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Mrs. du Toit WeblogFrom the U.S. Constitution...
Amendment XIII
Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been… More Saturday, July 05, 2008Our Daily Bread
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I’ve had a bit of writer’s block, but not for the normal reasons. I am not exactly sure what normal reasons would be, but these aren’t whatever I think they’d be. No, the main reason I haven’t had much to say recently is that I’ve been stuck on something. That something is that I’ve been pissed at America recently. I’m not pissed at America, per se, but the people. Now you might expect that I’d have a list of reasons (and I do), but it would be a mistake to think my issue was for a multitude of reasons. No, I have one BIG beef. We don’t have bakeries. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the full extent of my grievances. When Kim and I took our drive trip a few weeks ago, we drove through a number of states. We also stayed off the interstates, using small roads that took us through smaller towns. While we really started our trip home in New Jersey, we didn’t think of it as starting until we got to the butchery/meat shop in Pennsylvania. We had a plan to stop there and fill the cooler with meats, cheese, and bread, so we could picnic our way across the country. We got the meat, cheese, and homemade butter, but the only bread they sold was the name brand stuff that bears no resemblance to bread. * * * Switching gears for a moment: When we lived in Chicago we made use of a grocery delivery service. You ordered the stuff you wanted online and then they brought it to you the next day. It was a fabulous service and they charged a flat $10 for delivery. One year we were hosting a Christmas party for the kid’s school so I put in a whopper of an order. The North African delivery guy arrived the next day with about 20 crates of groceries. As he was unloading the bags from the crates and putting them in the kitchen, he asked an odd question. “Are you European?” That is a difficult question for me to answer. Technically, of course not. I’m an American, born to American parents and I have all the required ancestry to be a member of the Daughters of the Revolution (DAR). I’ve traveled a lot, but traveling doesn’t change your citizenship status, just your outlook. Being married to Kim, however, makes that question more difficult. Kim isn’t technically European either, but his mother (of English descent) and his father (of Afrikaner descent) are actually closer to Europeans than they are, say, Americans. They’re closer to Canadians in that respect. (Kim’s mother was quite surprised that I had never watched the Queen’s Christmas message, for example. “What Christmas message?” was a question that dumbfounded her. The fact that Americans don’t sit around their tellies (or radios) on Christmas morning, waiting to hear what Queen Bess has to say, simply astonished her. It’s just what she did, and had always done, and so it was odd to her that Americans really didn’t pay any attention to what the Royals did/said in England, other than from a Paparazzi/voyeur standpoint. “We separated from England” I told her, but so did South Africa, but we really separated and they didn’t.) Kim grew up eating “European” food. His mother’s kitchen was a combination of English, German, and African, but it was primarily English. Kim also attended an Eton-style boarding school in South Africa with permanent and visiting professors from Oxford and Eton, so just about everything about his tastes, preferences, and education is as if he grew up in England. (Well, besides the the scars of growing up under the absolute tyranny of the South African government, of course.) Bread is a staple of the European diet. Bread IS breakfast on the European continent. I answered the delivery man with a question, “Why do you ask?” He responded that we had a lot of bread in our order (of the non-rubber variety) and it was his experience that Americans didn’t eat bread, certainly not that much bread. I explained that Kim was South African and that we kept a European-style kitchen and eating habits. “Ah, that explains it” he said, his theory confirmed once again. He also spent a bit more time with our groceries after that, and chatted a bit, knowing that we weren’t the typical “hurry up and get out” type of American family, as if we always had an ambulance waiting downstairs, with the meter running, ready to take us somewhere more important than where ever we are right now. * * * When I was 13 I made my first visit to Europe. The first two weeks of the month-long trip were spent on a “If it’s Tuesday, it must be Belgium” style tour (the second two weeks we were on our own). We were in Paris for three days. The tour was a Danish flagship, started by a Christian minister in Denmark (for his parishioners), that grew into a multi-million dollar operation. Keeping with its roots (and the tradition of the time), we stayed in tourist class hotels. These were little mom and pop places, just big enough to hold the 40 people from the weekly tour buses. They were clean, but they were older, and certainly didn’t have the standard fixtures Americans were used to (shared bathrooms and small beds). This was one of the best things about the tour (to my mother and me). We got to be around Europeans, everywhere, instead of Americans (which would be sort of the point of visiting Europe in our view). To sum up, the proprietors were always a family, generally a husband and wife, who worked their asses off. This was 1971, and Europe had not yet fully recovered from WWII, and TV and mega-corps hadn’t yet begun the homogenization of Europe. I woke up at about 4:00 am on our first morning in Paris. It wasn’t jet lag. I’d long gotten over that. No, I woke up because of the smell. The entire city was baking bread and croissants (and Americans had not yet even heard of croissants). The smell was pervasive, almost like a cartoon character that gets lifted up, and carried away by the smell of a pie baking. By the time daylight came through the windows, I was STARVING. The hotel wasn’t large enough to have a breakfast room so the wife brought breakfast to your room, on a little tray. At about 6:00 am there was this quiet knock at the door and I got up to answer it. There she was, this little careworn French woman, holding a tray with two croissants, a little cup of homemade cherry jam, and coffee (and cup of chocolate for me, because I was still a child). “Merci” I told her, as she whispered stuff to me in French I couldn’t understand, and she smiled that demure smile of appreciation that this great big, gawky American kid was at least trying to speak a little French. I sat the tray on the edge of the bed and just looked at it for a while. At the ripe old age of 13 I had been four years into the truth about Santa, but looking at that tray was enough to make me a believer (again). That, or I had died and gone to Heaven. “Look, Mom!” I said to my mother, as I pointed and stared at the plate of croissants in awe and wonder. We had a few words about what they might be. “They look kinda like crescent rolls” I said to her. The smell was unmistakable. That had been the smell that woke me at 4:00 am. Our overworked little French proprietor had been up since before the crack of morn making those things, FROM SCRATCH (as was/is the custom). Then I touched one. “Oh my God” I said to her as the tiny little explosion of crumbs went everywhere. Now THAT is a heavenly sound… similar to the faint crunch sound of stepping on a nugget of Trix cereal that has escaped from the box. I was a convert. At that moment my entire life changed (combined with discovering what real chocolate tasted like, instead of the, Hershey-horror, “water-based chocolate” we are used to). I appreciated all the bread we had later, from the most delicious hot dog ever (also in Paris, broiled with Swiss cheese on a split of baguette), to the denser Italian bread that we had in Italy. I relished every bite of the dense German breads and rolls. When we got back home my mother was on a mission to find “Croissants.” I just missed the bread, in general, all of it. For the first months we were back, we spent our Saturday mornings on a “Croissant Trek” visiting the bakeries all over Los Angeles, trying to find them. Eventually, my mother surrendered and called the French consulate. “Where do you get your croissants” she asked them. “Paris Pastry or Emil’s” they told her. Our next two Saturdays were spent visiting each, in turn, along with the required Farmers Market stop to get a quart of fresh squeezed orange juice. Our trek ended there. Their croissants were good, but not the same, not even as close as the ones I found at the little Italian grocery store in London, hanging in a basket, picked out with bare hands. We weren’t ever going to find them in America. Sure, we had things that looked like them, but you couldn’t replicate them. You’d need their flour, their butter, and their ovens to get it exactly right. My mother spent two years trying to find a wine similar to the one she had in Italy too. They don’t travel. It’s just not the same. Bread, wine, or cheese go together. Europeans have spent thousands of years getting those combinations right. You have to eat local everything, and then it fits together perfectly, like a paint by numbers Michaelangelo. You can’t see the masterpiece with a dab here or a dab there, but once all the spots are filled in, then you feel and see the perfection of it. That trip to Europe changed me in ways I cannot describe. It was pervasive. Since we had always been treated with such incredible kindness, with strangers stopping us whenever we looked at a map, or offering to take our picture so we could be in the same shot, I was on a mission to be more welcoming to tourists. Americans are odd about that, never treating visitors with any kind of treatment that could be described as “welcoming.” I would run up to tourists looking at maps, offering help. I returned the favor by offering to take photos. I’d ask where they were from, and smile, and say “Welcome to America!” just as they had done in their respective countries. I also had a sense of the world, although my travels up to that point had been limited to North America and Europe. My world no longer began and ended at our borders. Geography, a subject that had baffled me before the trip, suddenly made sense to me. The little scale of miles legends on the corners of maps were something I could relate to, having been on a tour bus driving across Europe and crossing three COUNTRIES in a day, not three COUNTIES, as we do here. So later, when I’d hear things about “The Germans marched into France” it wasn’t as if they marched the distance from New York to Los Angeles, or even Philadelphia to Tijuana. It was more like they marched from Los Angeles to San Diego, so short are the distances between countries (and cultures). It also confused me that people so close could be so different, and had been fighting wars with each other since God was a boy. That first trip made me a history junkie and I couldn’t get enough of it… or the bread. * * * So we left the little butchery in Pennsylvania fully expecting to stop at a bakery in the next town, to buy good bread to go with our primo cheese, German-style cold cuts, and homemade butter. Fat chance. In every town between there and home we looked for a bakery. We did not find ONE. There were donut shops, of course, and I’m sure that grocery stores would have their bakeries. But those aren’t bakeries! Grocery stores don’t make the bread. They just bake it. That’s not COOKING. That’s HEATING! Grocery stores buy all their dough frozen, and it has stabilizers and fillers, and it has the texture of rubber bands. That’s why it all tastes like crap, and has the shelf life of Hostess cupcakes (2 light years). When we were in Germany last year, our kind and generous hosts went for bread EVERY MORNING. They’d walk to the local village bakery (as did every other person in town) to get fresh rolls. It also had the amazing side benefit of giving you a chance to actually see your neighbors, unlike the ghost towns and bedrooms-only that most of our American communities have become. You can’t trust people you never see! You can’t care about them if you never see them face to face. The idea that you’d eat yesterday’s rolls was like spitting on the flag. You don’t eat yesterday’s rolls. We’d spend a few minutes with our hosts each morning, before they went off on their day, to work or school. It was so civilized and grounding. Every town in Europe, no matter how small, has at LEAST one bakery, and they serve as both a shop and a community center. There might not be anything like a town, but there will ALWAYS be a bakery. Most towns have more than one, if they have more than one block of town center (Zentrum). They also have pastry shops, where they sell PASTRY, not the dreadful American equivalent of “muffins” which is NOT PASTRY (and pastry isn’t bread, either, although some are bakeries and pastry shops, combined, but they SAY that)! We’d stop, whenever we needed to stretch our legs and walk a bit, and get a cup of GOOD coffee (because they know how to make good coffee) and have a bread roll or a small pastry, and then set off again, “Bitte, zwei milch-kaffee.” Cafés (bakeries, small restaurants, and pastry shops) are a way of life in Europe. It isn’t eating, per se, although (of course) that’s involved in the exercise. It’s being. They don’t eat huge meals like we do. They eat small, humble meals, with the taste equivalent of three plates of our food. Restaurants don’t look at you funny if you ONLY order coffee. They don’t try to hurry you out, if you’re lingering. Europeans don’t eat at McDonald’s, while running errands, even though they’ve built some of our drive-throughs. They stop and eat in the parking lot, but not WHILE driving. Eating is not something that is done on the fly, like we do (Kim refers to “fast food” as “driving tastily” which makes about as much sense). You stop to eat and take stock, because we’re humans, not animals. You stop to eat, chat, and enjoy life. It’s all rolled in together. How we got to this dreadful place has to be related to one of my other pet peeves: parents who bottle prop-feed their babies, instead of taking a break and holding the baby and the bottle. You have nothing more important to do than spend time feeding that baby. NOTHING. It’s bad enough that they’re bottle feeding instead of breast feeding (realizing, of course, that there are legitimate reasons why some women cannot breast feed), but not breast feeding, and turning the nurturing love affair with your baby into some sort of assembly-line practice is an entirely different matter. You MUST cuddle and coo with your baby while you feed her, even if from a bottle. It is what stimulates their digestion, their brains, and their healthy development. So since the bottle-propping is so common here, I guess it shouldn’t be too surprising that just about everything else about our eating experience has turned into assembly-line, stabilized-that, and filtered-this, over spiced and seasoned to hide the fact that the base ingredients are tasteless, done in a hurry. It’s AWFUL! There’s no love in that food. There’s no joy in that experience. There’s no HAPPINESS in it, which we’re supposed to be famous for SEEKING! You cannot be sated eating that stuff or that way. That’s why Americans get so fat. We have been deprived of flavor our whole lives (and I use “flavor” in every sense of that word), and the ritual of breaking bread with strangers and loved ones. It’s not an accident that it’s called that! When a single, small bread roll is filled with love and made with the skill and care of a craftsman, you don’t need to eat two. You don’t even have to finish ONE, just a few bites is enough. Your soul AND your belly is satisfied. But when it tastes like bread-flavored cardboard or Styrofoam, it’s no wonder that people gorge themselves on food. The American style of eating is the love making equivalent of a “quickie” and life is too short for quickies! So, I’ve been pissed. I’ve been on a low boil ever since we got home. The homemade butter we bought never made it out of the package. There was no point, because there was no bread. No bread, and no cupboard for it, is a sorry state of affairs! And I want that bread, and all that it entails. I want a life with every bite being worthy, and I come close to crying myself to sleep every night that I can’t wake up to that luxurious and seductive smell of fresh baked croissants in the oven, prepared with love and care, not made cheaply and quickly and efficiently. Two weeks a year is not enough! I want Americans to feel and taste that experience, so they demand that everything in their life be as perfect as that bite of bread.
It begins with the bread and ends with joie de vivre!
Wednesday, July 02, 2008Gone Soft
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I was wanting to refresh my memory on an aspect of etiquette so I took a stroll over to Emily Post’s site. I went to the “Quick Tips” section only to discover (upon reading the topic of Who Can Host a Shower?) that she’d** gone soft! The rule has always been that family cannot host your shower (bridal or baby) and there was a REASON for that. The family is inviting you to the wedding (also a source of gifts) so the family hosting the shower is double-dipping the gift giving thing. TACK--EEEEEEEE. The fact that people do it, or it has become more widespread for families to host these things, is no reason (or justification) to change the rules. The number of people behaving rudely/horribly is not a reason to announce a rule change. A bridal shower is traditionally hosted by her Maid of Honor (as one of her duties) and she pays for it. I didn’t look (I’m afraid to), but I fear that Post may have gone soft on that, too, and would list that a family member is also acceptable for a Maid of Honor. I was glad to see that she hasn’t gone soft on the wedding gift thing. I think I’ve written about that one before. The idea that someone would TAKE a wedding gift to a wedding was one of the most atrocious acts I’d ever seen. The fact that this barbaric practice has become so widespread (for lack of etiquette training of wedding guests) that people have resorted to setting up a “gift table” was astonishing to me. (Short summary: Wedding gifts MUST BE SENT to the bride’s mother, BEFORE the wedding. The idea that someone would be “late” with the gift is just bad planning, and rude. But if the gift is late, you still do not take it to the wedding!). I’ve never had a wedding (despite two marriages). I enjoy going to other people’s weddings (and I still cry when I see the bride), but I could never picture myself in a wedding dress, engaged in the pageantry of the event. I chose to elope, both times. My desire not to have a wedding, however, doesn’t have anything to do with a lack of respect for the event. I think it is wonderful if people want to to that (personally, I’d rather spend the money on the honeymoon) but there are A LOT of rules associated with a wedding. If people don’t want to follow those rules, then don’t have a wedding! Call it a marriage party or something, but for heaven’s sakes, do not call it a “wedding” unless you want to actually have one.
**The Emily Post website is managed by “third generation family members.” In other words, it isn’t Emily Post. I should say so! The real Emily Post died in 1960 and (I fear) the widespread understanding (and benefits) of etiquette died with her.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008Black Mamba Warning
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog Kim, when asked, will describe his experiences with Black Mambas in this way, “They aren’t dangerous unless you piss them off. And what pisses them off? Being in their zip code.” Today I begin the Great Big Sellout. I wrote about my experiences with trying to find a surgeon who would reverse my 25 year old VBG with the more modern, Roux-en-Y (gastric bypass), to correct (primarily) my esophageal ulcers and GERD. I was unable to find a surgeon who would perform the surgery, because I smoke. I tried to find some way to get around it (including a doctor who would put me on an Ativan or Valium drip for the required six weeks before surgery), but no luck. For the record, I have no intention of quitting smoking. I LIKE smoking. What I have to do, however, is get over the requirement for the surgery. To that end, I took my first Chantix pill today, as part of the path to smoking cessation. If it works long term, great. If it doesn’t, and gets me through the surgery and recovery it will have done its job. I have had limited experience with psychotropic drugs. They make me incredibly sea sick, to the point of being unable to walk. Needless to say, I’m far from thrilled with the start of this therapy today!
In addition, I will be attending the required seminar
I thought of borrowing Wendy’s iPod and plugging in as a form of protest, but that wouldn’t be fair/nice to the other When I went to my regular doctor to get the Chantix, the medical assistant (or whatever the not-a-real-doctor-assistant who can write prescriptions is called in Texas) asked me if I was “ready to quit smoking.” Imagine her surprise when I responded, “No.” It was all part of the routine dialog for this sort of thing and the patient isn’t supposed to say, “no.” The problem for some of us is that we’ve been through dozens of behavior modification programs before. We know how they work. Once a person understands the process of brain washing, it is no longer possible for the techniques to work. It’s just that simple. So the rah-rah BS in the “Are you ready to quit smoking” question just left me rolling my eyes. I guess I really do look that stupid. I went into a mini-rampage when I opened the package of Chantix to find all the other rah-rah behavior mod crap. There were all the goal setting pages, for you to fill in all the pretty and sparkley things that were going to happen to you once you quit. Then, for the completely adult-challenged, there were little, colorful stickers that you could put on your day planner, to motivate you. They were cutesy little things, like right arrows to represent “Start” and “Stop Smoking Day” and other assorted drivel. I do not have a day planner and I am highly suspicious of people who have them. Kim has resigned himself to the fact that I will not be pleasant in the coming weeks. The family’s experience with me not smoking is limited to long airline flights and having to go through customs with me, which delays my long awaited first smoke after getting off a plane. They’ve learned not to talk to me. It’s better for all concerned. A series of weeks of me acting like that has probably put more anxiety in the family than any anxiety I might experience. I will try to be nice and not act like a total, crazy bitch to my family. (I don’t recall seeing a sticker that said that in the package.) As Kim says, “There’s going to be a Black Mamba in the house for the next few weeks.”
Argh. I really hate this.
Monday, June 30, 2008D’Oh
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog Oh, yeah, I have a blog! I tend to forget that sometimes, spending so much time on other sites. I’ve been caught up in a number of discussions recently, taking up time that might otherwise be spent blogging. We’ve also got a lot happening at home right now. Kim and Daughter will be having surgery in a couple weeks and that means they need to have all the stuff they’ll need after, and it also means they’ll be out of commission for a bit (at least when it comes to some heavy lifting). We’ve also been spending time planning our vacation for the end of the year. It might seem premature to plan so early, but there will be SIX of us (daughter has a friend that will be joining us). Planning and booking early means we have the first dibs on the cheaper places to stay. I’ve been so caught up in other things that I haven’t really had anything much to say… and this post is proof! Thursday, June 26, 2008Heller
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I could not be more pleased. I know that some are reserved in their enthusiasm and are worried that this decision didn’t go far enough, but I am a strict Original Intent believer, so there is no way that the Court could have written a decision that would be all-encompassing, or please everyone. I do not, for example, interpret the Constitution to mean that background checks are unConstitutional. If we recognize that felons and the mentally insane are unfit to own arms, then allowing states to verify that people are neither felons or insane is reasonable. How far they go and what hurdles they put in place to determine that are gray areas, to be defined by the courts as we move forward. That is reasonable! I know that some would have liked an unreasonable decision, ie, that anyone and everyone can own and carry any gun, any place, but that is NOT Original Intent, and it is not what our rights (any of them) mean. We cannot shout FIRE in a theatre. We cannot commit slander/libel. We cannot sell or share government secrets under the guise of free speech. We have free speech limited to our opinions, but nothing that is false or would endanger The People. That, as Scalia so brilliantly inferred, is how we find reasonable restrictions to gun ownership. There are reasonable compromises to be made. I hope that my fellows in the Gun Rights Community will see this as the victory that it truly is. For the last 100 or more years we have not had a clear interpretation from the courts on the Second Amendment being a collective right (for militias) or an individual right. This decision not only suggests that the Second Amendment articules an individual right, it has it in its opening statement.
I understand some of the concerns and issues that this will continue to be a long fight, with each repressive gun law state and locale needing to be overturned individually, but there would be no way to write an all encompassing opinion that would not infringe on the duties of the states to protect its citizens from felons and the insane, without violating States Rights. The Heller decision was much more than I expected. It went beyond my wildest hopes. Battles will continue to be fought, and the war will never be truly won, because the protection of our rights require ETERNAL vigilance. Discussions to which I’ve participated are here and here. Posted 06/26/2008 | 11:56 AM • Print Vers.
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Category: POLITICS & GOVERNMENT | Constitution/BofR | Guns/Second Amendment Wednesday, June 25, 2008House Rules
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog One of the difficulties I did not address in my post yesterday, about responding to children’s relationships, has to do with the issue of ownership. Before I can answer that specific question (and I will), I want to talk about that issue. Ownership is a difficult concept because it has degrees. We know, for example that our houses are often primarily owned by the bank. We don’t own our homes outright until we pay off the mortgage. Our ownership, in that case, is limited. We can make changes to our home in the cosmetic realm, but since the bank technically holds the title, we could not decide to bulldoze it. We’d have to get the bank’s permission before we could do that. We also know that when a friend lends us his car that he has not transferred ownership, but he has transferred responsibility for the car, beyond that which would be covered (in say) his auto insurance (if we were to have an accident). Our basic responsibility when borrowing a friend’s car is to drive (perhaps) more carefully than we would in our own car, and to return it in the same condition it was in when we borrowed it. If we can’t commit to doing that then we shouldn’t borrow it. In the car example we can begin to understand a bit more about our home ownership responsibilities, with respect to the bank holding our mortgage. The bank expects that we maintain the home (the same way we would maintain our friend’s car when it is in our care). All of that is above and beyond the financial arrangements with respect to paying off the mortgage. So, as I said, ownership is complicated before we add children to the mix. We happen to also have a renter in our home. Mr. Toad (his screen name) rents a room from us. That arrangement has legal obligations associated with it, with or without a formal rental agreement, having to do with providing basic things such as potable running water, toilet facilities, electricity, and to keep the house free of pests which could damage his health (fortunately, children and pets are not legally classified as “pests"), as well as standard rules about notice and eviction. There are boilerplate laws in effect, regardless if we actually signed papers. Children, however, fall into a gray area since they don’t pay rent. Once a child becomes an adult and they start paying rent to you, they would be covered (whether we like it or not) by some of the same rules that protect renters (with or without a formal rental agreement). Children are our responsibility even though we didn’t sign any papers when we took them home from the hospital. Now most of us get that. We understand that we have obligations to our children (far and above any duties and responsibilities codified in law). Once they become adults, however, our legal obligations end. We could on their 18th birthday, for the sake of argument, change the locks and never allow them entry into our homes again. (In some states the law allows that earlier or later, so the age I mentioned is illustrative, not declarative.)
Our kids understand that. They were taught several things (by us) in this regard:
In other words, we continue (age adjusted) to be their parents. They aren’t roommates or renters. They are our children, even if they are technically adults. If they want to live under a different set of rules they can negotiate terms with us (such as becoming renters) or they can move out. They don’t want to move out (right now), nor do we want them to move out (right now). Both of us (the parents and the child), however, are working towards that as a goal, regardless of the emotional difficulties involved in that separation. They are supposed to leave home at some point and support themselves, in some other place. Our kids could decide to leave home this afternoon and there would be nothing we could do legally to stop them (nor would we, although they’d get an earful from us, unless they had quite a few ducks lined up). There is a trust that exists between them and us, a trust that was earned (not granted), and it is a trust that is continually improved as we behave in a trustworthy manner to all involved. In addition to the list, our kids also know that if they lie to us they will no longer be allowed to live in our home. Even though we would prefer that they not move out, lying would be a betrayal that (as their parents) must have consequences (with teeth). The consequences would be that they would have to move out. When Kim or I leave the house we tell each other. We tell each other where we are going and about what time we think we’ll return. That is a courtesy, not a requirement. When our kids were younger, that same rule applied to them, only it was a requirement. Now it is a courtesy. That is confusing a bit because courtesies of this common variety are also a requirement (just as saying thank you for dinner is a courtesy that is required). We don’t give them the third degree as they walk out the door (anymore). They come to us and say something like, “I’m going to go to the movie with such and such. I should be back around 9:00. Don’t plan on me being home for dinner.” That’s just politeness, even if it is a modification of behavior they were required to perform when they were minors. Kim and I model the behavior we expect them to perform, so there isn’t a double standard. If, however, they said they were going to the movie with “such and such” and in reality they checked into Motel Quickie with “whomever” that would be lying, and THAT would have consequences. The act itself would be horrible enough to garner some harsh words from us, but the lying would be a show stopper. When it comes to issues that have consequences to the family, they are expected to put family first. That would require them (other than being morally compelled) not to commit any crimes, not to become pregnant (or for the boys to impregnate a girlfriend), or do anything that would put the family at risk (certainly, at least, without discussion first). They have a personal responsibility not to do those things, but they have a bigger responsibility to their family, as we should be consulted in any risky decisions, because we will also be impacted by them. It is similar to the idea of the meme “a friend would help you bury a body… but a real friend would never ask you to do that.” Family would never ask you to take that sort of risk for them. If they do, they are no longer part of the family. All of that sounds harsh and cold when it is written down in this way. It isn’t as if these are things that we have written on parchment, framed, and put next to the door. These are things that came about over time, through age appropriate discussions, in preparation for them becoming adults. When it comes to issues around the house we will, if appropriate, ask for their input. I ask Kim if he likes something decoration wise, before I buy it. I don’t have to, but it would be rude not to. I don’t ask him (necessarily, unless he’s with me) if he likes a particular pair of shoes or clothing that I buy. He doesn’t have to wear it. I do. But things that go in the house, that are used by everyone, are things that fall into the gray area of “it’s just polite and decent to ask, even if you still have the final say.” The kids had permission to decorate their rooms the way they wanted. They could pick out any design or style they wanted (that we could afford). They were, however, forbidden to put posters up with tape. If they wanted to put posters on their walls, they could, and I would buy them a frame or board for it. The permission to decorate any way they wanted was not a transfer of ownership. They don’t own their rooms, or any item purchased for their rooms that was not a gift, or not paid for with their own money. When they move out, they can’t decide to take everything in their rooms with them. We might give them permission to do so, but unless they own it, they can’t remove it without asking first. All of this was done, not to be great big meanies, but to make sure that the kids understood that they were not entitled to anything. Along with that comes the common courtesies of getting their input on household decisions and respecting their tastes and preferences (also behavior modeled by Kim and me). And now my answer… Given all of the above, the discussion that took place with Child was a long one, but long after the event had occurred (later that evening). It was a discussion with cooler, less emotional heads, with some perspective that can only be gotten with a little time. It was accompanied by a couple of glasses of wine, some cheese, and some cookies. We discussed what could have happened, if we had it to do all over again (or should such a situation ever occur again, although not likely). We discussed (in a casual review) what it means when someone doesn’t understand the basic rules of polite society (the implications of that and the much greater likelihood that they weren’t taught things of even greater importance, ie, if a parent didn’t teach a child basic manners, they certainly didn’t teach them any of the critical life things, such as respect of law, decency, morality, etc.). In other words, if someone uses their knife as a fork, there is much more wrong with them than that. They are not people who can be trusted to have a basic foundation that makes them safe (or pleasant) to be around. We also discussed the fact that it was the duty of the Child to try to end the behavior that was causing offense. While these exact words would not have been required, something along the lines of “I don’t think you should be speaking to my mother in this manner” should have come from Child’s mouth. The above is part of the tenet that family comes first. Your duty and your obligation to family comes first. If the family were the ones acting boorish, then it would also be the responsibility of the family to step it to stop that behavior. Child could, of course, continue to maintain a friendship with the young man. That would be the Child’s choice, now that Child is an adult. They could not, however, ever expect to have the person allowed entry into MY home. That decision was based on another old meme, “The first time a man abuses a woman it is his fault. The second time it was her fault, because she remained to get the beating.” I don’t have people in my life that are rude to me. People don’t get a chance to be rude TWICE. The other family rule was also reviewed. The one about lying. Child could see this person and maintain the friendship. I wouldn’t fuss or try to stop Child from doing that, but if Child lied to me about it (for whatever reason), regardless of how much I loved Child, Child’s key would no longer work in our lock. I had a few lessons for myself, that I also discussed with Child. One of those was that I would (if something like that should ever happen again, although unlikely) address the rude behavior more promptly, before it got out of hand (as it did in this situation). Posted 06/25/2008 | 11:49 AM • Print Vers.
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Category: PERSONAL & FAMILY | Musing Tuesday, June 24, 2008Stupid Things I’ve Done No. 02978358787345b
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I just broke my nose. Fortunately, I didn’t do any serious damage. How did I break my nose? Well, the ice maker in the freezer was not delivering ice. It was making the sound of everything working, but no ice was dropping. This meant, obviously, that there was a jam in the chute where the ice comes through. The ice maker is in the door and has a latch to remove it. I was holding down on the latch button, trying to pull it out. It was stuck from refrozen ice melt (the same refrozen ice melt that clogged the chute). I pulled harder, trying to break the seal of the ice. It released, but the force I was using was absorbed by my face as it released in a sudden burst, crashing directly under my nose, specifically where the cartilage of your nose meets your upper lip. I don’t know what that skin section of your nose is called (the area between the nostrils). I hit it PERFECTLY square. It isn’t bleeding (I’ve never had a nose bleed in my life) and it only hurt a bit at first. It is, however, starting to hurt more (nothing intolerable) and to swell a bit, and it is beginning to drain (and the migraine that lurks inside my head is starting to come out from its hiding place). Those are all normal reactions and not anything to worry about, according to Dr. Mom (me). That’s when I knew I’d broken something (when I wiggled it), or separated something. The strange part is that it is really loose. That feels weird. It’s like there are a few screws loose (ha!). Kim told me to stop wiggling it, “cause it will stay that way.” LOL! I don’t think I necessarily broke a bone. I may have cracked the cartilage is all. Brilliant. If I had taken a hammer and chisel I could not have hit it more perfectly square, so I don’t think there’s any risk of ending up with a crooked, boxer’s nose. All those years of being an actress and dreaming of breaking my nose so I could get a free nose job. Who knew that all I had to do was try to get ice from the freezer. I’m not the slightest bit interested in getting my nose fixed anymore. A broken nose is like a broken toe. When you go to the doctor they take x-rays and then declare, “yes, it is broken,” and they give you a bill, and send you on your way. There’s no way to put a cast on a toe or a nose (well, there is, but it is overkill). You just have to keep it from setting crooked, and try not to keep re-breaking it. I guess I won’t be sleeping on my face for a few weeks. My doctor friends should not worry. If I smell or taste blood or if I have ANY difficulty breathing, I’ll go to the emergency room. It was just stupid. It was funny, but stupid. Posted 06/24/2008 | 01:13 PM • Print Vers.
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Category: PERSONAL & FAMILY | Musing Way Back Machine
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I assume the reason that many people like to go to Renaissance Faires and the like is because they like the escapism of those events. I was not anti-Renaissance Faires until the goblin/BDSM crowd started attending. The remake of an Elizabethan festival was appealing to me, but as soon as folks who fetishize that stuff appeared, that ended the appeal for me. Too bad they softened the rules for those events. Folks dressing like that at a real Elizabethan festival would have had their heads chopped off. Ahhh. The good old days. We occasionally entertain ourselves by thinking of a period in history (and a place) we’d prefer to live. The Edwardian period is Kim’s choice and we amuse ourselves by thinking of joining up with these folks, but the idea of a costume shooting event/sport doesn’t appeal to us very much, although I can understand the appeal, and we revisit the subject frequently. It’s just too hot to dress like that in Texas. Kim would choose 1920 Vienna (although England would probably appeal to him too). I would choose 1890 Paris (living at or near the time of the Paris Exposition). We’re not off by much, but he prefers the more tempered and orderly lines of Edwardian architecture and I’m a wee bit more Bohemian, preferring the Victorian blend of Asian and English (some items more plain with some items completely ridiculous and frivolous). I wouldn’t pass up Vienna of Secession, however, and would be quite content in that period and place. I’ll choose whatever time and place he’s in. From previous forays into this subject, most of Kim’s readers would choose a cowboy lore/wild wild west period and place. Interesting subject as it often gives you a window into a person’s inner self. Posted 06/24/2008 | 09:53 AM • Print Vers.
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Category: PERSONAL & FAMILY | Musing Awkward and Damn Awkward
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog Yesterday I had a post about allowing others to keep their magic. I was primed for the quote I referenced, that resonated with me, because of something else that happened about a week ago. This was the back story to what caused it to be on my mind, pervading my thoughts, seeking guidance (and whether I write about the back story or not, there is ALWAYS a back story to what I write about--my attempt to explore an arena looking for guidance for myself. Writing becomes the exercise and method I use for personal problem solving). I don’t normally write about this sort of thing, especially since it involves one of the kids, but I think I can write about it in such a way as to keep the names out of it. The strange word usage that follows is an attempt to protect that privacy. So, here goes… One of the kids had a friend over. This is not a new friend (they met the person in school). The more frequent association had been new, having to do with convenience of schedules and other factors. The friend is going to be “going away” soon, so it was a somewhat dashed, summer friendship of convenience. I’d met this person and he was pretty good about getting a parental sizing up (always the first act of sizing up). A few months had gone by and this person was coming and going, with no time spent talking with the Parental Units after our initial “OK, he’s not a mass murderer. He can stay” meeting (that’s not at all unusual). But, the timing of events meant that this person came over when I was not otherwise engaged in anything, and was sitting in the family room. Our chit chat began around trivial subjects, such as upcoming plans and such. Somehow we branched to the subject of karate (a passion of this young man’s) as self defense. He was fully aware of our position on guns, as he shared some of that as we were talking. It had also been clear that he had been trying to convince Child of the rightness of his opinions on the subject, in direct opposition to our thoughts on the subject. The discussion got a bit heated, which was not intentional on my part. On this one I can claim complete innocence (which is not generally or always the case). I try to avoid being too confrontational, especially with dumb kids, because I am keenly aware that they are not fully armed for debates such as this. Had it been card-carrying adult, however, the discussion would have gone in an entirely different direction, and the smell of blood and charred feathers would have still be in the air. Several times during the discussion I tried the “It’s OK, we don’t have to agree” sentence (stating it several different ways and with different inflections each time), in an attempt to end it, and change the subject. All in all, in reviewing the events, I tried many times to change the direction and end it. This young man would have none of it. He was convinced that he could change my opinion, that he was qualified to do so, and (worse) armed to do so. (The areas and specific issues of disagreement were and are irrelevant.) And it was that, and the way in which he conducted himself, which ended badly. There is a sometimes a delicate line between being passionate about something, and being an emotional, over-wrought idiot (bordering on proselyting an opinion instead of engaging in rational discourse). To say that this young man danced on that line would be generous. He blatantly crossed the line. That, too, would not have been enough to raise my ire, given his age and experience. It was the fact that he raised his voice to me and engaged in personal attack, rather than attack of argument. Let me paint the scene more bluntly: I had a pimply-faced pip squeak in MY living room, telling me, point blank, that I was engaging in lies and falsehoods, and he was there to show me the error of my ways. If only I would drink from the Karate Can Save Us All Kool Aid, my happiness could be assured, and all the evil encounters in the world could be avoided. When asked for evidence of his various assertions he avoided the issue, sharing that evidence of his opinions was not important nor necessary. After he shared some personal experiences I said to him, “the plural of anecdote is not data.” He responded that he didn’t know what those words meant, and after explaining it to him, he still was unable to grasp that one’s personal experience is not the entire universe of data available, and it is on the entire universe (not testimonials) that an informed opinion is made. After numerous (futile) attempts to end the discussion failed, I announced that I was leaving the room (key point: I was leaving a room in MY house as the final straw in ending a conversation with an incredibly rude, ill-mannered boor). His final comment to me was, “Look, I don’t base my opinions on facts. I base my opinions on my feelings and gut instincts, then I find facts that back up my feelings.”
But, as I said, it was not the fact that he was young and foolish (or brutally wrong) that raised my ire. It was the fact that he had been raised (obviously) with no manners and no respect for elders, and despite whatever shortcomings may have existed in his upbringing, was quite delighted with himself in being extremely rude as a guest in someone else’s home. Child was distraught, given the events. Child later reported that hearing those final words caused a “OMG, I can’t believe you’d stay THAT,” but that wasn’t the hard part, nor the bigger problem. The hard part was deciding what to do about it. “Do you want me to end the friendship?” child asked of me. < side track > My mother had a very bad habit of not allowing us to keep our friendships. In some cases, which always make these sort of 20/20 hindsight judgments difficult, she was right. Some of my childhood friends really were thieves and scoundrels, and ending my association with them quite literally saved my life, or me from a life of crime. But that wasn’t true for all of them. Far too often her desire to curb our friendships was an act of aggressive control, preventing us from having social relationships that would eventually lead to us leaving home. My mother was quite blatant (and serious) about my never leaving home. It wasn’t a remark said lovingly, such as “I never want you to grow up and leave home. Stop growing!” It was instead, “when you get married your husband will come and live with me.” And she meant it. Based on my desire not to repeat the mistakes of my mother, but not having that interfere with when she had (in her case, by accident) made the right decision, I was faced with answering the question correctly, without (I hope) adding to the years of therapy my children will require later in their lives. < /side track > So here I was, faced with another of those situations that are not in the Raising Your Child Handbook, with an adult child asking me if I wanted the relationship ended. I guess the fact that the child asked (and was willing, given the situation) is the thing to be most thankful for. But that didn’t give me the answer. Being inclined to be verbose and dramatic, I responded, “I have given you the tools to make these judgments, child, you decide.” Oh, blather. I’m surprised the kids put up with me sometimes. < second side track > The outcome of raising polite, well-mannered and well-educated children comes back to bite you sometimes. Not that I would have it any other way, mind you, but it becomes very difficult for them at times, and while I can’t do much more than commiserate, I do feel for their predicament. They have great difficulty finding peers, in the true meaning of the word “peer.” I remember finding it very difficult to find friends that weren’t idiots, thieves, cads, or scoundrels, and that was 30+ years ago. While there is no perfect place, it is complicated by the fact that the DEW area isn’t renowned for its gentility and sophistication of say, 1920s Vienna or 1930s Brussels. There is no place like that anymore (or I’d be on the next plane, bags packed, with children). There may be places that are closer to (or further from) it, but there is no place where people of intelligence and class can find a majority, a majority of peers. (I doubt that ever existed in a majority anywhere.) It’s only gotten worse, not better, despite all my desires for it to be otherwise (which is also the back story to my annual whine about where to move to, having no answer, ever). I made the decision when the kids were young that I was not going to try to taint them. The truth is, you don’t know how intelligent your children are going to be when they’re born. They could just as easily become geniuses and dunces, so making any decisions that required one or the other was foolish. They might also be sated with Wonder Bread and mayonnaise sandwiches their whole lives and if so, that’s what I’d serve them. If they could like whoever was the pop singer du jure, fabulous, enjoy it. If they could enjoy pop culture, pop films, pop music, etc., go for it. They didn’t get a wince or a frown from me. I was not going to interfere when they wanted to hang out with their fellows, enjoying the latest fads and popular trends. If they could find happiness in association with their fellows, those in abundance, I was not going to foist my tastes and preferences on them. Well, that was the plan. Once one of the kids reached early teenage years, my great big plan fell flat on its great big ass. It not only hadn’t worked, it had backfired in a big way. Child thought I wanted them “fit in” and it left Child thinking that I was disappointed in Child for not being “normal,” and left Child feeling more isolated and distanced from peers because Child didn’t fit in, and knew it. I hadn’t discussed or prepared Child for this outcome, or for those feelings (and I should have prepared Child for it, because I’d experienced it myself). That required an immediate discussion with the other Parental Unit and we set about not only to change course, but to reverse it on full steam.
< /second side track >
Before I share my answer, what would you have done? How would you have answered Child’s question? Posted 06/24/2008 | 06:01 AM • Print Vers.
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Category: PERSONAL & FAMILY | Musing Monday, June 23, 2008Magic Thieves
Mrs. du Toit
From: Mrs. du Toit Weblog I was looking for a quote (didn’t find the one I was looking for) and came across a Mark Twain quote that resonated with me:
(I also found this beauty, but it is a subject for another day: “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.")
There are all sorts of related quotes and clichés:
When I was young my grandmother used to come to our house every weekend. My grandmother, unfortunately, was not a pleasant person to be around. Besides being peculiar in many respects, she washed her clothing in gasoline and had a lot of dogs. The smell of gasoline and dogs preceded her entry into a room. But of the many things that I found irritating about her, one of them was her insistence on naming flowers. I don’t mean that she gave them names (that would be strange, too, and not beyond her strangeness quotient). What I mean is that she always wanted to know or share what their popular name was. She couldn’t look at a field of flowers, for example, without declaring, “Those are delphiniums, aren’t they?” It used to drive me scatty. Knowing it for some purpose would not have been irritating (such as planning to go buy some), but it seemed to be a point of obsession with her. If someone remarked on how pretty they looked, their color, or the pot they were in, she had to say something about what they were called, or ask what they were called. Even all of that is superfluous to the point. What bugged me about it is that it took me out of the appreciation of it. It was as if a great big ball and chain had been suddenly attached to my ankles and dragged me back down to earth. I wanted to be lost for a moment in their beauty, floating on a cloud for a bit, and there was something about doing a Clive Clavin about it that ruined it for me. There is always a fine line between the beauty of knowledge/truth and the vulgarity of knowing. One is a state of wonderment. The other is crass and earthly. Similarly, since I’m being bratty, my mother had a habit of giving too much information when you’d ask about the meaning of a word. You’d be reading something and ask, “What does X mean?” She’d launch into a dissertation of what it meant, giving 50 different usages, and then 5 more examples of using it in a sentence. By that time, my focused-challenged brain would have lost my train of thought. The takeaway was that I stopped asking her. Probably in combination with the above and my basic predilection is that I have no use for remembering superfluous facts, in the factoid sense. I’ve always found them boring or irritating. They seem superfluous to knowing, ie, understanding. Allow me, however, to qualify that. If you are discussing a public policy matter, such as taxation, it is critical to have facts as a foundation for your opinion (an opinion without evidence is a belief, not an opinion). Suggesting that raising the tax rate will raise tax revenue would sound right, but it is wrong, up to a certain point. Raising the tax rate has the result of lowering tax revenue. Understanding the facts inherent in something like the Laffer Curve is critical to forming an opinion about tax rates. But if I’m decorating a room, knowing who the first person was to use the word Chartreuse has nothing to do with whether or not it is a color I want to include in my scheme. It is not going to have any relevance to the task at hand. Its simple grand standing. Also in this arena is the idea that recalling facts has a causal relationship with someone having an understanding of anything. Taking my grandmother analogy to an illogical conclusion to illustrate: She might have known the names of flowers, or wanted to know them, but she didn’t have a clue about flower arranging, or landscaping design. Had the name given her a clue as to how it would grow or what it complimented (green thumb wise), then it would have been different. She had no desire, inclination, or talent for any of that. She just had this strange obsessive desire to know their names, and say the names out loud. She is also why I developed a hatred for all things geraniums. She used to bring them to our house all the time, stuck in rusted coffee cans, and leave them on our porch as a “gift.” (I was pleased to discover that I’m not the only one who detests red geraniums, especially the banal red variety, and since reading his site, “gas station plant” has entered my lexicon.) Facts are the path to form opinions. It is like a train that carries you to a station. Once you are at the station, however, the important part is not the train, but where you are RIGHT NOW. Convincing others of the rightness of your opinion does require that you share the facts you used. Finding all the breadcrumbs for others to reference can be difficult, allowing others to retrace your steps, but the goal/destination is truth, not bread crumb collection. Once you pick up the fact gathering bag, for the sake of fact gathering, you’ve jumped the rails. Some of the dumbest people I’ve known have been expert Trivial Pursuit players. They can remember facts, but have no ability to use those facts for any purpose other than a game, or ruining a perfectly pleasant dinner conversation. In my less than charitable moments, I refer to these people as “able to play Trivial Pursuit, but unable to match the lids on the Tupperware.” Most of the above, however, is just bitchiness. The reality is that there is a certain amount of wonder at the world that is lost when there is an obsessive desire to understand everything. It misses the point, really. Appreciating a thing’s beauty is an entirely different realm of knowledge and understanding. When a child sees a meadow full of flowers, their untainted instinct is to run and play in it, skipping along, blowing the seeds from a freshly picked dandelion. The child’s appreciation for that meadow is destroyed if some Cliff Claven decides to share that dandelions are technically weeds, not flowers. These people are magic killers. Taking away someone’s magic is one of the worst things I can think of. Knowing when something is someone’s magic versus wrong-headedness is the real trick. Timing and context is everything.
If we see ourselves only as random conglomerations of cells and energy, then we are really no different from any other unique assortment of cells and energy. Homosapiens are no different (than say) elephants or mollusks. It is our humanity, our ability to perceive and understand that differentiates us from beasts. As we mature, we can do both, but keeping the facts in a separate storage locker in our brains, away from the beauty and the magic of what we are. Facts alone make a doctor no different from a butcher. Truth engenders the greatest of differences in what they do and turns one into an tradesman and the other a miracle worker. It doesn’t really matter if we understand how the doctor saved a life, unless we wish to become a doctor ourselves. But the doctor who forgets that there’s a human being in there, and humans are amazing, unpredictable creatures, has learned nothing of any importance and can be properly tagged with the label, “Butcher” (no offense meant to butchers).
Posted 06/23/2008 | 01:32 PM • Print Vers.
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Category: PERSONAL & FAMILY | Musing |
Audacity, Hope, Etc. (Chapter 2)Chapter 2 is entitled “Values”. ----- It’s never the “Bush tax cuts”, it’s always the “Bush tax cuts for the wealthy”. Even when that extra… continuedAudacity, Hope, Etc. (Chapter 1)Chapter 1 - Republicans and Democrats The chapter starts with a commentary on how divided we are as a country, and how we should work… continuedAudacity, Hope, Etc. (Prologue)Several months ago, while the Democratic primary was still raging, I made a promise to myself that when a candidate was finally selected, I would… continuedWay BackInspired by this. It’s funny how your perspective on things changes with time. If you had asked me five years ago when and where I… continuedStrength and WeaknessI was involved in a rather enlightening forum discussion today, involving alternative energy. With gas prices as high as they are, energy is on everyone’s… continuedIn the FamilyProjectsFriends
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