The Effects of Trickle-Down Meanness

The date was March 21, 1997.  Sunny and 75 degrees outside, it was a postcard perfect day, but Henry hadn't noticed.  Inside, his boss, who had been chewed out earlier in the day by the president of the company where Henry worked, was mean to him for no good reason. Driving home, Henry didn't notice the blue skies, warmth of the sun, flowers blooming, trees budding, birds in flight because all he could think about was how mean his boss was to him for no good reason.

Upon arriving home, Henry's wife Sarah said, "It's the first day of spring; it's gorgeous out; let's take a walk before dinner to appreciate nature's beauty," but Henry didn't hear her because all he could think about was how mean his boss was to him, and he snapped at her for no good reason.

Sarah retreated to the kitchen where she found little Johnny holding a Daffodil that he had picked for her.  "Mommy, I picked this pretty yellow flower just for you," he said. But Sarah didn't see in her son's face the excitement and joy from giving someone you love a gift. All she could think about was how mean Henry was to her, and she yelled at Johnny for no good reason.

Little Johnny turned around and ran out the backdoor. He ran down the stairs and sat down on the bottom step next to where Fido the dog was basking in the sun. Fido immediately jumped up, ran for his ball, and returned to his young master, tail wagging and eager to play. But Johnny didn't join in Fido's enthusiasm because all he could think about was how mean his mother was to him, and he screamed at Fido for no good reason.

Fido dropped the ball and walked down the sidewalk in the backyard that led to the garage and an old majestic oak tree with branches that spread out over several properties in the neighborhood. Dejected, Fido laid down under the tree, put his head on his outstretched front legs, and sighed. He had two questions on his mind: 1) Why was Johnny mean to him for no good reason, and 2) Where the heck was his scapegoat, Fluffy the cat?

Plop

Ouch! Something hit Fido on the head.

Plop, Plop

Dang! Fido looked all around for the source of his discomfort but didn't see a thing. What was plopping him on the head?  Fido wondered who would be so mean as to cause him pain for no good reason.

Plop, Plop, Plop

From the safety of his perch on the oak tree branch, Fluffy the cat, who had suffered the effects of trickle-down meanness by living with Henry, his wife and son and their dog for ten years, lobbed another four acorns at Fido.

Plop, Plop, Plop, Plop

Fido, wincing in pain, heard rustling overhead and looked up to see Fluffy about to throw more acorns. "Fluffy, why are you being so mean to me for no good reason?" Fido said, just as a nut smacked Fido on the nose, "Oh, I have my reasons," the cat said, "They just aren't good ones. Run Fido Run."



So my question is this. When are there ever "good" reasons to be mean to others? No matter how you try to justify it, being mean is always a bad thing, never good. That's my elder perspective and I'm stickin' to it.

Very Very Very Scary

The Trump thing would be very funny

if it were not very true 

and very sad and

very scary.

                                                                   --Hemingway (rolling over in his grave)

The Haters

There was a time when I assumed I was doing a pretty darn good job during my short stint here on earth.  I've always strived to do good and be good. I assumed most everyone respected me and looked upon me favorably.

"HURRY UP AND DIE!"

                        --Anonymous
                            

There was a time when I assumed I was contributing to society in a positive way.

"HATE YOU FOR WHAT YOU 

HAVE DONE TO SOCIETY."

                            --Anonymous

There was a time when I assumed I was not responsible for what ails America.

"YOU...RUINED AMERICA! YOU...HAVE DESTROYED

 SOCIETY WITH YOUR FEMINISM, YOUR LIBERALISM, 

YOUR PRO-HOMOSEXUALITY, YOUR MULTICULTURALISM

ETC, ETC. ETC."

                       --Anonymous

It has been brought to my attention that my assumption that I was doing and being good was wrong. My assumption has made an "as" out of my "sumption," and even though I have no idea what that means, Anonymous assures me that it's bad. So bad, in fact, I need to expire, kick the bucket, buy the farm, hurry up and die. This hater left the above comments on my blog on August 29, 2013, when I posted the below cartoon. I know I'm not a good cartoonist, but blaming me for destroying our society, the ruination of America, and all that etcetera etcetera etcetera stuff, and then condemning me to death seems a bit severe, don't ya think?

"SO DIE ALREADY!"

The haters have always been out there spewing vulgarities, nonsensical philosophies, and anger at anyone they disagree with or disapprove of. Haters are mean-spirited people, and now with the tools provided by the Internet and social media, they are everywhere spreading ugliness and hate everyday. Their voices are shrill, obnoxious, loud and hard to ignore. Their reach is extensive and impossible to evade. Haters have discovered the artillery that will deliver, with bull's eye accuracy, their poisonous darts. Their goal is to do harm.

"ARE YOU STILL HERE? I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO DIE ALREADY!"

I was just saying goodbye.

"GET OUTTA HERE! BUT DON'T FORGET TO VOTE FOR ME IN NOVEMBER. THEN DIE."

I made that last part up, but you knew that already. 

Respect is a Four-Letter Word

Respect is a four-letter word. Well, it is if you're texting. "I nd yu 2 rspt me." Yep! That's how the texting minimalists say "I need you to respect me." Since all the younger members of my family want to communicate by texting from their smart phones, I've had to learn a whole new language, and at my age, that's not easy. My difficulties with texting are three-fold: 1) My fingers are too big and clumsy, and they move too slowly on the miniature keyboard,  2) It takes so long for me to write a message that I sometimes forget what I was saying, 3) The disrespect for the proper use of the English language is disturbing to me.

When I attended school from 1952-1964, the teachers drew a  line in the sand and then stepped back with their red pens and grade books in their hands and said,  "If you step across this line into the area of misspelled words, improper grammar, and punctuation errors you will get a failing grade." And they meant it. Then they would walk up and down the aisles, picking students indiscriminately to ask them how to punctuate or conjugate a sentence or spell a word.  If the student answered correctly, the teacher would move on to the next student. If they were wrong, the teacher would hit them on the top of the head with their college class ring. And I'm not making that up.

"OK, LTS STP RGT HR!" you text. "THT IS NT RGT! THT IS DSRSPTFL!" you say.

Yes, you are correct. That is disrespectful, but at least we baby boomers were presented to the world with the ability to put a complete, proper, and correct sentence together.

 

The Child Within

You know when you're doing it, but you can't help yourself. The impulsive, bratty child within you overwhelms your more reasonable, logical, mature adult. Besides, it feels so good. Well, at least it does while you're doing it. But then later, when Hindsight presents you with a look back, you can see clearly that maybe you should have counted to ten first and then proceeded cautiously in order to avoid the unpleasant affect that you caused.  But nooooo... you had to go there, didn't you? You had to light the match to the fireworks.

Oh, there are so many reasons why, let me count the ways: You've been wronged; you've had a bad day; it was a knee-jerk reaction; it's the seething, deep-seated irritation and/or anger that lies within; you're a jerk. Those are the five reasons I use. What's your reason? Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot who I was writing to. You always treat everyone with the highest regard. You would never treat others poorly. The adult within you has complete control over your obstreperous inner child, and the moment that child begins to misbehave, you just pull that switch down from top the refrigerator and beat the snoot out of that damn rug rat. Wait a minute! That doesn't sound right.

When I worked at a company formerly known as RCA, one of my co-worker friends--a friend at the office only--was considered one of the kindness, nicest, most accommodating employees in our department.  Occasionally we would go to lunch together, and this would be the opportunity Suze used to complain about her husband. Oh, he was a really good guy, she said, but he irritated the daylight out of her. And she was mean to him, she confided. Really mean. She knew when she was treating him with disrespect, but she couldn't help herself. It just felt soooo good, she said. Really, Suze? Are you serious? I think you should beat the crap out of the child within you, tie her to a telephone pole and let squirrels nibble on her until she expires. Wait a minute! That doesn't sound right.

It's the cause and affect of disrespect that I object to. What does that mean, you ask? Well, I don't really know. It just sounded good. "It's the cause and affect of disrespect that I object to." It has a nice ring to it and it rhymes, too.  Actually, as I sit here staring at my computer, drinking my first cup of coffee, and contemplating what "It's the cause and affect of disrespect that I object to." means, it's coming to me.

When you--not you personally but you as everyone else but you--choose (yes, it's a choice) to treat other people with disrespect, your actions are the impetus, the cause that puts into play negative (never positive) responses such as hurt, discomfort, pain, suffering, resentment, and anger. And, it's all because you--not you personally; everyone knows your treatment of others is exemplary--can't get that spoiled rotten child within you under control. If reasoning with your child doesn't work, just bend her over the arm of the couch, pull her pants down, whoop her bare butt with a paddle while yelling "SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD! GOD SAVE THIS CHILD FROM THE DEVIL!" Wait a minute! That doesn't sound right, so, what I just said above... never mind.

 

Respect was Alive and Well

The reason why I choose to quit my job rather than allow my boss's boss to treat me with disrespect was because I thought I had nothing to lose--well, except my job--by standing up to him. The old saying "I was looking for a job when I found this one" was my reasoning when asked how I could leave one job before securing another.  My rationale was solid: I was living at home with my parents, money wasn't an issue, and I would absolutely not give that man permission to treat me with such low regard. Nope! No way! Not happening! As it turned out, my drawing a line in the sand worked. I received an apology, I went back to work, respect was alive and well, and all was as it should be.

Shortly after I quit and then came back to WIFE Radio Station, I quit for good. My bags were packed and I was moving to either England or California. But which one? I couldn't decide. It came down to a coin flip; California won. Carol Lewis, a friend from high school and a WIFE co-worker, Sue Cline, agreed to go with me to Los Angeles to help me scout out a place to stay, but even before we reached LA, I was missing my boyfriend and ready to come back home. I thought I could leave him and his mistreatment of me behind in Indiana, but I was wrong.

The reason why I choose to stay in a disrespectful relationship rather than walk away was because I thought I had everything to lose, but I was wrong. It took nine years before I figured out just how wrong I was. When I finally gave my notice that I was leaving, quitting, going bye-bye, adios, later gator...things did not go well at the going-away party.

 

Boyfriends Were Exempt

For a lot of my childhood, respect was something I never thought I deserved. When respect came my way, I wallowed in it; it was a wonderful feeling knowing others thought enough of me to treat me with high regard. Seven years under Hazel's dictatorship had led me to believe that I was worthy of whatever neglect, indifference, and abuse that came my way. And yes, striking another human being while chanting "spare the rod, spoil the child. God, save this child from the devil" is abuse in more ways than just physical.

At twelve, I got the antidote for Hazel's poison when mother left her to marry Royal Orville, an American Indian from West Virginia, but by that time the damage was done. My new dad was a gentle, kind man who actually liked me, or was it all pretend? I was afraid that once he settled into our family, the mean would devour the nice, the beatings would replace the gentle pats on my back, and harsh words would bat away the kindness that had become the dynamic in our short relationship.

Speaking of relationships and dynamics, it never came into my mind as I grew past the corporal punishment age and into my young adult years that I had a say in how others treated me. What I got was what I had to accept. I had no choice. Not once did it occur to me that the dynamics in a relationship were something I could control. Not once did I think I could ask for and get respect. But then one day something happened that started the pendulum in motion.

I was twenty-one and a secretary for the President of WIFE radio station at 1330 North Meridian Street. It was rumored that the owner of the station was a tyrant who liked to scream and yell at his employees. Firing them on the spot was another one of his favorite things to do, so on the day he was to visit the radio station, I was a nervous wreck. (I don't do well with screamers and yellers.)

I heard him before I saw him. He was in the room next to my office and he was yelling and throwing things against the wall. I braced myself for my turn with him, which didn't take long. He walked into my office and without introducing himself, he said, "Get me some coffee, NOW! Black!" And then he walked next door to the President's office. I went to the kitchen, poured him a cup of coffee and delivered it to him. He said nothing. I went back to my office, sat down and vibrated from fear. But not for long. It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't have to take his crap.

He yelled for me from my boss's office. I didn't move. He yelled again. Still not moving. He walked into my office and yelled, "Come when I call you, young lady!" I stood up, looked him straight in the eyes and said, "I quit!" I gathered up my things, walked past him and out the back door. It felt so good. When I arrived home, the telephone was ringing. "Mr. Burden wants you to come back to work," the Program Manager said. "He's sorry if he upset you!" So I did. I went back and he treated me wonderfully from then on.

With a few exceptions like childhood, prison, nursing homes, and holidays at the in-laws, how others treat us in our control. Once I made that realization that day at WIFE radio station, the pendulum began to swing the other way for me in every aspect of my life except one: boyfriends.

Boyfriends were exempt from the respect requirement because, because, because...well, I don't really know the reason. Maybe it was because I was desperate for a boyfriend and what is the definition of disrespect anyway? It can be vague sometimes. The line in the sand, when it came to my significant other, could easily be redrawn because, because, because...well, I don't know why. Maybe I thought something is better than nothing, so I accepted whatever my boyfriends gave me because, because, because...well, I don't know why I let them treat me poorly. And what is the definition of poorly anyway? It can be vague sometimes.

Respect Appears to be Hard to Find

I've just looked back through my rambling blog to find stories that I have written about Respect, and I can find nothing. But they are there, somewhere, sprinkled around in the more than five hundred stories I've written over the past six years.  They are there in plain sight, but I'm having difficulty locating them. Respect appears to be hard to find.

Respect

A feeling of high regard one human has for 

another; admiration because of blah, blah, blah.

                                                        --Mikidikipedia

In its most stripped-down, basic definition, respect for our fellow man and woman is something each of us deserve. Just being, not doing, is worthy of respect.

A more in-depth description of respect is when you have to fill in the blah, blah, blah. Just being is not good enough for some people. You have to earn their high regard for you. There's work to be done. So you can't just stand still in one spot with your hands in your pockets and wear a t-shirt that says, "I'm being. I deserve respect!" Oh, no! It ain't that easy. You have to do stuff. Ya know, the blah, blah, blah mentioned above stuff.

There are those who will say "Respect is gone" but I disagree. Respect is not gone, it just looks as if it's gone. Like the slight of hand of the master magician, its disappearance is an illusion.

Illusion

A thing that your senses will wrongly
tell you "is" when in fact it really "isn't."

                                         ---Mikidikipedia

Respect is still here; it's alive and well and thriving. Except for an occasional close encounter with disregard, respect is all around us: our family, friends, co-workers, schoolmates, members of our church and community. It is still the accepted behavior of the civilized world, but at times it looks as if it's disappeared. The power of deception is in the magic of the master manipulators. A good example for this is reality television and the people whose goal it is to make a lot of money by deceiving the gullible: you and me and everyone else who are watching reality television and believing it's real.

Respect is not going away, but reality TV and Hollywood will make you believe it is. The truth is manipulated to give viewers the illusion that stable, humble and kind have been devoured by manic, egomania, and mean. And that can be problematic for the very young, the very gullible, the very stupid, and the misdirected. These people will look at bad behavior they see on TV and in the movies and assimilate it into their own behavior. Monkey see, monkey do. Remember when millions of people began smoking in the 1930's and 40's when they saw their favorite actors smoking in the movies? Oh, I forgot; that was way before your time. Smoking was a cool thing to do, but we have now discovered smoking is anything but cool, and so is being mean to others, so don't do it. Be nice.

Respect is here to stay and that's reality.

At the End of the Day

My hindsight has redeemed itself. It's awake; it's pulled its head out of the sand, and it's now fulfilling its job description: reviewing past events and providing clarity, understanding, and perspective.  That may seem like a simple task, but it's anything but simple if it's your job to follow me around all day, log everything I do, analyze and critique it, try to make sense of it, and then, at the end of the day, give me a report card showing how good or bad I handled myself in the events of the day.

There is a saying my son uses when talking about those things in life that he feels are important and those that aren't: "At the end of the day, what really matters is..." he will say, and then he will explain his rationale for his opinion.

Jason has a very active hindsight working for him. It takes its job very, very seriously, and it doesn't tolerate slackers (more about that later). I have to wonder...does my son's hindsight come to him at the end of each day with an accordion folder--you know, the kind that expands from 1" to 18"--jammed-packed full of the day's events? Does his hindsight sit down with him and go over every little detail of every event, staying up really late to make sure no detail is left untouched?  The reason I ask that question is because my hindsight doesn't write anything down and it starts to nod off at 8:30 every evening.

Jason's hindsight and my hindsight don't always see eye-to-eye. Jason's hindsight doesn't tolerate slackers very well. It believes that if a hindsight is supposed to start working the minute its person wakes up, then it should wake up fifteen minutes early, have its coffee already, and be ready to log events the moment its person's feet hit the floor. My hindsight likes to sleep in, all curled up in the down comforter, so you can see the rub here. Like I said...they don't see eye-to-eye. But here's the good news. They get along very well because they have great respect for each other.

Next subject for blog: Respect...coming soon.

One Gnat's Butt Pimple

When Hindsight is fully awake and doing its job there's a lot to take in, sort through, think about, analyze, put into perspective, and blog about.

I have just returned from a ten-day very eventful trip to Indianapolis, and I'm glad it's over. It wasn't one of my best visits back home. Most of the events were insignificant yet Hindsight thought them worthy enough to share with me...over and over and over.

Here's an example: One day, after leaving Jason's house in Trafalgar for the one-hour trip back to my apartment in Lawrence, I was on a narrow two-lane country road (with drop off's and no shoulders) just south of Franklin, when a big white SUV with a Cadillac emblem on its hood raced up behind me and cozy'd up to the back bumper of my car. I was driving five miles over the 50 mph speed limit, but apparently that was not fast enough. I needed to go faster, faster, FASTER!! With each glance into my rearview mirror my blood pressure rose 10 points. With each second I was getting more angry. Finally I pulled off the road, rolled down my window, made a mad face while shaking my finger like a scolding teacher as the car passed me. I might have said some things too, but my memory is not so good these days.  I continued on home and by the time I pulled my car into the garage, I had forgotten all about the tailgating incident. But wait! Not so fast. Hindsight saw the whole thing and played it back for me...over and over and over again. The part of the brain that deals with logic got involved; there was a lot of analyzing going on; things were put into perspective. Please see below for the final analysis of this event:

This event is as important as a pimple on a gnat's butt. 

In the big scheme of things, it's not significant.

Hindsight is trying to make up for neglecting its job in the past when it slept a lot, stuck its head in the sand and basically let me do things repeatedly that were not in my (or others) best interest. Without Hindsight's retrospection, without sorting through past events, thinking about, critiquing and analyzing them, and putting them into a context that made sense, I was doomed to repeat not positive results forever. 

As the days passed, one gnat's butt pimple turned into big bulbous acne and I was a mess, mostly because Hindsight was on its game and kept bringing me its catch of the day. Like a cat that repeatedly deposits mangled dead mice at its owner's front door, my hindsight was delivering dissected parts of daily events that made me look really bad. After each event went through analysis, the final report was always the same: This event is an important as a pimple on a gnat's butt. In the big scheme of things, it's not significant.

And then on my last day in Indy, Maggie Mae got sick. I rushed her to a 24 Hour Emergency Vet Hospital. Everything was happening so fast and yet it felt like slow motion. The ever-increasing intensity of her pain and suffering was so hard to bear as I held her in my arms while driving the short five minutes--which felt like an hour--to the people whose job it was to save my precious little girl. Things did not go well, and the next twenty-four hours were full of tears and sobs, anxiety, and constant concern. The thought of losing Maggie Mae was so horrific, I couldn't allow myself to go down that rabbit hole. I gathered within me all the strength I could muster to not fall apart because instead of helping Maggie, the Emergency Vet Hospital misdiagnosed her condition and gave her medicine that turned her condition to critical; I had a difficult choice to make. Would this be the last day of Maggie's life? 

The answer was "Nope! Not if I can help it." I took Maggie out of the hospital at 7:00 a.m. yesterday morning, and while Maggie cried and whined in the backseat, I drove nine hours straight to her Vet here in Franklin, where he was waiting for her at the door. We were now in a safe place where the concern was for saving Maggie, not making certain I signed a document first guaranteeing a payment of $1200 before he saw her. 

Last night when Tom turned out the lights and climbed into bed, he did what he always does: He leaned over and kissed me on my eyebrow and said, "Oops. I was aiming for your lips." Then he kissed Maggie who was cuddled up between us, asleep and snoring. "God I love that girl so much," he said, "and you too, of course," he added.

With Maggie curled up on my lap, I am sitting here at my computer blogging about my visit to Indy. I say out loud, "I am so grateful she is still with us." She looks up at me with her little brown eyes. I wonder...does she have any idea how much she is loved? How devastated we would be if we lost her? The very next thought that comes to my mind is how clearly I can see now, when looking back with Hindsight at the events of the past week, which ones were as significant as a pimple on a gnat's butt and the one that was way more important. 

Life is too short, especially for a gnat; go to the prom.