Today I experienced a life lesson so valuable, I have to share. The insurance adjuster was coming to add up the damage from Irene. I had already been told that my biggest loss, a beautiful weeping cherry tree that bloomed every spring was not covered. “We don’t pay for trees,” they said. Let’s face it when insurance is involved we don’t just want to cover our loss, we want something extra.
In subsequent days I had the following thoughts: I’m not going to make my deductible and then I won’t get any money but my rates will still go up. The adjuster will find some awful thing wrong with the house that has nothing to do with Irene and they will drop me and I won’t get any money and also have no insurer and no weeping cherry tree. If I drop the claim and pay for the repairs myself, I will avoid both of the above.
I didn’t think these thoughts just once. In my adorable pathological way I thought all those thoughts several times a day. I called the catastrophe center (yes, that is what they called it) and told the man who answered that I was going to drop the claim. The man implored me not to do it. He looked over the damage listed and said “You’d be surprised how all of this adds up. Let the adjuster come.”
I was told to make a list of all the food I lost because of the power outage and it was an incriminating dossier on my eating habits: I eat enough cheese, butter, sour cream, Stouffer’s frozen lasagna, ice cream to put away The Hulk. Maybe Irene was my wake-up call to get off the highway of clogged arteries and onto the moving sidewalk of green leafy vegetables.
The night before the adjuster’s visit, I matured emotionally about twenty years and had this thought: Why don’t you let go of the whole incident and let what happens happen. Instead of orchestrating what might happen, let go and be satisfied with the outcome, whatever it is. This was so simple a solution, I almost fell down because I finally relaxed all of my muscles. In the morning, I made my bed, cleaned the bathroom, straightened up the kitchen, took a shower and went to do some work at my computer.
When the adjuster arrived, I offered him water and use of the bathroom. He accepted both gratefully. After that, I left him alone to do whatever he had to do and did my work. He was gone for about forty-five minutes. I was so detached from the outcome, I didn’t even ask any questions when he came to say good-bye. He told me I would hear from him in a few days and added this: “I think you’ll be happy you didn’t withdraw the claim.” I have no idea what that means but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I learned something I can use. If you detach from the outcome, life sorts itself out in the best possible way.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Stop it, Michelle!
I was on line at the supermarket and the front page of The Globe froze me in place. Michelle’s Insults Drive Hillary to Collapse. My inner fourteen year old yanked me out of line: We’re not moving until we get to the bottom of this.
I happen to love and admire Hillary Clinton. She is a smart, smart woman. She is an accomplished seamless speaker. She is a loving mother and a loyal spouse. She has withstood public humiliation and hideous attacks from the media without whining. I’m not only thinking of the Lewinsky fiasco. How about the barrage of mean and ugly references during her run for the Presidency. “Now she’s pimping Chelsea” was one of the endearing remarks. Hillary seems to be the hardest working employee the government has ever had and yet there is no decency wall when it comes to making fun of her.
I don’t know exactly what Hillary does. My vague idea is that she goes from country to country and says things like, “Stop killing your own citizens.” or “Stop taking all of our foreign aid money and stashing it in Swiss banks for your own retirement.” or “Stop gathering material for nuclear bombs because then you’ll be able to bomb us or our allies and we don’t like that especially since we give you a lot of cash and look the other way when you steal it.” Publicly she’s always either boarding a plane or getting off. She is either sitting in those stiff antique Morris chairs with a head of state or being greeted at the airport by a head of state. It is not a glamorous job. It is the dirty work of politics and she does it without complaint. She doesn’t insinuate herself into Obama’s inner sanctum (at least publicly). She has served the president better than anyone else in his Cabinet.
So why then is Michelle, goddess of all things serene and classy, driving my Hillary to “an alarming secret breakdown?” Stop it, Michelle!
It’s Hillary’s weight. Yes, you heard me, her weight. The article alleges that Hillary has packed on fifty pounds. Why do they say “packed on” as if you are troweling plaster onto a wall. The Globe goes on to say that Hillary has packed on weight because she is so unhappy. If this is true maybe it’s because her inner clock is all fackakta due to the traveling. Hillary is totally messing with Michelle’s “anti obesity” message. Remember Lady Bird who had her “beautification” project? Michelle has her own beautification project and it has to do with slimming everybody down and Hillary is throwing a wrench into it by packing on “unhappiness” weight.
What is worse, The Globe, alleges Bill is getting on Hillary about her weight, too. He wants her to slim down and run again because he wants back in at the White House.
If you believe the Globe both Michelle and Bill want Hillary to slim down to move their own agenda along. It has nothing to do with Hillary’s welfare. My message to Hillary is: quit that thankless job unless the perks are fantabulous. You are dealing with crazy foreign heads of state that look all warm and fuzzy in the antique Morris chair but only want your money.
I happen to love and admire Hillary Clinton. She is a smart, smart woman. She is an accomplished seamless speaker. She is a loving mother and a loyal spouse. She has withstood public humiliation and hideous attacks from the media without whining. I’m not only thinking of the Lewinsky fiasco. How about the barrage of mean and ugly references during her run for the Presidency. “Now she’s pimping Chelsea” was one of the endearing remarks. Hillary seems to be the hardest working employee the government has ever had and yet there is no decency wall when it comes to making fun of her.
I don’t know exactly what Hillary does. My vague idea is that she goes from country to country and says things like, “Stop killing your own citizens.” or “Stop taking all of our foreign aid money and stashing it in Swiss banks for your own retirement.” or “Stop gathering material for nuclear bombs because then you’ll be able to bomb us or our allies and we don’t like that especially since we give you a lot of cash and look the other way when you steal it.” Publicly she’s always either boarding a plane or getting off. She is either sitting in those stiff antique Morris chairs with a head of state or being greeted at the airport by a head of state. It is not a glamorous job. It is the dirty work of politics and she does it without complaint. She doesn’t insinuate herself into Obama’s inner sanctum (at least publicly). She has served the president better than anyone else in his Cabinet.
So why then is Michelle, goddess of all things serene and classy, driving my Hillary to “an alarming secret breakdown?” Stop it, Michelle!
It’s Hillary’s weight. Yes, you heard me, her weight. The article alleges that Hillary has packed on fifty pounds. Why do they say “packed on” as if you are troweling plaster onto a wall. The Globe goes on to say that Hillary has packed on weight because she is so unhappy. If this is true maybe it’s because her inner clock is all fackakta due to the traveling. Hillary is totally messing with Michelle’s “anti obesity” message. Remember Lady Bird who had her “beautification” project? Michelle has her own beautification project and it has to do with slimming everybody down and Hillary is throwing a wrench into it by packing on “unhappiness” weight.
What is worse, The Globe, alleges Bill is getting on Hillary about her weight, too. He wants her to slim down and run again because he wants back in at the White House.
If you believe the Globe both Michelle and Bill want Hillary to slim down to move their own agenda along. It has nothing to do with Hillary’s welfare. My message to Hillary is: quit that thankless job unless the perks are fantabulous. You are dealing with crazy foreign heads of state that look all warm and fuzzy in the antique Morris chair but only want your money.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Swagger. What is it? Do I want it?
This is as good a time as any to talk about swagger. Women usually don’t have anywhere near enough of it before or after sixty. Roughly interpreted, swagger means a certain slightly teen-agey confidence that you have an edge over the rest of the population or at least all the people you know. I’ve experienced swagger several times in my life. The day that stands out most is when a famous newspaper editor offered me a column in a big city daily. This is what I was thinking: I'm going to be a stylesetter and adorable, too. Everybody will love me and invite me over. I am freaking awesome and brilliant. I remember walking to his office and I could swear my feet were not touching the ground. I felt I owned that city. Two weeks later the editor was fired. I’ve had enough humiliation to have a huge dose of the anti-swagger. There’s nothing that can take the swagger out of you faster than a no-show at a dinner party. Only thing worse is a no-show on a date and worse than that is a no-show of one of the principals at their wedding.
As a newly married young woman I met a cousin of President Roosevelt and since she seemed to take a liking to me and lived in the neighborhood, I asked her to dinner. In some recess of my social climbing bloated mind, I’m sure I was thinking – I am so freaking interesting and special I’ve attracted a relative of the best president and she’s going to be my best friend and possibly give me some of her money, too. I planned dinner with care and set the table with all the best stuff I had at the time, Dansk this and Dansk that. I bought candles although candles were not as important then as they are now and we only used the tall skinny ones. We waited and waited but Mrs. Roosevelt never showed up. No call. Nothing. That’s what is wrong with trying to know important people. They can just not show up and there’s nothing you can do about it. It took me down about 12 notches although I did get flowers delivered a few days later. The tech bubble fiasco took another chunk of swagger out of me along with Mrs. Roosevelt standing me up. The recent minor financial successes that I am having mean very little when I think of the glory days.
I thought all this swagger loss had taught me a lesson but it has not. I’m still waiting for the real fun to miraculously reappear. The other day a magazine named Fast Company contacted me and asked if I would participate in one of their articles. I had never heard of Fast Company but when I looked them up the current issue had Matt Damon on the cover. They sent a photographer and an assistant to photograph me. I don’t know in what alternate universe this magazine found me and decided I would enhance their content but it definitely qualified as a “drag out the swagger” opp. I could not find it. The swagger was gone and I think for good. I just prayed to God my picture would not be too bad and that the outfit I chose would look good. Gratitude for "just nothing bad, please" has smothered my swagger.
As a newly married young woman I met a cousin of President Roosevelt and since she seemed to take a liking to me and lived in the neighborhood, I asked her to dinner. In some recess of my social climbing bloated mind, I’m sure I was thinking – I am so freaking interesting and special I’ve attracted a relative of the best president and she’s going to be my best friend and possibly give me some of her money, too. I planned dinner with care and set the table with all the best stuff I had at the time, Dansk this and Dansk that. I bought candles although candles were not as important then as they are now and we only used the tall skinny ones. We waited and waited but Mrs. Roosevelt never showed up. No call. Nothing. That’s what is wrong with trying to know important people. They can just not show up and there’s nothing you can do about it. It took me down about 12 notches although I did get flowers delivered a few days later. The tech bubble fiasco took another chunk of swagger out of me along with Mrs. Roosevelt standing me up. The recent minor financial successes that I am having mean very little when I think of the glory days.
I thought all this swagger loss had taught me a lesson but it has not. I’m still waiting for the real fun to miraculously reappear. The other day a magazine named Fast Company contacted me and asked if I would participate in one of their articles. I had never heard of Fast Company but when I looked them up the current issue had Matt Damon on the cover. They sent a photographer and an assistant to photograph me. I don’t know in what alternate universe this magazine found me and decided I would enhance their content but it definitely qualified as a “drag out the swagger” opp. I could not find it. The swagger was gone and I think for good. I just prayed to God my picture would not be too bad and that the outfit I chose would look good. Gratitude for "just nothing bad, please" has smothered my swagger.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Softgoods (Chapter One)
In the retail world, some goods sold are considered hard (furniture, appliances, linens, etc.) and some are softgoods: among them are all of the fun and fabulous things that women are dying to have because wearing them makes them feel so very good.
ONE
It's early morning. No sun. A gritty midtown side street in New York City’s garment district. Truck drivers maneuver to connect with gates and loading docks to disgorge finished garments. The drivers are grubby and cranky.
A rack of Marc Jacobs Crayola yellow silk jersey tank tops with matching lace and taffeta skirts roll down to an unloader. A rack of white organza Armani trenchcoats follow. A rack of lime Chanel suits also follow. A trucker jockeys a twenty-four foot truck into the last empty gate. A guard waves him away.
“This gate’s spoken for,” says the guard.
“Where am I supposed to dump?” asks the trucker
“Not here. Move it.” There’s a shotgun by his side and he makes it visible.
“This for you,” says the trucker. He gives him the finger and then turns the finger sideways. “And this for your horse.”
The trucker continues backing up to the gate but doesn’t unload. He’s there to distract attention from another event.
Fulgencio Coto, a driver for Witter Trucking has arrived ten minutes late. The spot he pays the guard to save is gone. He’ll have to unload with hand-trucks. Shit! Fulgencio gets out and goes to chew out the guard. He’s late because his pregnant wife was in labor. He needs to finish up and get home.
It’s after eight and the street is getting crowded. Elevator starters and janitors arrive. Street people skulk toward Penn Station. In the seconds Fulgencio’s truck is out of view a well-dressed dandy, Zander, slides into the passenger seat. He has on a full rubber mask of Humphrey Bogart topped by a wide brimmed Panama hat.
Fulgencio re-enters his cab. Distracted, he goes to put it in gear. He sees his bizarre guest and the 45 nudging his right kidney and reacts with surprise and fear.
“Drive out through the Lincoln Tunnel. Look straight ahead,” says Zander.
Fulgencio turns to his passenger and gets a smart crack to his head. “Okay, man, I don’t look.”
They drive through narrow cross-town streets, through the Tunnel, along the Jersey Palisades onto the New Jersey Turnpike. At an isolated spot along the marshlands, Zander puts a hand on Fulgencio’s arm. “Pull over, hand me your wallet and get out.”
Fulgencio complies and stands by the side of the road.
“You don’t move for six hours.” says Zander. He looks at his watch and then down at Fulgencio. “My mother told me the morning belongs to the angels. I don’t kill anybody before twelve o’clock.” He waves the wallet. “But I know where you live.”
After a mile of driving, Zander takes off his hat and pulls off the mask to reveal an olive skinned man in his early thirties. He continues driving the Ryder 24 footer until he reaches a stretch of the Washington Beltway. A sign says: WELCOME TO THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. It is barely noon and he has already easily accomplished the deed. He has a truckload of high-end goodies and his willing accomplice Sheila will help him unload them to the eager soccer moms of the nation’s capital.
ONE
It's early morning. No sun. A gritty midtown side street in New York City’s garment district. Truck drivers maneuver to connect with gates and loading docks to disgorge finished garments. The drivers are grubby and cranky.
A rack of Marc Jacobs Crayola yellow silk jersey tank tops with matching lace and taffeta skirts roll down to an unloader. A rack of white organza Armani trenchcoats follow. A rack of lime Chanel suits also follow. A trucker jockeys a twenty-four foot truck into the last empty gate. A guard waves him away.
“This gate’s spoken for,” says the guard.
“Where am I supposed to dump?” asks the trucker
“Not here. Move it.” There’s a shotgun by his side and he makes it visible.
“This for you,” says the trucker. He gives him the finger and then turns the finger sideways. “And this for your horse.”
The trucker continues backing up to the gate but doesn’t unload. He’s there to distract attention from another event.
Fulgencio Coto, a driver for Witter Trucking has arrived ten minutes late. The spot he pays the guard to save is gone. He’ll have to unload with hand-trucks. Shit! Fulgencio gets out and goes to chew out the guard. He’s late because his pregnant wife was in labor. He needs to finish up and get home.
It’s after eight and the street is getting crowded. Elevator starters and janitors arrive. Street people skulk toward Penn Station. In the seconds Fulgencio’s truck is out of view a well-dressed dandy, Zander, slides into the passenger seat. He has on a full rubber mask of Humphrey Bogart topped by a wide brimmed Panama hat.
Fulgencio re-enters his cab. Distracted, he goes to put it in gear. He sees his bizarre guest and the 45 nudging his right kidney and reacts with surprise and fear.
“Drive out through the Lincoln Tunnel. Look straight ahead,” says Zander.
Fulgencio turns to his passenger and gets a smart crack to his head. “Okay, man, I don’t look.”
They drive through narrow cross-town streets, through the Tunnel, along the Jersey Palisades onto the New Jersey Turnpike. At an isolated spot along the marshlands, Zander puts a hand on Fulgencio’s arm. “Pull over, hand me your wallet and get out.”
Fulgencio complies and stands by the side of the road.
“You don’t move for six hours.” says Zander. He looks at his watch and then down at Fulgencio. “My mother told me the morning belongs to the angels. I don’t kill anybody before twelve o’clock.” He waves the wallet. “But I know where you live.”
After a mile of driving, Zander takes off his hat and pulls off the mask to reveal an olive skinned man in his early thirties. He continues driving the Ryder 24 footer until he reaches a stretch of the Washington Beltway. A sign says: WELCOME TO THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. It is barely noon and he has already easily accomplished the deed. He has a truckload of high-end goodies and his willing accomplice Sheila will help him unload them to the eager soccer moms of the nation’s capital.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Is my default setting fear?
On Wednesday morning as I swung my feet over the edge of the bed to get up, I had this thought: You don’t have to act out your mom and dad’s playbook. You are not Fred and you are not Blanche. You are Consuelo. You have your own authentic impetus and that impetus is untainted by the desire to show love for your parents by imitating their behavior.
My father was born in Ramallah, the only Christian village in Palestine located ten miles north of Jerusalem. In those years, the Turks ruled the area from Constantinople. When World War I began, the Turkish army took over the village. He had to leave his home with his family, travel across the Jordan River and wait out the war in a convent where his aunt was a nun. When I say he had to travel across the Jordan, I don’t mean by a boat. They strapped all of their possessions on donkeys and crossed the river on foot. The currents were strong and some of their stuff got lost and he became temporarily separated from his family. Maybe he lost his favorite whistle or wooden soldier in the water,I don't know, but those early experiences left him an emotional cripple. As an adult he joined his jovial brother, Charles, in Washington D.C. and became a very wealthy man but always chose to live in a contracted way. He stuck close to his home, never learned to drive, spoke little and swept his own store (my father and uncle owned the boutique department store, Jean Matou, in Washington D.C.) As I’ve written before, my father once refused to take Bess Truman’s check. When Mrs. Truman said, “But Mr. Saah, I live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” my father replied, “I don’t care where you live, we don’t take checks.” My Uncle Charlie, the emotional opposite of his brother, had to take him aside and knock some sense into him.
My father hid behind a quiet, modest life so no one would approach him and ask for anything. His money did not enhance his life; he used it as a protective wall. What he gave up was emotional engagement. What he also gave up was self-celebration. What he gave up was elation and joy.
My mother, although born into near poverty, thought she was a princess because her long gone father was a Frenchman and her skin was so white (in a family of olive skinned siblings) they named her Blanca. I never lived with my mother but from time to time, she would show up and look me over to see if there was any way I could enhance her life. The only time I was near my mother was when we traveled by bus from Mexico to Washington, D.C. where she deposited me with my father and five uncles. I remember that trip. I remember how my mother took care of herself, applying and re-applying lipstick throughout the day.
On this morning in early September, I created a clear and concise message to my subconscious. I spoke to that point of consciousness that engenders all action. Rules to live by: Going forward from this nanosecond, I cast off the need to be afraid of engagement (fear was Dad’s default setting); and the need (though beautifully masked) to act out of false pride (treat me like a queen or go away was Mom’s default setting). I’m free to act from my own fresh point of view.
Yeah, right!
My father was born in Ramallah, the only Christian village in Palestine located ten miles north of Jerusalem. In those years, the Turks ruled the area from Constantinople. When World War I began, the Turkish army took over the village. He had to leave his home with his family, travel across the Jordan River and wait out the war in a convent where his aunt was a nun. When I say he had to travel across the Jordan, I don’t mean by a boat. They strapped all of their possessions on donkeys and crossed the river on foot. The currents were strong and some of their stuff got lost and he became temporarily separated from his family. Maybe he lost his favorite whistle or wooden soldier in the water,I don't know, but those early experiences left him an emotional cripple. As an adult he joined his jovial brother, Charles, in Washington D.C. and became a very wealthy man but always chose to live in a contracted way. He stuck close to his home, never learned to drive, spoke little and swept his own store (my father and uncle owned the boutique department store, Jean Matou, in Washington D.C.) As I’ve written before, my father once refused to take Bess Truman’s check. When Mrs. Truman said, “But Mr. Saah, I live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” my father replied, “I don’t care where you live, we don’t take checks.” My Uncle Charlie, the emotional opposite of his brother, had to take him aside and knock some sense into him.
My father hid behind a quiet, modest life so no one would approach him and ask for anything. His money did not enhance his life; he used it as a protective wall. What he gave up was emotional engagement. What he also gave up was self-celebration. What he gave up was elation and joy.
My mother, although born into near poverty, thought she was a princess because her long gone father was a Frenchman and her skin was so white (in a family of olive skinned siblings) they named her Blanca. I never lived with my mother but from time to time, she would show up and look me over to see if there was any way I could enhance her life. The only time I was near my mother was when we traveled by bus from Mexico to Washington, D.C. where she deposited me with my father and five uncles. I remember that trip. I remember how my mother took care of herself, applying and re-applying lipstick throughout the day.
On this morning in early September, I created a clear and concise message to my subconscious. I spoke to that point of consciousness that engenders all action. Rules to live by: Going forward from this nanosecond, I cast off the need to be afraid of engagement (fear was Dad’s default setting); and the need (though beautifully masked) to act out of false pride (treat me like a queen or go away was Mom’s default setting). I’m free to act from my own fresh point of view.
Yeah, right!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Haven't blogged in a while - this is why.
This looks more dramatic than it was: Most severe damage was to a weeping cherry tree, moderate damage to the roof, gutters, soffit and part of vestibule glass wall. I have water and gas piped in from the street for cooking and heating and was able to bathe and cook during the power outage. Got a lot of odd cleaning done: silverware drawer, dresser top, linen closet, refrigerator. Also gathered the tsunami of leaves and branches over my entire yard. Met many of my neighbors for the first time (nice.)
At night, went to bed at 8:30 and listened to talk radio (crazy, crazy). Read my kindle and ate very little (this was the best outcome). All in all, got away scott free given the horrid stories from other areas.
Thanks everyone for your good wishes and concern.
How I Learned to Talk: A blog in two parts. (Redux)
This week-end I attended an event and went on a hideous talking spree cramming six months of talking into 2-1/2 hours. I broke all of my talking rules and and went home with a talker's hangover, talker's remorse, talker’s “aftermath enlightment” (this is where your psyche serves up soul crushing insights about your need to be liked.) When I fessed up on Twitter and Facebook, there were so many "me too" responses I decided to repost my two blogs about talking.
Part One:
Meredith F. Small, an anthropologist, says our “social intelligence” is what has made humans such a successful species." We recognize and keep track of hundreds of relationships, and we easily distinguish between enemies and friends.” We run our lives by social calculation and most of it revolves around talking.
I used to think talking was just opening your mouth and letting sounds come out. There are unintended consequences to this type of lazy talking and now I take it seriously. I found that I had to segregate the things I talk about with different people.
Here are a couple of examples: My friend Meg validates that I am a regular person because I act and talk regular around her. I have my Meg package: I can talk about trouble but I keep it light. I park the irony at the door.
The only things I can say to Hannah are: Do you have a good plumber? or How is your new “on demand” water heater working? I stopped telling Hannah anything when I realized that her reaction was going to be out of all proportion to what I was telling her. If I said I got some freelance work she would scream (yes, scream) what? What kind of work? And then pepper me with about fifty questions that I didn’t have the answer to and then question my decision.
I try not to tell my children anything about my life that doesn’t end with: “it’s great.”
It’s easier to wrap your mind around talking that works if you separate it into five main categories:
Pleasantries: (best kept to a sentence or two) Nice day. Nice lawn. How's the wife. Cute kid. If you go beyond the second sentence, you will be embroiled in a pointless conversation that will be hard to end.
Informational talk: “Mrs. McNaughton you'd better sit down for this. We hear seven distinct heartbeats.” When you are receiving information, don’t be tempted to interject irony or humor or even sarcasm. Just say, “I see.”
Self-serving talk. “I had no knowledge of any dummy corporations being set up at Enron to divert money.” Don’t refute the speaker even if what he/she is saying is blatantly false. If it is something that alters your finances, just take it to a lawyer.
Inquisitorial talk: “Jeffrey, what do you mean when you say you like to cut up people?” If there’s nothing else you learn about talking, learn to answer what is asked with no elaboration. If someone asks, “Did you eat the last piece of pie?” a yes or no will suffice.
Confidential talk: If you are hell bent on confiding, become a Catholic and go to confession or talk to your mirror. This will spare you confessional remorse.
How I learned to Talk, Part Two
Part One addressed the pitfalls of lazy talking. Part Two will itemize some helpful rules to point you in a good direction.
Rule One: Knowing when to be silent. The upper hand can be had in any encounter if you wait to the count of ten before answering a question. The other person will become nervous and begin chattering at about number six. My middle child hardly ever answered a question and I was afraid of him. Occasionally, when I realized I was his mother, I became indignant. If you can master the “count to ten” response, it never disappoints.
Rule Two: Adapt your language for the recipient: My neighbor is a retired schoolteacher named Margaret. Her husband is named Tom. Margaret and Tom Smith. How do you talk to a solid English teacher like Margaret Smith? Be conscious of words and syntax . Thankfully, I just read a book titled “Woe is I” and finally know when to use “which” and when to use “that”. In case you want to know: “what” is used when it’s important; “which” is used for extraneous clauses that you could leave out. With Margaret Smith, I drag out words like “impervious” and “obsequious” and guess what? She wants me to come over and see her new compost bin. She says, “Just walk right in.” I’m telling you, it’s the “impervious” that invites that kind of hospitality.
Rule Three: Preparation. You can do this in front of a mirror or in your head. Before I go to a dinner party, I plan some conversational sequence meant to entertain. My hosts are feeding me carefully prepared, expensive food. I have a responsibility to contribute to the ambiance. When I was going to meet a very modest Englishman who held a high position in the British government, I prepared
the following opening remark: “If you were a Sheridan play, it would be called “A modest man of great importance.” He walked away with a bemused grin but I caught him looking at me later.
Rule Four: The third party effect: When I used to change my infant grandson and knew he might choose that moment to relieve himself, I always said: “Don’t taze me bro,” a phrase I borrowed from a videotaped police confrontation on the evening news. The baby didn’t care what I say, but I knew it would make his father smile and that’s always rewarding.
Rule Five: Squelch anything colorful at the bank and at the hospital:
When you’re asking for a loan and the nameplate on the desk says, Ms. Du Bois, don’t blurt out Blanche DuBois’ famous line in Streetcar Named Desire, “I have to depend on the kindness of strangers.” Say: “It’s so hot outside but very pleasant in here.” And the loan officer will say: ”How much of a loan did you want?”
Rule Six:. You can use sarcasm and irony to test the acuity of someone you are vetting for a job or marriage or power of attorney. These verbal skills are part of our human toolbox and we are wired to respond to them. Dr. Margaret Rankin, a neuropsychologist, goes further to legitimize sarcasm. If you don’t recognize it, it’s because of some damage to your parahippocampal gyrus which is located in the right brain.. People with dementia, or head injuries in that area, often lose the ability to pick up on sarcasm. This is known as the Forest Gump response. No, it’s not, I’m just kidding.
The sixth rule of talking (and this is the last but most important rule): Let’s take all of the talk content you will have in life. You have a chunk of information, a chunk of ideas, a chunk of whining, and a chunk of aimless non-consecutive thoughts to divide between your family and friends and whomever crosses your path. To avoid senseless time wasting maneuvers like back pedaling, apologizing, rifts and perhaps murder, you tell some people some things and you tell others other things. Be vigilant and don’t falter.
Part One:
Meredith F. Small, an anthropologist, says our “social intelligence” is what has made humans such a successful species." We recognize and keep track of hundreds of relationships, and we easily distinguish between enemies and friends.” We run our lives by social calculation and most of it revolves around talking.
I used to think talking was just opening your mouth and letting sounds come out. There are unintended consequences to this type of lazy talking and now I take it seriously. I found that I had to segregate the things I talk about with different people.
Here are a couple of examples: My friend Meg validates that I am a regular person because I act and talk regular around her. I have my Meg package: I can talk about trouble but I keep it light. I park the irony at the door.
The only things I can say to Hannah are: Do you have a good plumber? or How is your new “on demand” water heater working? I stopped telling Hannah anything when I realized that her reaction was going to be out of all proportion to what I was telling her. If I said I got some freelance work she would scream (yes, scream) what? What kind of work? And then pepper me with about fifty questions that I didn’t have the answer to and then question my decision.
I try not to tell my children anything about my life that doesn’t end with: “it’s great.”
It’s easier to wrap your mind around talking that works if you separate it into five main categories:
Pleasantries: (best kept to a sentence or two) Nice day. Nice lawn. How's the wife. Cute kid. If you go beyond the second sentence, you will be embroiled in a pointless conversation that will be hard to end.
Informational talk: “Mrs. McNaughton you'd better sit down for this. We hear seven distinct heartbeats.” When you are receiving information, don’t be tempted to interject irony or humor or even sarcasm. Just say, “I see.”
Self-serving talk. “I had no knowledge of any dummy corporations being set up at Enron to divert money.” Don’t refute the speaker even if what he/she is saying is blatantly false. If it is something that alters your finances, just take it to a lawyer.
Inquisitorial talk: “Jeffrey, what do you mean when you say you like to cut up people?” If there’s nothing else you learn about talking, learn to answer what is asked with no elaboration. If someone asks, “Did you eat the last piece of pie?” a yes or no will suffice.
Confidential talk: If you are hell bent on confiding, become a Catholic and go to confession or talk to your mirror. This will spare you confessional remorse.
How I learned to Talk, Part Two
Part One addressed the pitfalls of lazy talking. Part Two will itemize some helpful rules to point you in a good direction.
Rule One: Knowing when to be silent. The upper hand can be had in any encounter if you wait to the count of ten before answering a question. The other person will become nervous and begin chattering at about number six. My middle child hardly ever answered a question and I was afraid of him. Occasionally, when I realized I was his mother, I became indignant. If you can master the “count to ten” response, it never disappoints.
Rule Two: Adapt your language for the recipient: My neighbor is a retired schoolteacher named Margaret. Her husband is named Tom. Margaret and Tom Smith. How do you talk to a solid English teacher like Margaret Smith? Be conscious of words and syntax . Thankfully, I just read a book titled “Woe is I” and finally know when to use “which” and when to use “that”. In case you want to know: “what” is used when it’s important; “which” is used for extraneous clauses that you could leave out. With Margaret Smith, I drag out words like “impervious” and “obsequious” and guess what? She wants me to come over and see her new compost bin. She says, “Just walk right in.” I’m telling you, it’s the “impervious” that invites that kind of hospitality.
Rule Three: Preparation. You can do this in front of a mirror or in your head. Before I go to a dinner party, I plan some conversational sequence meant to entertain. My hosts are feeding me carefully prepared, expensive food. I have a responsibility to contribute to the ambiance. When I was going to meet a very modest Englishman who held a high position in the British government, I prepared
the following opening remark: “If you were a Sheridan play, it would be called “A modest man of great importance.” He walked away with a bemused grin but I caught him looking at me later.
Rule Four: The third party effect: When I used to change my infant grandson and knew he might choose that moment to relieve himself, I always said: “Don’t taze me bro,” a phrase I borrowed from a videotaped police confrontation on the evening news. The baby didn’t care what I say, but I knew it would make his father smile and that’s always rewarding.
Rule Five: Squelch anything colorful at the bank and at the hospital:
When you’re asking for a loan and the nameplate on the desk says, Ms. Du Bois, don’t blurt out Blanche DuBois’ famous line in Streetcar Named Desire, “I have to depend on the kindness of strangers.” Say: “It’s so hot outside but very pleasant in here.” And the loan officer will say: ”How much of a loan did you want?”
Rule Six:. You can use sarcasm and irony to test the acuity of someone you are vetting for a job or marriage or power of attorney. These verbal skills are part of our human toolbox and we are wired to respond to them. Dr. Margaret Rankin, a neuropsychologist, goes further to legitimize sarcasm. If you don’t recognize it, it’s because of some damage to your parahippocampal gyrus which is located in the right brain.. People with dementia, or head injuries in that area, often lose the ability to pick up on sarcasm. This is known as the Forest Gump response. No, it’s not, I’m just kidding.
The sixth rule of talking (and this is the last but most important rule): Let’s take all of the talk content you will have in life. You have a chunk of information, a chunk of ideas, a chunk of whining, and a chunk of aimless non-consecutive thoughts to divide between your family and friends and whomever crosses your path. To avoid senseless time wasting maneuvers like back pedaling, apologizing, rifts and perhaps murder, you tell some people some things and you tell others other things. Be vigilant and don’t falter.
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