Writing My Life

Today commemorates the 46th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. The Kennedy days have been described as Camelot. I understand that term was one of expectation and anticipation based upon the charm and beauty of John and Jacqueline. The press kept secrets in those days, so we didn’t know about the marital problems and infidelity, the details of poor political decisions, or the jealousies amongst the Washington insiders. Americans had lots to be concerned about – the spread of Communism in Southeast Asia, the proliferation of nuclear weapons, the growing tension between the USSR and the USA. Probably the least thing we needed to worry about was our the president-elect’s  religious background, but worried we were until worsening world events erased that concern. Today, I am thankful I live in a nation that managed to rebound from the challenges our nation faced at that time. Even as a young adolescent, I felt the impact of those years. I wish I had recorded my feelings at the time, but with the advantage of maturity, I now look back at my reactions to a few events that occurred nearly 50 years ago.

I was a seventh-grader when John F. Kennedy was elected president of the United States. I have fleeting memories of the election, including the TV debate between JFK and Richard Nixon and the controversy about the Kennedy’s Catholicism. I can’t remember the sources of my political information, but for some reason I worried about having a Catholic president. I don’t understand why I possessed such a prejudice because my favorite neighbors were Catholic, and they were kind and generous people. Perhaps I overheard relatives debating the issue or watched news stories on TV. Nevertheless, I sensed that many were nervous about putting a Catholic in the White House.

Not long after the election determined Jack Kennedy as the new president, I wandered across the fields separating the junior high and the elementary schools to visit Mr. Martin, my 5th grade teacher. I’m not sure why I decided to drop by his classroom because he was NOT one of my favorites. I actually think he was a good teacher as he expected the best behavior and academic performance from his students. He was a dynamic instructor who kept us focused AND laughing, but he was also very strict. Mr. Martin didn’t have a lot of patience with chatterboxes, and I was a notorious chatterbox; consequently, I didn’t think he liked me all that much.

Mr. Martin was also a strong Catholic who contributed so much to his religious community, and he sometimes talked of his activities. When I walked into his classroom, I was not surprised  to see a large portrait of the president-elect on the front bulletin board. For whatever reason, I immediately thought about the ethical guidelines banning political endorsements of candidates; consequently, this smart-mouth seventh grader commented in a 12-year-old, know-it-all voice, “I hope you didn’t put up that picture until AFTER the election!”

Irritated, Mr. Martin scolded and reassured me that he did not post it prematurely. For a few more minutes, we discussed the Kennedy election, and I made negative comments, adding a dour prediction of the man’s future that I won’t ever repeat or record. That embarrassing  exchange is lodged in my memory, and I am still ashamed of both my attitude and my criticisms. I didn’t know anything but acted as if I knew it all. Pathetic!

Over the next three years, I lived through the memorable Kennedy years as a young teenager. Some of my remembrances center upon the President and his first lady. It was impossible not to admire Jackie’s classy style and beauty. Like the rest of the world, I followed what Mrs. Kennedy wore in Washington or Paris. Even at age 14, I copied her style, pill-box hat, spike heels, and all! (I didn’t quite pull it off!)

I also lived through the scary times of the Kennedy administration. The most frightening was the Cuban Missile Crisis. When I think of that time, I picture myself in an LDS Seminary class at Alameda Jr. High as a 9th grader. Brother Empey was our instructor, and we were studying the Book of Mormon. We read about modern times as described in ancient scriptures, and I knew I was witnessing the fulfillment of prophesy. I remember being terrified at times, wondering, “Is this it? Is this the end?” During those few days in October, it has been said that the whole world held its breath. Cliched as the statement may be, it well describes the mood. It was all that we talked about, read about, and prayed about.

The most poignant memory of the era was November 22, 1963 when the young president was assassinated. Like so many, I can remember exactly where I was when I heard the terrifying news. By this time, I was a sophomore in high school and loving life. The frustrations of junior high were behind me, and while the world wasn’t at peace, the fears of the Cold War seemed diminished. And then one Friday morning at Highland High School, I stood at my locker, grabbing books for my next class. Suddenly, unusual chattering rippled through the hallway, and then tears, gasps, and cries. Finally, the news reached me: “President Kennedy has been shot!” Shock! Disbelief! End of the world! No words.

I wanted to leave school. I wanted to go somewhere to pray. I begged Heavenly Father to help our president survive. I so hoped the news was wrong, and he wasn’t injured as badly as was rumored. I wanted to know what happened, and I DIDN’T want to know because every detail made the events true. I was devastated. Our leader was fighting for his life! How could this happen in America? I wanted to wake up and find I’d been caught up in a nightmare, and then breathe again. But no.

For days upon days, the world watched news footage of the shooting, the wait at the hospital while doctors tried to save our president, the grim announcement that he didn’t survive, the manhunt for the suspect, the arrest and murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, the swearing in of Lyndon B. Johnson, the funeral procession, the lying-in-state, the services, and the eternal flame. Time stopped. For awhile. But then, as it always does, life continued on, and here it is November 22, 2009.

For one of our anniversaries, Gar gave me a framed work that included those cute pictures of  children all dressed up like young adults. The theme of this particular work was marriage, and besides the photos, it included “The 10 Commandments of a Happy Marriage.” No author is credited, and I “googled” the title and lines to find the writer. No luck.

To many, these statements may seem dated, but to old married folks, they ring true. Unselfishness lies at the heart of these commandments and at the heart of good marriages. The 10 are difficult to keep, but continuous effort brings forth the desired results ~ a lasting marriage filled with joy. What do you think?

The 10 Commandments of a Happy Marriage

1. Thou shalt always remember that thy marriage is a partnership between thee, thy spouse and the Lord. For in knowing this, thou wilt have the strength, courage, and determination to conquer all challenges that may come into thy marriage.
2. Thou shalt cleave unto thy spouse and let not thine eyes wander, nor do anything like unto it. For it is through fidelity and commitment that thou shalt find confidence and trust.
3. Thou shalt not be selfish with thy time, nor  with thy money, nor with anything else that is thine. For in doing this thou shalt avoid resentment and find harmony.
4. Thou shalt remember that thy parents are good, but need to give thee space in thy marriage. For it is through relying upon each other that communication and unity is formed.
5. Thou shalt always remember to call thy spouse sweetheart, honey, or whatever else makes them happy and to remember the little things. For it is through little acts of kindness that thou shalt find love and tenderness.
6. Thou shalt remember to always use kind words and cease to find fault with thy spouse. For in doing this, thou shalt find peace.
7. Thou shalt enjoy each other’s company and remember to date often. For it is in spending time together that one truly gets to know their spouse and find intimacy.
8. Thou shalt add the words “I’m sorry” to thy vocabulary and use them often. For in doing this, thou shalt melt down the barriers of anger and resentment and find mutual forgiveness.
9. Thou shalt recognize and acknowledge the desires, efforts and accomplishments of thy spouse. For in this thou shalt find appreciation and gratitude for one another.
10.  Thou shalt live within thy means and learn the difference between wants and needs. For in doing this thou shalt avoid needless stress and find contentment.

It’s a hard time for so many neighbors, friends, and family members who have lost jobs, accepted demotions or pay-cuts, watched their homes go into foreclosure, or declared bankruptcy. We empathize because we know how difficult such experiences are. Back in the late 80s, the semi-conductor industry foundered, and very early one January morning, the telephone rang. My husband’s short, abrupt responses sent a surge of anxiety straight to my stomach. I knew the dreaded news we’d been anticipating for several months had finally found us.

I wish I could say we were prepared for that day, but we weren’t. We hadn’t saved money, stored food, or paid off bills. Like ostriches, we just buried our heads and hoped we’d luck out. I HAD started back to college with the goal of completing my degree so that I could teach school and supplement our income. But I had a LONG way to go! In fact, I worried that I’d have to drop out of school a second time to find a job as soon as I could to help support the needs of our four growing boys.

Although we were terribly unprepared for this misfortune, we did have a few things going for us. First of all, my husband HAD and HAS an amazing work ethic. While completing dozens of applications, he didn’t sit back and wait for something to come his way. Of course, he filed for unemployment, but he also looked for any kind of available work. For example, he contacted his brother who operated a small janitorial service, so he and our sons cleaned offices at night. Gary also delivered Yellow Books every time that temporary job opened up. When spring broke, he borrowed a lawn aerator and offered yard services to  neighbors, friends, and relatives. With our sons’ help, it didn’t take long for him to build up a decent little business.

We looked at every possible way to bring in money, including selling whatever we could. Our Suburban was the first to go even though we had to sell it at a loss, and then we also held a few garage sales. Our sons withdraw from some of their extra-curricular activities and other opportunities. The sacrifice was not easy for them or for us because we hated to deny to three younger sons what had been given to the oldest.

Hubby and I talked often about whether or not I should quit school. I had very little work experience outside of mothering and running a household, but when my brother-in-law invited me to his accounting firm to interview for a secretarial position, I felt obligated to apply. FORTUNATELY, I failed the typing test – embarrassing as that was! I wanted so much to finish school that I decided to do everything I could to continue my education AND bring in some kind of money. I applied for every student loan, grant, and scholarship for which I qualified. When I learned that I earned the scholarships and would receive the needed financial aid, I decided I better carry as heavy load as I could to hasten graduation. And so, I carried between 15 and 21 credit hours a semester for the final two years.

It took four months for Gary to find another job at First Security Bank. It was good work that didn’t pay very much – 1/2 of what he’d been earning before. At one point, a neighbor approached him about leaving behind manual labor to sell Amway products. When Gar turned him down, our friend couldn’t understand it, wondering how he could “lower” himself to work at such menial jobs when he had the potential to earn 1000s with Amway. Honest labor was/is not an embarrassment to my husband, and KNOWING that he could put food on the table and keep a roof over our head was more important to him than HOPING he could through POSSIBLE sales.

In the meantime, I finished my 2 last years of schooling. I could not have accomplished it without a husband who encouraged me to reach my goals, even though it meant he had to  work three jobs. I also credit my boys for assisting their father in providing for our family and putting their mother through school. I’ll never forget how hard they worked and what they gave up. One particularly difficult month, our Joe bought school clothes for his little brother with money he earned from working at Taco Time.

Gary and the boys  continued with the yard and janitorial work until I procured a position with Jordan School District as an English teacher in 1991. Because of them, I earn a living doing what I love to do.  We’re not rich by any means, but we’re in a situation described in Gary’s patriarchal blessing: We can help those in need, including our children when they and their little families are struggling financially. For that, we are so grateful!

Sometimes I get caught up in wishing for this and that instead of appreciating what I have experienced. For example, I often daydream about going to Great Britain. I even check out prices when Travelzoo sends a message announcing travel at great savings. Some plane fares and accommodation charges are tempting, but we just don’t have the money … especially for the kind of trip I’d like to take! There is so much that I want to see and do that I would have to move there to take it all in.

You see, I want to take a family history trip because my ancestry originates there; and I long for a literary tour to see sites connected with Jane Austen and Wm. Shakespeare. Because of a historical interest in the tragedy of the Titanic, I HAVE to visit South Hampton. I’ve even written two chapters of a Young Adult novel about the voyage, and I think I really need to conduct research beyond the dozens and dozens of books I’ve read. I NEED TO GO THERE, DARN IT!!!

If I truly have an attitude of gratitude, however, I think about the great travel opportunities I’ve enjoyed over the years. I could blog about each one, but will just highlight one favorite with plans to expand upon more experiences at a later time. When I attended college at Brigham Young University, I was involved in the International Folk Dancers. I really couldn’t dance a lick, but made the team because I can SMILE big! Well, each year the director took a group of dancers to Europe. I cannot tell you how much I wanted to go on that tour, but when I asked my parents about the possibility, they told me NO! Can you imagine parents saying no to such a great opportunity – a once in a lifetime chance to dance across Germany, France, Austria, and Switzerland. How could they? I wasn’t used to that two-letter word. Of course, I didn’t really ask for much because they were such generous parents.

When Mom and Dad talked over the situation with me, they told me that my sister would not be able to join me at BYU the following year if they spent the money they’d saved for her college education on a trip to Europe for me. What could I say? I don’t remember being all that upset. Perhaps I didn’t think I would really make the traveling troupe anyway because a big smile can only take you so far. I was also very homesick that spring, and ready to return home for a while. Even the lure of Europe couldn’t erase that. I wanted to spend time with Mom and Dad and Connie and Puddles – our Pomeranian/Chihuahua.

Hospital not far from our cute apartment!

Fast forward a couple of years to 1970. I not only visited Germany, France, Austria, and Switzerland, I lived in Germany with my cute new hubby and we traveled to those other countries more than once. That little lesson taught me that deferred dreams don’t always mean denied dreams. Such desires are sometimes fulfilled in different ways and at different times than we imagine. And waiting a little longer never hurts and often makes the fruition all the sweeter.

Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous that my sister is going to see the New Moon premiere with her daughters at a theatre bought out by a friend of my niece’s, and they’re going to get Twilight gift bags and everything. But on the other hand, I’m NOT 15 anymore even though READING Twilight made me feel that way all over again – which was kinda fun!

What I’m REALLY covetous of is Stephanie Meyer’s drive to write a book based on a dream because she didn’t want the story to end upon awakening. So she put pen to paper or fingers to keys and worked through the Edward and Bella relationship. And then, she gathered up enough gumption to get the thing published, and the rest is history.

I would only assume that aspiring writers naturally turn green at the very mention of the famous author’s name, but I’ve found that successful authors are disgusted with her celebrity as well. When I say disgusted, I mean disgusted that they didn’t throw a sexy teen vampire into one of their plots. Young Adult writer, Gary Soto, didn’t mince any words about wishing he had thought of that. Of course, his vampire character would have been a Latin hunk.

(I need to find out what Anne Rice thinks of this latest outbreak of vampire mania and the author who re-ignited it. I wonder if Twilight readers have turned into Vampire Chronicle readers because they are thirsting  looking for more. – Sorry I couldn’t resist the pathetic pun; probably should have inserted a “pun alert.”)

The interesting phenomenon about phenomenons is that a writer like J.K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer didn’t wake up one day and declare, “Today I’m going to write an international best-selling series that will knock the socks off readers both young and old. And the books will be so wildly popular that production studios will beat down my door, begging to adapt the books into movies. Finally, marketing crazies will mass produce everything from action figures to blood-based cosmetic lines that will not only make the fans happy, they will make me a multi-millionaire/billionaire.”

No, these women tapped into their imaginations and then ran with the results because they liked their stories and wanted to see their characters come to life for themselves and for whatever readers might find these people on paper interesting. (Whew! That’s a long sentence!)

Two of my four sons have similar desires, but in the movie world. My oldest, Chris, has written at least 7 screen plays and has yet to see one make it to a screen – big or little. But he doesn’t quit writing AND marketing to investors. (See Bullpen Studios! Very cool!)

His youngest brother Tim shares his dreams and his talents with his big brother. Two of Chris’ screen-writes are Tim’s creation. Plus Little Brother has acted in some indies, performed on stage, photographs the world, digitally draws like a professional! Of course, he does all this WITHOUT pay! He’d be a starving student if he didn’t live in our basement while chasing his dream. We just hope he catches it before turning 30! And so does he!!

As for me, blogging is the closest I’ve come to “publishing” on a continuous basis. And I like to think I bring a little laughter into the lives of the 5 or 10 readers who drop by on occasion. That doesn’t mean, I don’t have dreams of something bigger. I suppose I better get on with the pursuit. At age 61, I don’t have all the time in the world. But who does?

HERE’S TO DREAMS!

Sometimes I wonder what pushes me to keep doing this – posting every day for 30 days. Is it because I want to celebrate Thanksgiving in writing? Is it because I want to see if I can really complete the challenge? Perhaps it’s because I want to develop a habit of journaling everyday.  And, according to some obscure self-help book,  if you want to form a habit, do that thing for 30 days.  We’ll see. Maybe I want to examine my life, for Socrates advised that “a life unexamined is not worth living.”

Whatever the reason, I feel like this has been a good experience. Throughout the day, I often contemplate what I am grateful for and then try to decide which of those I want to blog about. I mentioned more than once that I’m well aware of many significant blessings in my life; nevertheless, I write about pretty simple, even silly things. Why? Because I don’t have to think so deeply about such incidentals. I can write at a “surface level” which doesn’t take nearly as long as laboring over thoughtful pieces.

So, what minor necessity/luxury do I appreciate on the 17th day of blogging? My hide-away/ my refuge/my BASEMENT!

Until we moved here to the little-house -on-the-golf-course, we had not enjoyed a finished basement. But I wasn’t too sad about that because I’ve never really been a big fan of basements. Let’s face it, for  long time, these subterranean rooms were cReEPy!

Gramma H’s was the scariest because it was more of a cellar, while Gramma B’s basement included a finished bedroom of sorts where my sister and I slept when staying the night. Both of my grandparents’ basements, however,  housed monstrous coal furnaces – the kind that inspires NiGhTMaReS! There were also fruit rooms in these cellars, but in addition to canned peaches, tomatoes, and pears, we could also find bottled spiders and preserved earwigs amongst the dust and cobwebs. Sometimes I hated retrieving harvest bounties from such sinister confines, but upon other occasions, I enjoyed pretending I was an orphaned child left to my own devices in the dungeon of an abandoned mansion. Imagination nearly always fortified the courage needed to wander down creaking stairs and meander through narrow and dank passages to my destination. More than once, however, a sudden clang or mysterious groan from the furnace room sent me scuttling back up the stairs to the warmth of Gramma’s kitchen.

The basement in my childhood home was modern in comparison. Mom and Dad refinished it to include a “rumpus room” or “TV room” – precursor to the  “family room” of the 70s and 80s and the “great room” of today. Our rumpus room ran nearly the entire length and width of the front of the house, thus allowing for a cozy TV-watching nook and a hobby area where Mom often sewed and worked on other projects. I can still see the yards of Kelly-green and gray linoleum flooring and remember the “dutch-door” that opened into the room by halves. I’m not sure why my folks installed such a door, but it was a built-in play thing for Connie and me. We loved to open the top half and pretend to take orders for hamburgers like waitresses did at walk-up diners. Other times, we’d close the top half of the door, open the bottom and just duck and run in and out, in and out, in and out. I don’t know why we thought that was so fun, but we did.

A semi-finished play room and an unfinished wash room and furnace room each held its own memories of mischief and mayhem. Once I played with candles in the playroom, and when Mom called me upstairs, I hurried and blew out the flame – or so I thought. Because the candle was stuck in the center of a stack of black plastic coasters, the burning wick melted both wax AND plastic, creating caustic, black, billowing smoke. The smoldering coasters slowly burned the top of our little wooden kitchen table until the acrid odor wafted upstairs and alerted Mom and Dad. The young pyromaniac was justly punished!

The washroom served as the scene of a birthday mystery. While patiently playing at the neighbor’s, waiting  for my party to start , I decided to return and search for Mom because I worried that my cake remained UNfrosted.  I could not find her anywhere in the kitchen or bedrooms, so I turned my investigation to the basement. As I clip-clopped down the stairs, I noticed drops of blood splattered on nearly every step! I followed the trail to find a small pool of the red stuff in the wash room. Screaming her name, I ran outside, sure that some basement boogie-man had first maimed and then kidnapped my mother ON MY BIRTHDAY! I don’t remember how long I wandered from door to door looking for her, but I finally learned that a friend rushed Mom to the hospital to stitch up the finger she nearly sliced off with a wire cutter! In spite of her injury, my cake was frosted and my party at Ross Park proceeded as scheduled. WHAT A MOM!

I hid the evidence of my sugar habit in the crevices and crannies of the unfriendly furnace room. I think my addiction to straight-from-the-package-Jello started when the neighborhood Jello junkie gathered us urchins to the field at the entrance of our street. The tall weeds hid our clandestine activities from the grown-ups. Better than PixiStix, the powdery substance was divided among a half-dozen dirty cupped hands. We savored every lick, but the paltry portion didn’t satisfy my lust for sugar. For weeks after, I robbed our kitchen cupboards of J-E-L-L-O! I’d head for the furnace room and lick the sticky stuff until both my palms and tongue turned bright red, orange, or green – depending upon the available flavor! Not wanting to risk Mom finding the boxes and wax-paper pouches in the trash, I stuffed the evidence behind stacks of  boxes and barrels that shared space with the furnace. (I guess I thought Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice my colorful hands or tongue.) Of course, she always stumbled upon the proof of my thievery and consumptive habit, and it drove her cRaZy! She didn’t think I’d ever wean myself from the sugary goodness! (In years since I’ve tried another lick or 2, but somehow it just doesn’t have the same appeal as it did when I fed my habit in hiding!)

As I finally finish this lengthy rambling, I’m sitting in my cozy hide-away. The overstuffed sectional circles around the big screen TV, which is playing Sinatra/American Standards over a SIRIUS music station. My feet are propped up on the HUGE ottoman; bookshelves line the walls; and the lights are low. I can feel the stress of the day drain away as I relax here in the BASEMENT. Ahhhhhh!

Good night.

Day 16 NaWriMoPo November challenge: Starting the downward slope!

For awhile there, I thought I’d be checking myself into the nearest asylum, but not only did I survive, relationships thrived! I just finished a stint caring for my oldest son’s 4 children while Mom and Dad cruised the Caribbean. I share the responsibilities with the “other” grandma, taking shifts 1 and 3: the bookend weekends. This equaled 6+ days of the 10.

During my first shift, oldest sister asked if she could rollerblade with her friend for a FEW minutes, and she even volunteered to take along her littlest brothers(ages 3 and 18 months) and push them in their double stroller. This enabled me to clean up uninterrupted, a luxuary for moms and babysitters!

About 30 LONG minutes later, as I was ready to head out in search of Sis, the phone rang.

Hi! (panic in voice of young stranger.) This is M., T.’s friend. (Voice pitch rising with every word) Well, T. fell on top of C. (18-month-old) while she was trying to help C.J. (3-year-od). And, well, she thinks her arm is broken.

Me: WHERE ARE YOU? (Voice pitch can’t rise any higher or grow any louder)

M.: Uh, we’re at the big church (1/2 mile away and on a busy street), and we’re walking home.

Me: STAY PUT; I’LL BE RIGHT THERE! (Oh, great! Can’t wait to call the parents and tell them that before they even left the harbor, their daughter might be docking at the emergency room!)

Upon my arrival at the accident scene, the uninjured friend was pushing the injured 10-year-old and BOTH toddlers in the stroller! (If I hadn’t been in stress mode, I would have snapped a picture with my camera!)

Grampa arrived at home about the same time I safely delivered the sobbing victim, and he proceeded to boost her spirts: “Come on now, little camper! Don’t you know you have pioneer blood in your veins? Why your ancestors crossed the plains without a whimper or a whine! Now dry up those tears so I can get you to the doctor. I can’t take you to the clinic if you’re crying.”

The tender attention perked her right up. Three hours later, Grampa returned with the laughing T. and her giggling friend. No broken arm, but ace bandages held the form-fitting splint in place. Once the X-rays were analyzed, the doctor assured her that she could take off the splint, but NO! Miss T. had to come back with some indicator that she had been injured. She wore the splint for 2 and a half hours.

This is NOT the only adventure of the 6 days in November, but it’s all I can record right now! Just think, I didn’t miss a posting an entry on my blog during the entire fiasco!!!

I’ve decided not to start with a title because the last few entries strayed so far from my original idea that I was forced to manipulate the title to bring it a little closer to the point but still not drastically removed from the original. The reason I feel compelled to keep a semblance of my first title is because it remains forever embedded in the web-address. I don’t know why I feel I must explain this, but I do.

Today, I am thankful for options to delete OR to change the visibility of entries. You see, last night I decided to write about the wonders of rocking a child, especially your own or a grandchild. Instead I launched into a description of my insane week.

The words just flew from brain to fingers to screen! I was in the zone; I was experiencing flow; and IT FELT GOOD. All the frustrations, indignities, and craziness of the past days melted away – I felt like I was in a Calgon bath. Ahhhhhhhhh!

And it was a funny piece, too. Sure sarcasm lay at the heart of the humor, but it wasn’t too vicious. Furthermore, my points were pretty well made – at least I thought so, and for awhile I believed some of my very few readers would agree.

Refreshed and revitalized, I clicked the “Publish” button after only two minor revisions (a first, I believe) and readied for bed at 9:22 P.M.  Before 10:00, I snuggled deep into the down comforter, hoping to quickly fall asleep. And then it hit me. My post was an ornery one! Guilt became my bedfellow, and I started reviewing every line and countering every point.

I am FORTUNATE to own the issues I have. What did I really have to complain about? Sure, I may have been right about this or that, but is being right always important? Especially when others’ feelings are involved? And I care very much about these “others.” What if a miracle occurred, and they actually logged on and read my blog – something the NEVER do, but what if this time they did? How would they take it? Would they see the humor in the situation, and maybe even agree with me? Probably NOT.

They would offer counter points, too, that could make sense if I were open minded at all. Oh, and I also brought the circumstances upon myself by agreeing to participate! As always, I have options, and I chose the first one, so why complain – right?

Darn, before 15 minutes passed, I decided to delete the entry, but I’m trying to post 30 times in 30 days! (CURSE YOU, NaBloPoMo.) I really didn’t have the time to delete this posting and create another. And I then I remembered the visibility option – the Holy Grail of blogging repentance. Hoo ray! I could make these grumpy thoughts PRIVATE ones! For MY eyes only! Whew!

Besides, it was a pretty good entry. I made some decent arguments. And it was kind of funny.