When my sister Liz, my friends Marie and Julie, and I were in Budapest, we stayed in an apartment on the Vaci Utca, a pedestrian-only street. There were shops and restaurants nestled next to centuries-old churches. The first day, we discovered what was to be one of our favorite shops. When we walked in, a man greeted us in wonderful Hungarian-accented English, "Hello! I am Steve!" I answered, "Hello, Istvan!" He was happy as well as impressed. "Oh, you are Hungarian?" I explained that I was the only member of my family that was not born in Hungary, and soon we were like old friends. I told him that my sister, who would arrive in Budapest the next day, and I were there to try and find our relatives. We didn't know where they lived or who they were, but we were headed their way.
We (okay I) had come up with Hungarian nicknames for our trip, and I introduced us all by these names. The one I used was Kata, a nickname I still sometimes use. Within a day or two, when we walked into the shop, Istvan would greet me with, "Kataka!" which warmed my heart, because adding the "ka" to the end of my name was a gesture of great warmth and friendship. Every day, he showed us something different and told us how it was made, and where in Hungary it came from. One day I was looking at some gorgeous pashminas and asked, in so-so Hungarian, "How much do these cost?" He beamed at me and answered, "Is 2500 forint, but for you, I give friend price, only 2000 forint." My travel companions were thrilled, and from that day on it was my duty to ask about the cost so that they could get the friend prices as well!
One day, Istvan showed me racks of beautiful traditional clothing. There were all sorts of skirts, trousers, blouses, and vests with hand embroidery. He said to me, very quietly, "If you get, you do not want this color. Is not traditional. More traditional color is burrrgundy." We all fell in love with the way he said burrrgundy with that lovely rolling r. After that, we seemed to see the color everywhere we went, and loved the opportunity to say burrrgundy. Having spent a couple of years studying Spanish, I think I may have had an unfair advantage with that one. Mrs. Snow, AKA Sra. Nieve, would have been so proud!
Even when we moved on to Paris, we saw lots of burgundy. There were some days when it seemed like every third woman had dyed her hair burgundy. It almost turned into a game, the hair-color version of slug-a-bug. What made it even more fun was that Marie just can't get her mouth wrapped around that rrr. To this day, the closest she can get to saying burrrgundy is "boogundy," bless her heart. Luckily she is as amused by it as the rest of us, and gets a good hearty laugh out of it. I still try to get her to say it whenever possible. When we were in Florida, I told her that I thought we would just have to change the pronunciation to "boogundy." Marie, I have to tell you that I didn't lie, I changed my mind. It's just too much fun to hear you trying to give a Hungarian twist to burgundy!
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Here's Your Hoop, Now Jump!
We had an interesting letter in the mail recently. In an effort to reduce costs related to insurance fraud, the administrators of our health insurance plans spent a goodish amount of money to do a verification process on everyone listed as a spouse, domestic partner, child, you name it. According to the letter we had a few weeks to verify that we were indeed married. If we didn't verify by a certain date, my insurance would be retroactively cancelled.
I must admit to a moment of silliness when I read the letter. "So, Trent...apparently the insurance company is picking on us because I didn't change my last name when we got married." Not that I am paranoid, but this may have been the truth. Someone looked at the different last names and decided that we couldn't possibly be married because we don't have the same last name. Who'd keep a difficult to spell, and harder to pronounce, Hungarian name when they could change it to a much simpler Irish one? It still surprises me that in the twenty-first century we assume that someone has to change their name when they get married. It used to be automatic, in Colorado at least; a woman who wanted to retain her maiden name had to file court documents and get it changed back to the original. Now it is optional, but not in everyone's opinion. And when I got married, I did not have any strong feelings one way or the other. But one day, Trent said that he had no problem with me keeping my own, very unique, name. So I didn't change it. Nobody's feelings were hurt, and life rolled on.
We had another laugh over the verifying of spouse-hood when I said, "Yeah, we're not married, Trent...I've just hung around while you had seventeen surgeries in thirteen and a half years because it seemed like fun." Actually, it may be eighteen, I have sort of lost count. I really worry about what might happen if I end up being the one having surgery one of these years. The sudden role reversal may make us lose our minds. You know you've done a lot of post-operative care when you beg the nurses not to read you the care instructions before you sign the discharge sheet. If it sounds like I am complaining, I apologize. I have taken care of Trent's assorted wounds with love. I knew he had health issues when we got married, and have done reasonably well as a helper, I hope.
On to the verification process. I glanced at the requirements for some of the categories other than spousal verification. I was stunned. In some cases, the relationships had to be verified by filling out affidavits and having them notarized. In our case, we needed a copy of our Marriage Certificate, which we have a couple of on hand "just in case." But that wasn't even enough. We had to prove that not only were we legally wed, but were also living together. Not that we had the same addresses as one another the last thirteen-plus years (sarcasm, folks). So we had to get a copy of our lease renewal to show that we aren't just married strangers.
So we faxed the necessary documents to the "dependent verification center," and when we followed up we were told all was well. To save even more money, the center mailed us a letter saying that I was verified as a dependent at this time, but there were no guarantees that I would be considered a dependent in the future. Egads! Maybe they are trying to artificially create job security. Who knows? Another week or two went by, and another letter. This time they need to know who is Trent's beneficiary. You see, they have made the switch from paper to electronic record-keeping, and they can't be bothered with updating the system with the information that they already have on hand. Hoop-jumping, round two!
I must admit to a moment of silliness when I read the letter. "So, Trent...apparently the insurance company is picking on us because I didn't change my last name when we got married." Not that I am paranoid, but this may have been the truth. Someone looked at the different last names and decided that we couldn't possibly be married because we don't have the same last name. Who'd keep a difficult to spell, and harder to pronounce, Hungarian name when they could change it to a much simpler Irish one? It still surprises me that in the twenty-first century we assume that someone has to change their name when they get married. It used to be automatic, in Colorado at least; a woman who wanted to retain her maiden name had to file court documents and get it changed back to the original. Now it is optional, but not in everyone's opinion. And when I got married, I did not have any strong feelings one way or the other. But one day, Trent said that he had no problem with me keeping my own, very unique, name. So I didn't change it. Nobody's feelings were hurt, and life rolled on.
We had another laugh over the verifying of spouse-hood when I said, "Yeah, we're not married, Trent...I've just hung around while you had seventeen surgeries in thirteen and a half years because it seemed like fun." Actually, it may be eighteen, I have sort of lost count. I really worry about what might happen if I end up being the one having surgery one of these years. The sudden role reversal may make us lose our minds. You know you've done a lot of post-operative care when you beg the nurses not to read you the care instructions before you sign the discharge sheet. If it sounds like I am complaining, I apologize. I have taken care of Trent's assorted wounds with love. I knew he had health issues when we got married, and have done reasonably well as a helper, I hope.
On to the verification process. I glanced at the requirements for some of the categories other than spousal verification. I was stunned. In some cases, the relationships had to be verified by filling out affidavits and having them notarized. In our case, we needed a copy of our Marriage Certificate, which we have a couple of on hand "just in case." But that wasn't even enough. We had to prove that not only were we legally wed, but were also living together. Not that we had the same addresses as one another the last thirteen-plus years (sarcasm, folks). So we had to get a copy of our lease renewal to show that we aren't just married strangers.
So we faxed the necessary documents to the "dependent verification center," and when we followed up we were told all was well. To save even more money, the center mailed us a letter saying that I was verified as a dependent at this time, but there were no guarantees that I would be considered a dependent in the future. Egads! Maybe they are trying to artificially create job security. Who knows? Another week or two went by, and another letter. This time they need to know who is Trent's beneficiary. You see, they have made the switch from paper to electronic record-keeping, and they can't be bothered with updating the system with the information that they already have on hand. Hoop-jumping, round two!
Monday, April 1, 2013
Measuring Up
I have spent a lot of my life trying to measure up. In an effort to avoid abuse, gain acceptance, or receive my family's love, I have tried to be the best I could be in order to 1) please them, and 2) avoid their anger and disappointment. When I was a small child in Chicago, I would go out on the sidewalk to meet my father as he was coming home from work. I remember being excited that he would be coming home, and afraid that he might be angry at me.
Then as a child in the Denver area, I did my utmost to please my guardian, whom I have mentioned in other posts. I never knew how to please her, but I always tried to at least not rock the boat. One day when I came home from playing with the girls next door, she spotted some band-aids on my knees. I had fallen and skinned them, as kids do, and the mom next door had insisted that I let her bandage them. Of course, when I got home A was furious. I was just trying to get attention because I was crazy like my father. A beating occurred, and I catalogued the information in my brain so as not to make the same mistake twice. The next time I skinned my knees I refused any help from the neighbor and just kept on with my play. when I got home, A was furious. I had skinned my knees and hadn't gotten any bandages on them? Obviously I was too stupid to come in out of the rain, and crazy, just like my father. Another beating, and the knowledge that no matter what I did, it would be wrong.
When I went to live with Gram I was determined not to disappoint her. If I did, after all, I might be sent back to live with A, or even returned to the orphanage. While Gram was pretty relaxed in comparison with her daughter, she would not tolerate those she thought of as fools. When my cousin was in Boy Scouts he was working a booth for his troop at some sort of Scouting Exposition. His booth had targets and bows and arrows. Gram asked if I wanted to try shooting, and I was thrilled to. I had seen it on tv and it looked so easy. Naturally my lack of athletic ability shone through and I didn't hit any targets. Gram was furious and labeled me as a jackass, informing me that if I couldn't do it right, I shouldn't have done it at all. So I went through school getting great grades and doing my best to avoid trouble. I had to be smart because I was not the pretty girl. I suppressed my desire to act in school plays because A didn't want any actresses around. They were rough people who lived a rough life. I couldn't be in choir or orchestra because they sometimes took overnight trips, and only tramps didn't sleep in their own beds.
So the idea of not being good enough has always plagued me. When I trained customer service in a bank, I always wished I could do better. If any of my trainees didn't pass the course, I felt that it was my fault. If I had been a more competent trainer, they would never have a phone call that they couldn't handle. There wouldn't be any stressful moments when they just didn't know what to do. They wouldn't make mistakes.
Even writing this blog has caused me struggles. I often wanted to quit in the beginning because almost nobody was reading it. My readership is still low, but I have the desire to write for those who are faithful readers and enjoy what I put out there. It took a lot of my courage to start posting links to my blog on Google+, and in fact, it took a lot of courage for me to get on there and interact with others in this strange land of social networking. I have a small following and a small group that I follow compared to others, but it usually doesn't bother me. I recently saw a post from someone I follow that was to the effect of, "is anybody out there?" I wanted to be kind and say hello since it seemed like he needed it. I said that it did sometimes seem like there was nobody out there, to which he replied that with me only having x number of followers, of course it would seem that nobody was there. I laughed it off in my reply, but it rather aggravated me. It seemed to imply, to me at least, that I wasn't good enough to have an enjoyable experience. After all, nobody liked me enough to follow me.
Then I remembered some people that I am friends with online who have never treated me as "less than." They have several times the followers of the person in question, and have never treated me with anything less that kindness and courtesy and friendliness. I try to remind myself that having a small following does not make me a small person. I may not have thousands of people hanging on my every word, but the people I interact with know the kind of person I am. I am sensitive. I am kind and try to always be courteous. If I say I care about you, it isn't a load of baloney. I am a person who wants to feel worthy. I will recognize your worth before my own. I am not pretty or rich or super-thin. I don't want any kids to feel they have to be that way either. I am trying to fight the need to measure up. Let's fight it together.
Then as a child in the Denver area, I did my utmost to please my guardian, whom I have mentioned in other posts. I never knew how to please her, but I always tried to at least not rock the boat. One day when I came home from playing with the girls next door, she spotted some band-aids on my knees. I had fallen and skinned them, as kids do, and the mom next door had insisted that I let her bandage them. Of course, when I got home A was furious. I was just trying to get attention because I was crazy like my father. A beating occurred, and I catalogued the information in my brain so as not to make the same mistake twice. The next time I skinned my knees I refused any help from the neighbor and just kept on with my play. when I got home, A was furious. I had skinned my knees and hadn't gotten any bandages on them? Obviously I was too stupid to come in out of the rain, and crazy, just like my father. Another beating, and the knowledge that no matter what I did, it would be wrong.
When I went to live with Gram I was determined not to disappoint her. If I did, after all, I might be sent back to live with A, or even returned to the orphanage. While Gram was pretty relaxed in comparison with her daughter, she would not tolerate those she thought of as fools. When my cousin was in Boy Scouts he was working a booth for his troop at some sort of Scouting Exposition. His booth had targets and bows and arrows. Gram asked if I wanted to try shooting, and I was thrilled to. I had seen it on tv and it looked so easy. Naturally my lack of athletic ability shone through and I didn't hit any targets. Gram was furious and labeled me as a jackass, informing me that if I couldn't do it right, I shouldn't have done it at all. So I went through school getting great grades and doing my best to avoid trouble. I had to be smart because I was not the pretty girl. I suppressed my desire to act in school plays because A didn't want any actresses around. They were rough people who lived a rough life. I couldn't be in choir or orchestra because they sometimes took overnight trips, and only tramps didn't sleep in their own beds.
So the idea of not being good enough has always plagued me. When I trained customer service in a bank, I always wished I could do better. If any of my trainees didn't pass the course, I felt that it was my fault. If I had been a more competent trainer, they would never have a phone call that they couldn't handle. There wouldn't be any stressful moments when they just didn't know what to do. They wouldn't make mistakes.
Even writing this blog has caused me struggles. I often wanted to quit in the beginning because almost nobody was reading it. My readership is still low, but I have the desire to write for those who are faithful readers and enjoy what I put out there. It took a lot of my courage to start posting links to my blog on Google+, and in fact, it took a lot of courage for me to get on there and interact with others in this strange land of social networking. I have a small following and a small group that I follow compared to others, but it usually doesn't bother me. I recently saw a post from someone I follow that was to the effect of, "is anybody out there?" I wanted to be kind and say hello since it seemed like he needed it. I said that it did sometimes seem like there was nobody out there, to which he replied that with me only having x number of followers, of course it would seem that nobody was there. I laughed it off in my reply, but it rather aggravated me. It seemed to imply, to me at least, that I wasn't good enough to have an enjoyable experience. After all, nobody liked me enough to follow me.
Then I remembered some people that I am friends with online who have never treated me as "less than." They have several times the followers of the person in question, and have never treated me with anything less that kindness and courtesy and friendliness. I try to remind myself that having a small following does not make me a small person. I may not have thousands of people hanging on my every word, but the people I interact with know the kind of person I am. I am sensitive. I am kind and try to always be courteous. If I say I care about you, it isn't a load of baloney. I am a person who wants to feel worthy. I will recognize your worth before my own. I am not pretty or rich or super-thin. I don't want any kids to feel they have to be that way either. I am trying to fight the need to measure up. Let's fight it together.
Friday, March 29, 2013
An Experiment In Terror
At one point during my career as a bank teller, I worked in the drive-through of a bank in Downtown Denver. Our security staff were off-duty officers of the Denver Police Department. One was, in fact, the first female African-American in Denver to become a Sergeant, and was assigned to the Internal Affairs Division. I just now remembered that one day a coworker and I asked her to come to lunch with us on one of the days she wasn't working at the bank. She showed up wearing a gorgeous dress and heels, and had a clutch purse tucked under her arm. It was still tucked in there during lunch, and we suggested she put it with our purses. "No," she said, "it stays right here. My gun is in there." We were quite impressed. In fact, we were stunned that she was wearing a dress and heels during her work day as a cop, and told her so. She smiled and told us, "There isn't anybody in this city I can't run down and chase over a fence, even in my high heels." What a woman!
Most of the officers worked in the Crimes Against Persons Division, AKA Homicide. I found this quite fascinating, and in our slower times I would talk to them about their work. I asked the kinds of questions the other tellers didn't think of asking, like whether the DPD thought that they had any missing or deceased women that they thought might be the victims of the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy, who did come through Colorado. And yes, they did suspect that they had at least one case that may have involved him, but he refused to answer their questions before his execution in Florida.
One day, one of the officers got a really concerned look on his face. Why was I so interested in murder and serial killers? What was the reason? I am sure he might have been worried that I might be one of those murder groupies who have crushes on killers. Or that I was of a murderous bent myself. Both of those were very far from the truth. I told the officer that my father had killed my mother when I was barely seven years old, and I thought my interest in the subject revolved around wanting to know what made a killer who they were. Why did they kill? What made their brains tick? He looked relieved after I told him the details of my mother's death, and that I had no hero-worship of any kind for killers. Actually, I seem to remember him saying something to the effect that since that was where I was coming from, he would be glad to talk to me about anything that he was free to discuss.
Fast forward to my married life. Trent spent the first several years of our marriage being amazed at my enjoyment of horror movies, as well as thrillers and true crime stories. I think he was surprised that I didn't have a stereotypical "girly" reaction to books and movies of this nature. I'd go to see a scary film and not be all nervous afterward as some people are. And I could watch a lot of true crime programs on tv and then sleep like a baby. He likes to joke about me watching Discovery ID, which he refers to as the all-murder channel. I certainly do not immerse myself in gore and crime. I spend much more time watching everyday humdrum programming than crime. I love all kinds of books, but have read several by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I actually think my tastes in entertainment/reading are fairly well balanced, and I would spend money to see Les Miserables but not pay a nickel to see most horror flicks in the theater.
Over the years Trent became more and more aware of all that I had experienced in my life. After my siblings and I found our mother clinging to life as a result of my father's beating, we were taken to orphanages and foster care. Liz and I were in an orphanage, and our life there was truly depressed and miserable. Then we were taken in briefly by distant relatives, and Liz was quickly dumped on Gram. I spent more time in the home of a woman who hated me because I was not what she would have chosen. After all, the child of a murderer seems less artistic and enchanting than a Native American child. I was reminded constantly, especially during frequent beatings and abuse, that I was crazy like my father, and that nobody wanted me. I was then shipped off to her mother, my Gram. But during the entire time I lived with her, I was reminded by various people that if I didn't live up to their expectations, I could and would be sent away.
Trent would say that he didn't know how I had survived it all. I did because I had to, I suppose. One night he was talking about how he just hadn't been able to understand how I could watch scary stuff without getting very affected by it. He said he had given it a lot of thought, and figured out why I was able to handle it. I was curious to hear his theory, and noticed that he was trying to stifle a smile. "It's simple," he said, "your whole life has been an experiment in terror." We both got a huge laugh out of that since it is a variation of one of my favorite lines from Steel Magnolias. But we also both agreed that it was probably true. How could I get terrified by some made-up hauntings or monsters, when I had experienced plenty of real horrors? I am more likely to be frightened by Psycho than Alien, because I know all too well that the person next door is more real and scary.
I'll never really know if Trent's theory explains it all away, because I will never know what my alternate reality would be if I hadn't had those experiences. I may not have ended up in Colorado. I'd probably still be able to speak German and Hungarian. I most likely would never have had a pet dog. And I probably would never have met my husband. And I'd probably scream like a girl during horror movies!
Most of the officers worked in the Crimes Against Persons Division, AKA Homicide. I found this quite fascinating, and in our slower times I would talk to them about their work. I asked the kinds of questions the other tellers didn't think of asking, like whether the DPD thought that they had any missing or deceased women that they thought might be the victims of the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy, who did come through Colorado. And yes, they did suspect that they had at least one case that may have involved him, but he refused to answer their questions before his execution in Florida.
One day, one of the officers got a really concerned look on his face. Why was I so interested in murder and serial killers? What was the reason? I am sure he might have been worried that I might be one of those murder groupies who have crushes on killers. Or that I was of a murderous bent myself. Both of those were very far from the truth. I told the officer that my father had killed my mother when I was barely seven years old, and I thought my interest in the subject revolved around wanting to know what made a killer who they were. Why did they kill? What made their brains tick? He looked relieved after I told him the details of my mother's death, and that I had no hero-worship of any kind for killers. Actually, I seem to remember him saying something to the effect that since that was where I was coming from, he would be glad to talk to me about anything that he was free to discuss.
Fast forward to my married life. Trent spent the first several years of our marriage being amazed at my enjoyment of horror movies, as well as thrillers and true crime stories. I think he was surprised that I didn't have a stereotypical "girly" reaction to books and movies of this nature. I'd go to see a scary film and not be all nervous afterward as some people are. And I could watch a lot of true crime programs on tv and then sleep like a baby. He likes to joke about me watching Discovery ID, which he refers to as the all-murder channel. I certainly do not immerse myself in gore and crime. I spend much more time watching everyday humdrum programming than crime. I love all kinds of books, but have read several by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I actually think my tastes in entertainment/reading are fairly well balanced, and I would spend money to see Les Miserables but not pay a nickel to see most horror flicks in the theater.
Over the years Trent became more and more aware of all that I had experienced in my life. After my siblings and I found our mother clinging to life as a result of my father's beating, we were taken to orphanages and foster care. Liz and I were in an orphanage, and our life there was truly depressed and miserable. Then we were taken in briefly by distant relatives, and Liz was quickly dumped on Gram. I spent more time in the home of a woman who hated me because I was not what she would have chosen. After all, the child of a murderer seems less artistic and enchanting than a Native American child. I was reminded constantly, especially during frequent beatings and abuse, that I was crazy like my father, and that nobody wanted me. I was then shipped off to her mother, my Gram. But during the entire time I lived with her, I was reminded by various people that if I didn't live up to their expectations, I could and would be sent away.
Trent would say that he didn't know how I had survived it all. I did because I had to, I suppose. One night he was talking about how he just hadn't been able to understand how I could watch scary stuff without getting very affected by it. He said he had given it a lot of thought, and figured out why I was able to handle it. I was curious to hear his theory, and noticed that he was trying to stifle a smile. "It's simple," he said, "your whole life has been an experiment in terror." We both got a huge laugh out of that since it is a variation of one of my favorite lines from Steel Magnolias. But we also both agreed that it was probably true. How could I get terrified by some made-up hauntings or monsters, when I had experienced plenty of real horrors? I am more likely to be frightened by Psycho than Alien, because I know all too well that the person next door is more real and scary.
I'll never really know if Trent's theory explains it all away, because I will never know what my alternate reality would be if I hadn't had those experiences. I may not have ended up in Colorado. I'd probably still be able to speak German and Hungarian. I most likely would never have had a pet dog. And I probably would never have met my husband. And I'd probably scream like a girl during horror movies!
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Funniest Woman In The World?
This is another tale from our trip to Disney World. It was my maiden voyage there, and my traveling companions enjoyed seeing the parks and Downtown Disney through fresh eyes. I also got immense pleasure from seeing various creatures that don't exist here in Colorado. You may know from reading some of my other posts that I am an animal lover. To a person like me, Florida was a bit of a paradise because I got to see so many different creatures in their natural habitats. I had seen some of them on the telly before, and some were entirely new to me.
When we arrived at our lodging, a large condominium complex, I was pleased to see that there were surrounding areas of woods, as well as many ponds. On our first day, we went for a brief drive through the complex just to enjoy the view. I was stunned to see a pair of swans in the main pond. Not because I hadn't seen swans before, because I had. But these swans were immense! They had to be at least three times the size of any swans I'd seen before. Even my "we've already been here and seen that" traveling companions were amazed at their size. My friend Marie kept wanting to see armadillos, and one day I said, "We're going to see an armadillo on the way home tonight." And wouldn't you know it, we saw one just a few buildings away from where we were staying.
We also saw several opossums, a critter I have never seen in Colorado. We have some here, but not as far west as the Front Range area. What really amazed me the most, though, were the birds. There were multiple varieties of cranes and herons, and large birds of every color. One morning when we were headed to the parks, we were delayed by a group of large birds casually strolling down the street. Naturally I made my friend Thayne stop the car so that I could walk behind them and take some photos. And one day we even saw a gator in a large pond off the highway, his eyes and nose barely above the water, waiting for something delicious to swim by and become dinner.
And there was no shortage of fun at Disney. Not only were there fun rides and great food, but lots of wonderful people. We met people from all over the world. There were Canadians who were glad to get away from the sub-zero temperatures back home. And forgive me for perpetuating a stereotype, but the Canadians we met were all very polite! We sat at the same table with a delightful couple from Perth, Australia one night at dinner. They had been from coast to coast; their travels had taken them to California, Arizona and the Grand Canyon, and then to Florida. While the Canadians were enjoying the warmth, the Aussies were enjoying a climate a little cooler than the hot summer weather they were having at home.
I also enjoyed talking with various employees (they are referred to as "Cast Members") at the Disney parks. They come from across the US to work there, as well as from around the world. They come in all ages, shapes, and sizes. There was one evening I decided that some of the younger Cast Members had limited experience with life. Trent went into one of the gift shops looking for a cover for his cell phone. I was wandering around and got back to his location just as he was finishing his purchase. We started to walk out when he realized he had forgotten something. There was a purchase-with-purchase and he wanted to ask if he could take advantage of it if it was something I'd like to have. We turned around and went back to the counter, where he asked if it was too late to make that purchase. He was told it was okay, and he replied, "Well, I have to ask my wife if she wants it. Where's my wife?" The funny thing is that I was beside him the whole time, but slightly out of his range of sight. And naturally when he turned to look for me, he turned his back on me. So the whole time he was asking, "Where's my wife?" she (I) was right there. In my usual smartypants manner, I said, "MyWife is right here."
The young staff members thought that this was hysterical. They were laughing and saying, "Oh, my gosh, she is so funny! Did you hear her? She said MyWife is right here! That's so cool!" Trent and I got a chuckle out of their enjoyment of the moment, and I decided I didn't want the sequined reversible tote bag, so we went on our way. I loved it when when we had only gone a few steps and I heard one of them say, "She is the funniest person I have ever seen! Did you hear her? He said where's my wife, and she said MyWife is right here! That is so funny! They're awesome!" I allowed myself to bask for just a few moments in the knowledge that some sweet, naive kids thought in that moment that I was the funniest woman in the world. It isn't often that you have the chance to be the center of the good gossip in the employee break room! It's also good to know that you have managed to brighten someone's day. Maybe if I am lucky I can make a habit of it!
When we arrived at our lodging, a large condominium complex, I was pleased to see that there were surrounding areas of woods, as well as many ponds. On our first day, we went for a brief drive through the complex just to enjoy the view. I was stunned to see a pair of swans in the main pond. Not because I hadn't seen swans before, because I had. But these swans were immense! They had to be at least three times the size of any swans I'd seen before. Even my "we've already been here and seen that" traveling companions were amazed at their size. My friend Marie kept wanting to see armadillos, and one day I said, "We're going to see an armadillo on the way home tonight." And wouldn't you know it, we saw one just a few buildings away from where we were staying.
We also saw several opossums, a critter I have never seen in Colorado. We have some here, but not as far west as the Front Range area. What really amazed me the most, though, were the birds. There were multiple varieties of cranes and herons, and large birds of every color. One morning when we were headed to the parks, we were delayed by a group of large birds casually strolling down the street. Naturally I made my friend Thayne stop the car so that I could walk behind them and take some photos. And one day we even saw a gator in a large pond off the highway, his eyes and nose barely above the water, waiting for something delicious to swim by and become dinner.
And there was no shortage of fun at Disney. Not only were there fun rides and great food, but lots of wonderful people. We met people from all over the world. There were Canadians who were glad to get away from the sub-zero temperatures back home. And forgive me for perpetuating a stereotype, but the Canadians we met were all very polite! We sat at the same table with a delightful couple from Perth, Australia one night at dinner. They had been from coast to coast; their travels had taken them to California, Arizona and the Grand Canyon, and then to Florida. While the Canadians were enjoying the warmth, the Aussies were enjoying a climate a little cooler than the hot summer weather they were having at home.
I also enjoyed talking with various employees (they are referred to as "Cast Members") at the Disney parks. They come from across the US to work there, as well as from around the world. They come in all ages, shapes, and sizes. There was one evening I decided that some of the younger Cast Members had limited experience with life. Trent went into one of the gift shops looking for a cover for his cell phone. I was wandering around and got back to his location just as he was finishing his purchase. We started to walk out when he realized he had forgotten something. There was a purchase-with-purchase and he wanted to ask if he could take advantage of it if it was something I'd like to have. We turned around and went back to the counter, where he asked if it was too late to make that purchase. He was told it was okay, and he replied, "Well, I have to ask my wife if she wants it. Where's my wife?" The funny thing is that I was beside him the whole time, but slightly out of his range of sight. And naturally when he turned to look for me, he turned his back on me. So the whole time he was asking, "Where's my wife?" she (I) was right there. In my usual smartypants manner, I said, "MyWife is right here."
The young staff members thought that this was hysterical. They were laughing and saying, "Oh, my gosh, she is so funny! Did you hear her? She said MyWife is right here! That's so cool!" Trent and I got a chuckle out of their enjoyment of the moment, and I decided I didn't want the sequined reversible tote bag, so we went on our way. I loved it when when we had only gone a few steps and I heard one of them say, "She is the funniest person I have ever seen! Did you hear her? He said where's my wife, and she said MyWife is right here! That is so funny! They're awesome!" I allowed myself to bask for just a few moments in the knowledge that some sweet, naive kids thought in that moment that I was the funniest woman in the world. It isn't often that you have the chance to be the center of the good gossip in the employee break room! It's also good to know that you have managed to brighten someone's day. Maybe if I am lucky I can make a habit of it!
Monday, March 25, 2013
Hate?
Some years ago, when I was being interviewed for a retail position, I was asked the most unusual interview question of my life. The shop I was hoping to work for, and eventually did, was a franchise of a company started in England. They sell naturally-based cosmetics (that includes soaps, lotions, makeup, etc.) and didn't do any animal testing. They also tried to create products using fair-trade principles. This was a company that that believed in inclusion rather than exclusion. Everyone was important, no matter what category they might fit into. After a round of the usual types of questions, Bridget asked me, "Whom do you hate?" It didn't take me very long to come up with an answer, which was that the only people I might hate were the ones that made a habit of hating others, for whatever reason. She was pleased with my answer, and told me that it was a question she had been asked during the process that determined whether the company wanted her as a franchisee. Her answer was pretty much the same as mine.
Over the years, every time I have thought about this interview, this is the only part of it that has really stuck in my memory. I believe that the question is one of the most brilliant ways to get a glimpse of what makes a person tick. When I think about it, it occurs to me that who you hate says just as much about you as who you love. We aren't born hating. It is in our nature to love and accept people as they are. But the things we learn from our families and our circumstances can impact our opinions of others. There is a profound song in the musical South Pacific that includes these lyrics: "You've got to be taught before it's too late, before you are six or seven or eight, to hate all the people your relatives hate, you've got to be carefully taught!" Often we become a product of these teachings, whether by following them, or by going against them.
Hate is such a strong word, and a strong emotion. I was fortunate to realize at the age of fifteen that any hate I might have toward another person (in this case it was my father) does not hurt them or affect them in any way. It only hurts and affects me. I can't say that there aren't things about people that don't rub me the wrong way. One thing that really irritates me is people making assumptions based on who they perceive me to be. An example is two customers who co-owned a business that had their accounts in the bank where I was working as a teller in the drive-through. They assumed that since my skin was pale like theirs, that I was going to appreciate the terrible jokes they made about other ethnic groups. I started to get stressed out knowing that they might be driving up to make a deposit and force me to listen to their mindless drivel.
One day I decided to talk it over with one of my managers, who just happened to be latina. I really hated their jokes and didn't want to hear them. What should I do? She said, "Katrina, if you don't like hearing their stupid jokes, then tell them!" I was pleased but also a bit scared. "But what if they get mad at me and close their accounts? I don't want to get fired." She looked at me and said, "You will not get fired for telling them not to talk to you that way. Besides, if they leave the bank, so what? We don't want jerks like that as customers anyway!" I felt so relieved. She had given me the power to do what I felt was right. The next time they drove up to my window, I greeted them with my usual courtesy. One of them started telling a joke that included the infamous "n-word." I very calmly and quietly told them that I really didn't care for ethnic jokes, and would they please not tell them any more. They sat in stony silence while I finished off their deposits, and although they didn't close their accounts, they never came to my window again. The funniest thing about all of this is that in shunning me, they had to go to one of the other two commercial tellers - both of whom were latino!
So in a nutshell, I try not to hate other people, although I sometimes hate their behaviors or beliefs or assumptions. Don't assume that as a practitioner of a Christian faith, I hate people who are LGBT and/or think that they should not have rights equal to mine. Don't assume that as a caucasian, I think my ethnicity is better than anyone else's. Don't assume that because I don't have a degree, I am stupid or uneducated. Don't assume that because I don't have any kids I am too stupid to give you advice about yours. And don't assume that because my hair is mostly gray and my body is showing some wear and tear that I am cranky and set in my ways and intolerant and unimportant. My point is this: we are all sort of like the facade of a building. The exterior may be fancy or plain. It may look well maintained, or very worn. But you can never tell from the exterior what you will find inside. You may dislike the impersonal looking brushed stainless steel exterior and find the inside is warm and cozy. But only if you have the courage and intelligence to learn what is inside rather than letting your hate hold you back. If you think about it that way, hate just stems from our lack of understanding about what is on the inside. Kind of puts a whole new twist on things, doesn't it?
Over the years, every time I have thought about this interview, this is the only part of it that has really stuck in my memory. I believe that the question is one of the most brilliant ways to get a glimpse of what makes a person tick. When I think about it, it occurs to me that who you hate says just as much about you as who you love. We aren't born hating. It is in our nature to love and accept people as they are. But the things we learn from our families and our circumstances can impact our opinions of others. There is a profound song in the musical South Pacific that includes these lyrics: "You've got to be taught before it's too late, before you are six or seven or eight, to hate all the people your relatives hate, you've got to be carefully taught!" Often we become a product of these teachings, whether by following them, or by going against them.
Hate is such a strong word, and a strong emotion. I was fortunate to realize at the age of fifteen that any hate I might have toward another person (in this case it was my father) does not hurt them or affect them in any way. It only hurts and affects me. I can't say that there aren't things about people that don't rub me the wrong way. One thing that really irritates me is people making assumptions based on who they perceive me to be. An example is two customers who co-owned a business that had their accounts in the bank where I was working as a teller in the drive-through. They assumed that since my skin was pale like theirs, that I was going to appreciate the terrible jokes they made about other ethnic groups. I started to get stressed out knowing that they might be driving up to make a deposit and force me to listen to their mindless drivel.
One day I decided to talk it over with one of my managers, who just happened to be latina. I really hated their jokes and didn't want to hear them. What should I do? She said, "Katrina, if you don't like hearing their stupid jokes, then tell them!" I was pleased but also a bit scared. "But what if they get mad at me and close their accounts? I don't want to get fired." She looked at me and said, "You will not get fired for telling them not to talk to you that way. Besides, if they leave the bank, so what? We don't want jerks like that as customers anyway!" I felt so relieved. She had given me the power to do what I felt was right. The next time they drove up to my window, I greeted them with my usual courtesy. One of them started telling a joke that included the infamous "n-word." I very calmly and quietly told them that I really didn't care for ethnic jokes, and would they please not tell them any more. They sat in stony silence while I finished off their deposits, and although they didn't close their accounts, they never came to my window again. The funniest thing about all of this is that in shunning me, they had to go to one of the other two commercial tellers - both of whom were latino!
So in a nutshell, I try not to hate other people, although I sometimes hate their behaviors or beliefs or assumptions. Don't assume that as a practitioner of a Christian faith, I hate people who are LGBT and/or think that they should not have rights equal to mine. Don't assume that as a caucasian, I think my ethnicity is better than anyone else's. Don't assume that because I don't have a degree, I am stupid or uneducated. Don't assume that because I don't have any kids I am too stupid to give you advice about yours. And don't assume that because my hair is mostly gray and my body is showing some wear and tear that I am cranky and set in my ways and intolerant and unimportant. My point is this: we are all sort of like the facade of a building. The exterior may be fancy or plain. It may look well maintained, or very worn. But you can never tell from the exterior what you will find inside. You may dislike the impersonal looking brushed stainless steel exterior and find the inside is warm and cozy. But only if you have the courage and intelligence to learn what is inside rather than letting your hate hold you back. If you think about it that way, hate just stems from our lack of understanding about what is on the inside. Kind of puts a whole new twist on things, doesn't it?
Friday, March 22, 2013
Shrimp Wars And Burgers
It was September of 1999, and Trent and I were in Las Vegas to get married. We were staying at the Paris Hotel, which had opened only eight days before we checked in. It was a lovely place, and since it was so new, we kept getting really good prices on dinners at their buffet. The food was delicious, so we ate there several times. On one of our first visits to this buffet, after we were seated I said to Trent, "Hey, I'm an adult now, so I can do whatever I want. I want to eat dessert first!" Trent chuckled and agreed, and I did indeed have dessert first. I could not resist the temptation of the chocolate and whipped cream and delicate pastry and fruit. Yum! Apparently my husband thought it was charming - he still mentions it from time to time, and sometimes teasingly asks if I want to have dessert first when we go out to eat.
What he doesn't mention very often, though, is The Shrimp Wars of '99. We were having our first dinner in the buffet, and Trent was excited to dive into a large serving of shrimp cocktail, which is one of his favorite foods. For some reason, he decided to put the sauce on the shrimp rather than on the side of his plate. As I was sitting at the table eating something (what it was, I cannot remember) I was vaguely aware of seeing something come flying through the air. THUD! A flying shrimp had just bounced off of my eyeglasses. Trent was horrified. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry! I was peeling it and it shot right out of my fingers!" I had a good chuckle over it and reassured him that I was not mad. We went back to eating and THWACK! Another flying shrimp. This one bounced off my shoulder. Luckily I was wearing something dark and the sauce came right out, leaving no evidence. "What is this, the Shrimp Cocktail Wars?" I chuckled. "Nobody tells me nothing!" Trent switched to sauce on the side after that, and I have not been hit by any more flying shrimp. But I am always on the lookout for another Shrimp War.
Our body clocks seemed to get sort of whacked out while we were in Las Vegas. After all, you can find someplace to go or something to do at any time of the day or night. One night we realized that neither one of us was asleep during the wee hours of the morning, so we started talking. "I'm hungry," Trent said, "are you hungry too?" I had to admit that yes, I was pretty hungry. "Well, let's go down to the lobby and get a burger." So at three-thirty in the morning, we got dressed and went down to the cafe in the lobby for a burger. To this day, if we find that we are both unable to sleep, one of us will say, "Let's go down to the lobby and get a burger!" It makes us smile, and reminds us of our love for one another. And every so often, just to make sure that the other one is really listening, one of us says, "Hey, it's three-thirty...let's go to WalMart!"
I guess it is in any couple's favor if they can relax enough right at the beginning of their relationship and approach life with a sense of humor. Little things that happen can either make you crazy or just make you laugh. We have enough challenges that can make us crazy, so we try to laugh whenever possible. I hope that whatever your relationship status is, your life is full of heartfelt laughter. And I hope that you will not be dive-bombed during a Shrimp War!
What he doesn't mention very often, though, is The Shrimp Wars of '99. We were having our first dinner in the buffet, and Trent was excited to dive into a large serving of shrimp cocktail, which is one of his favorite foods. For some reason, he decided to put the sauce on the shrimp rather than on the side of his plate. As I was sitting at the table eating something (what it was, I cannot remember) I was vaguely aware of seeing something come flying through the air. THUD! A flying shrimp had just bounced off of my eyeglasses. Trent was horrified. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry! I was peeling it and it shot right out of my fingers!" I had a good chuckle over it and reassured him that I was not mad. We went back to eating and THWACK! Another flying shrimp. This one bounced off my shoulder. Luckily I was wearing something dark and the sauce came right out, leaving no evidence. "What is this, the Shrimp Cocktail Wars?" I chuckled. "Nobody tells me nothing!" Trent switched to sauce on the side after that, and I have not been hit by any more flying shrimp. But I am always on the lookout for another Shrimp War.
Our body clocks seemed to get sort of whacked out while we were in Las Vegas. After all, you can find someplace to go or something to do at any time of the day or night. One night we realized that neither one of us was asleep during the wee hours of the morning, so we started talking. "I'm hungry," Trent said, "are you hungry too?" I had to admit that yes, I was pretty hungry. "Well, let's go down to the lobby and get a burger." So at three-thirty in the morning, we got dressed and went down to the cafe in the lobby for a burger. To this day, if we find that we are both unable to sleep, one of us will say, "Let's go down to the lobby and get a burger!" It makes us smile, and reminds us of our love for one another. And every so often, just to make sure that the other one is really listening, one of us says, "Hey, it's three-thirty...let's go to WalMart!"
I guess it is in any couple's favor if they can relax enough right at the beginning of their relationship and approach life with a sense of humor. Little things that happen can either make you crazy or just make you laugh. We have enough challenges that can make us crazy, so we try to laugh whenever possible. I hope that whatever your relationship status is, your life is full of heartfelt laughter. And I hope that you will not be dive-bombed during a Shrimp War!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)