you feel cozy and you can feel like a six year old in her fluffy little house. So, yeah, it's about the worst way you can move out, living with your aunt and uncle and sharing a hallway and a stinky bathroom. 

"Oh hon," I said to him, "just relax. You'll find your own place in good time." I meant it this time. It's going to be okay. I know it will. I keep telling myself that and after my nephew finds his own place, I'm sure the hallway encounters will lose their stink even in my memory.

Thank you for listening, jules

Mysteries of Things that Go on the Pile

I hate how stuff collects under the couch. I found Nerf bullets, cherry pits, Sharpies, Bics, clear plastic wrappers, crackers, Nerf cartridges, cat toy puffs, dried olives, a button that said "My Melody" with an ugly bunny on it, iPhone charger cubes, couch screws that explain why the whole couch twists when Nick pops the foot rest, Post-It Notes, mechanical pencils, a warren of dust bunnies, and dried cat puke.

There was no remote.

Mike and Nick were both still sick with that nasty flu last night. Nick went to bed after coughing up a lung until about midnight. Then, Mike came out and watched some television and coughed up a lung until dawn. I'm surprised I didn't find chunks of lung under the couch.

This morning, when I made a little morning noise, woke Mike up, watched him shamble into the bedroom for more sleep with the TV still stuck on the Amazon Prime station, I noticed there was no remote. I stuck my hands down into the cushions. This action is remotely dangerous since some staples came out of the wood after ten years of activity. Yet it's also fuzzy with dog hair and crunchy with crumbs, a tactile buffet. Funny, how a variety of blind sensations is so unpleasant when combined. I don't get grossed out fishing those last crunchy bits out of the bottom of the bag of tortilla chips. I definitely don't mind running my fingers through Mike's hair or Teddy or Seth's fur. I don't even mind picking up an olive when I drop it on the carpet. And yet ...

The Universe said it was time to clean under the couch. It was. I get it, Universe. I'm not sick any more. Family arrives tomorrow. Your message speaks loud and clear. And I get that you're not going to give back the remote until the house is picked up, extraneous stuff is donated, windows are clean, the piano is dusted, the floor under the bed is vacuumed, dog-fur-dust bunnies are evicted, and the new remote arrives from Amazon on Saturday morning.

I get it, Universe. Gratitude. Gratitude for the lesson. This is where I might put the sarcastic emoticon if there were one. But maybe I shouldn't. The Universe is not forgiving. It's not. Have you ever seen the Sahara or the asteroid belt or the pit of a volcano cauldron?

Thank you for listening, jules

P.S. Just now, my husband went after the couch in search of the remote. I would have said I searched it thoroughly. He didn't find the remote. He didn't. It is well and truly lost. But he did find the wallet he lost with over $500 in it. Thank you, Universe! Thank you!

The Perfect Response

I never have as much to say in the morning before I've done anything and at night, when I'm full of stories like when the man near the top of the mountain on the blustery day told me I was having a bad hair day, I'm too tired to write about it.

Well then, I just did write about it, didn't I? The bastard. I looked at his balding head. I couldn't think of anything to say about his hair, or lack of it.

Sometimes you want to go back up the trail to that same situation, to that same grouping of people who snickered when he said what he said and you want to redo the conversation. You think you might come up with that perfect reply.

Say, I was coming down from the top of Rattlesnake Ledge. Let's say I was elated because I was past four miles and would hit 6.4 on Runkeeper by the time I got back to my car. Let us also say that I had an adrenaline rush from having a slight case of dizziness combined with the gusting wind at the top. And suppose that a group of us were on our knees or sitting up there because of the howling wind that pushed through that crevice in the ledge that always seems to threaten to succumb to gravity and fall onto the trail below. We looked to the West to see another ugly front on it's way toward us. So, I had spent less time than I would have liked at the panoramic view of mountains and valley and nasty weather headed in our direction and I had traipsed happily back down the trail.

"Hello," he would say the way he did yesterday and he would have stopped to chat the way he had then too.

"Nice weather up at the ledge," I said. "You're almost there. When you get there, you can see the next front coming in from the West." I would have replied just the way I did. I had pointed though trees and steep hillside that blocked our view and shielded us from the wind. More weather was coming.

"I can see that. It's bad enough to cause you a three-alarm bad hair day, huh?" he said. That was when the boys behind him snickered.

"I hadn't thought about the way I looked," I actually said before I added, "Have a nice hike." Then, I walked on down the hill, stewing the way a person does when they miss an opportunity to parry after having been wounded by someone's words.

In a perfect world, I would have found other lines, trying out one after another in a forgiving space-time continuum until I got it right. Have you ever seen the outtakes of a Jonah Hill movie where they let him riff until he nails it? So, in my imagination on the way down the ridge, I tried out other responses to my fellow hiker.

"Why would I give a crap about your opinion of my looks? I don't recall asking for any opinions that came from that radiant head of yours." Lame.

or

"I'd rather be an ugly woman than a short, chubby dick-wad with snot-squad spawn like yours." I don't like insulting anyone's children.

or

"Are you training these two sperm-stripes how to treat your momma?" I couldn't insult his momma.

or

"Did you know that you're standing here out of the wind and it already took off the whole top of your head. You'd better put on a hat before you get to the ledge or you'll be completely bald coming back down."

I'm not ready for a blockbuster movie. I could never say any of those things to an actual human being no matter what they said to me. That's why those movies are so great. Sometimes I wish I could.

Thank you for listening, jules

A Certain Kind of Movement

I used to be terrified of spiders. One time, on the way to go sailing with a boy, I even crashed my car into the back of a semi truck at a stop light because there was a spider rappelling off the visor into my lap. Now, though I'm the only woman in the house, I'm the one who's called when there's a spider on the wall. Most of the time, I use a glass and a piece of paper to get them safely moved outside, even the big ones. I don't mind the big ones. Usually, I wish them good luck when I put the glass down outside where they will start their new lives. I don't like all of them though.

Yesterday, there was a spider in my car again. Funny how a certain kind of movement will put a creature into a totally different frame. This one died. I just knocked that sucker to the floor and ground him into the carpet with my heel. It was the way he had moved, completely still at first then quick and aggressive when I brought my hand holding a piece of paper near him. He leaped toward my hand instead of running away. So, I smashed him, turned him into a streak across the bottom of my boot.

Like a water snake.

I don't mind most snakes too much, but I don't like water snakes. One time, I had slipped into the water from my grandpa's boat and a couple of water snakes swam toward me instead of away. Freaked me out completely. I practically leaped back into that boat.

So there you have it. Most animals I would likely respect in the wild by walking a wide berth around them. But certain ones will put me right into flight or fight mode. Either I am out of there or it is going to die.

Certain people freak me out too. To be honest, I'm more afraid of a particular type of human than any other creature on Earth. I was walking Teddy in the woods with a friend the other day when we came upon a guy who seemed to want to talk. My friend's dog growled low so the conversation was short. I love her dog. He brooks no idle chatter with certain strangers. He has RADAR.

So when my friend and I got back to our cars, she and her radar dog zipped off down the road and I sat for a few minutes in my car looking at the rocks I'd picked up by the river. Then silently, the same guy came back up the trail. Hair stirred at the back of my neck. Oh, he didn't try to get into my car exactly, just got a conversation going. I started my car just in case, but that man wanted something that wasn't only talk. He used talk to try to get it. Usually, I like a sort of chatty person.

Not this one. The whole time he talked, the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. He was gifted at holding a person in place using her sense of courtesy. You know the kind of person I mean. Think salesmen or someone looking for a handout. You know how they try to keep you talking, keep the eye contact going? Only we were at a nearly vacant trailhead. And it was worse because at least with a homeless person, you know what they want. On about the third try, I got my 'I gotta go' to stick. I put my car into gear, and pulled out before he wandered off to his truck. I watched my rearview as I drove down the road.

I'm not sure what would have happened if I'd lingered, but I'm telling you that if that guy had been a spider, I would have ground him into the dirt with my boot. Kind of gives me the willies just thinking about it.

Thank you for listening, jules