There’s not enough tea or chocolate or oxygen today…

I don’t have a problem with authority. I really never have had a problem with authority. I’m not the kind of adult that will rail against The Man. I wasn’t the type of kid that would protest an injustice.

I turn the channel when people start arguing about the senate or the house or the president or the Kardashians. It has always seemed like too much energy to expend. At heart, when I vote, I do because it’s the dutiful thing to do– not because I believe (or have ever believed) that my one vote will make any difference.

Coworker is driving me nuts today. A series of emails belies coworker’s inability to simply accept authority and do what needs to be done. Coworker will argue every tiny word. Every tiny phrase. Coworker will misquote, mislead, misinterpret and reply all in an attempt to win an argument that only coworker is having.

It’s not a good start to my week. I’m exhausted already and it’s only the first hour.

Sigh.

Growing up

Jack lately is full of questions.

Some of them are easy to answer.

“MOMmy– did you cuddle me a lot when I was a baby?” (“Yes.”)

“What time are we going to soccer practice?” (“We need to leave by 5:40″)

“How do you spell ten in Spanish?” (“D-i-e-z”)

Some of them not so much. Today’s conversation on the way to school:
Jack: Who was ‘Chancellor Hitler’?
Me: He was a very, very bad man that did evil things to lots of innocent people because they were different than him. He thought being different was bad. How do you know about Chancellor Hitler?
Jack: He’s on the StarWars documentary. He had an army.
Me: Yes. Some of the costumes in StarWars look like the uniforms that Hitler used for his army. That makes them even scarier when you know about the terrible things that he had his army do.
Jack: But then he got arrested by the police and went to jail and everything was okay again, right?
Me: No. He killed millions of people– whole families. There was a whole war where lots of soldiers were killed, too.
Jack: Did his army all die?
Me: No. Some of them went to jail [YOU explain the Nuremburg trials to a 7 year old...] and some of them died but a lot of them weren’t ever punished. You’ll learn more about this when you are a little older– but for now it’s important to remember that Hitler was a very, very evil man.
Jack: He didn’t have any love in his heart. Not even for his own family.
Me: I think you have it, Jack.

——–

This week at school there’s a little “Spirit Week” to celebrate the end of the MEAP testing month. Yesterday was easy– “Backwards Day.” Jack wore his clothes backwards– which wasn’t entirely unusual for him with the exception of his hoodie sweatshirt. Today was “Crazy Hair Day.” We enlisted Keegan to come help him achieve the spiky hair he wanted. He looked pretty cute. And he liked the attention of Keegan fussing over his hair. We all remarked about how nice it actually looked– and then he got embarrassed. By the time we drove to school (chatting about Adolf Hitler) he was nervous. When we pulled into the parking lot he balked. “Mommy? What if I’m the only one with crazy hair today?” “Oh no, Jacky– there will be lots of kids with really crazy hair. Some of the mommies were on facebook last night talking about the funny things their kids wanted to do.” “Like what, Mom?” “Well– someone mentioned green hair spray. And someone mentioned lots of pony tails….” “So I won’t be the only one?” “Jack– look at yourself– it’s not even that crazy– you could wear it like that to church if you wanted. It’s handsome.” “Okay. I just don’t want to be the only one.”

And to think I thought Hitler and peer pressure were still a few years off. Sigh.

At least the sharks don’t seem hungry…

The University where I work is facing a shortfall in the budget. There are a lot of factors– our state is a mess right now, the numbers just aren’t there with returning students and incoming freshmen, the high school graduation rate in our state has declined… the list is lengthy. There’s the vicious circle that all schools seem to face– building new and improved facilities for athletics and housing to attract future students with bills due now.

The numbers are grim. The outlook is bleak. There’s a lot of talk of “headwinds” vs. “tailwinds.” There’s a lot of fear.

There have been several meetings of various kinds for various audiences to prepare us for the cuts that are coming. I went to one today. It was mostly faculty– just a handful of staff scattered here and there. The fear and uncertainty was palpable. I’ve been through this before– the Museum field felt the first waves of the current economy a few years ago. I try not to be cynical but I also know that little will change the outcome– decisions are made higher up where it’s harder to hear the littler people.

Still I was surprised at the sudden divide that the fear created. I was on the wrong side of the ship– the lifeboats were quickly filling with faculty and they weren’t exactly extending their oars to the remaining staff. Of course, they have a point– the university is nothing without the students and they need the faculty.

Then again the faculty would be hard pressed without the staff. And the staff needs the needs of the students…. (Which of course illuminates the obvious– that perhaps it’s the administration that needs to be trimmed?)

A few of the faculty spoke passionately to their importance and I silently agreed even while I wondered if they knew how the copier in their department worked?

We’re all expendable. And none of us much like that. No one wants to feel that what they are spending their day doing doesn’t matter. We all want to feel as though our contributions and efforts are noticed and appreciated. Most of us genuinely like our jobs and working with the students. But the fear is insidious. Some admitted they are afraid to speak up– hoping to ride out the cuts without being noticed. Others rallied that “our” voices need to be heard and suggested letters and meetings and last minute efforts. A woman suggested we pray and have faith.

When we broke off into smaller groups I ended up at a table with a woman who’d pronounced her dismissal of directors, associate directors, and coordinators. She later added “online programs.” It was disconcerting a few moments later to introduce myself as the student services coordinator for an online program. I sat quietly while the rest of the table railed against the numbers we were presented with– the third mark against me was my age. (In only a few places am I still looked as being too young. It’s a strange sensation…) The fear extends to online learning. It’s a threat to the professors who have not accepted it for the benefits it provides students.

I’m okay with not contributing to the conversation. They weren’t going to hear what I would say– mostly something along the lines of “Hey– maybe you could use that oar to row with instead of beating me over the head… I’m just trying to tread water over here.” And I was watching my phone where I’d forwarded my office phone calls in case our newest student had any questions about registration.

Toss me a lifejacket, will you?

 

 

Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink

This was my first year of camping with internet access. It wasn’t reliable—but it was still a treat to occasionally check in on the outside world while sitting around the campsite.

On Thursday I peeked at Twitter. My AP feed popped up with a headline about parents in Somalia having to decide whether or not to “waste” water on their dying children.

Just over the dune from me was Lake Michigan. All that fresh—and hypothetically drinkable water.

I took in more water accidentally in my second kayaking attempt then most of those poor, wretched people have had pass their lips in weeks.

We’d been working with the teenagers all week to think about “needs vs. wants” which I thought I got.

Maybe not.

Holy conferencing

There’s a lot of somehows in my life lately. Somehow we ended up going to the church we do. Somehow we threw ourselves in and got involved. Somehow I ended up as Lay Leader. Somehow I ended up going to the Annual Conference for the west side of our state.

The conference theme was “Take My Hand” — there was a lot of talk and activity around ministering with (the with was a big deal– not “to” or “for”) the poor.

Our church is downtown. There’s a lot of poor people in walking distance. A handful attend church and our Wednesday night suppers regularly. We nod and smile at each other–but not too much beyond that. I listened to the sermons and reports at the conference– there were some powerful speakers and presentations. Somehow I was a lot out of my comfort zone. I don’t know how to minister with the poor. I don’t know how, necessarily, to minister with the middle class.

Somehow I was part of the legislative process of the conference. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to operate under Roberts Rules of Order. I have a note to google Robert. Maybe find out what i suspect is true– that Robert wasn’t exactly super fun to hang out with. It’s my first church conference– I suspect that in some ways that gives me a little clarity and in other ways heaps ignorance on my head– but I couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if there was a few people who just really enjoyed the chance to stand at a microphone. There was quite a bit of legislation to wade through– most with revisions and amendments attached to them — more legislation then the agenda could permit. Pastor Sue, who guided me through the process of voting and some of the formalities, explained that every fourth year is like this– there’s a General Conference coming up next year so there was a lot of Gen.Conf. proposals on top of our Annual Conference proposals. The first day I clung to the faces I knew– the other lay delegates from our church and our two pastors. By the second day I was able to joke with the delegates around us when there were ballots thrown out due to people still trying to use a pen (!) to fill in the little bubbles. By the third day I was a little frustrated that we were taking breaks when so much still remained on the slate.

I don’t care much for “praise bands” and there was one every day reminding me why I don’t (yes, thank you, I would  enjoy singing more than 8 words over and over…) Sometimes a delegate came to the mic with an amazing revelation or well-phrased thought. Other times there was blustering that made me wish for a big group, “Arrrrgh!” Somehow the legislation doesn’t really matter though in the end– what really mattered was the other stuff that happened from the schedule. The worship services and fireside chats and impromptu choruses while the last ballots were being collected. The youth from the Wesley Foundations that were infectious in their optimism. The oldest delegates with their worn Bibles and wrinkled skin that were inspiring.

Pastor Rudy Rasmus said something that I’m still working out– leaders will lead. That’s what leaders do. But they need a context. Do we want the very best drug pusher? or a disciple? He also quoted Anne Lamott’s great thought, “You know that you have successfully created God in your own image when it turns out that he hates the same people you do…”

It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot on recently– that somehow it’s easier to point out the sin when it’s one of the big ones– murder. Adultery. Thievery. Not so easy when it’s the third helping at a potluck or coveting the iPad the delegate to my left was using. The Bible, one person pointed out, is not a convenience store where you can pick out the things you want and ignore the rest– though it IS a lot more convenient.

Somehow my favorite part of the week was the service on the last night. (I couldn’t stay for the actual last day– I headed home late on the last night so that I wouldn’t miss Jack’s last soccer game or Maddie’s graduation open house.) I’ve never been to an ordination service. I don’t know what is universal and what is unique to our conference… but the stage was filled with our conference clergy in their red stoles (all of them wildly different and yet the same). The stole-less ones sat in the front waiting for their part in the service– the small knot of women that were being “commissioned” and the two women who were ordained as deacons (their stoles are over one shoulder and under the other as a sash) and the rest– men and women– who were being ordained as elders. I sat behind the other laity from our church with my throat tight from the weight of it all. The choir made up of clergy. The giving of communion by the newly ordained ones wearing their gifted stoles and glowing with their happiness. The call to ministry that saw the man next to me walking towards the altar area.

Conference, it turns out, is just an extension– albeit an enlargement– of church. There’s discomfort threaded through the comfort and the safe. There is dear, dear people standing shoulder to shoulder with those that make you set your jaw to keep from lashing out at them. There are inspiring words and thoughts and ideas mingling with minutae, tedium, and fatigue. There are customs and habits long-passed stale and tradition that is treasured and honored and revered. There’s the sacred and the human. The emphatic and the need for examination. There’s the mystery of faith and the surety of grace.

Somehow I’m already looking forward to next year.

 

The ayes had it.

I don’t have a good stomach for politics. Tonight there was a school board meeting that had some direct actions regarding Jack’s school so I went. Reluctantly. I don’t like the way my stomach gets turned over watching things happen and not being able to do anything about it. I get irritated with the Negative Nelly on our board. There’s a guy that asks questions to sound like he’s on top of things– he never is and his questions prove that– I wish he’d just hush. Or fall asleep like he did at one of the other meetings I went to. It makes me nervous that the people on the board with reasonable comments aren’t as vocal as the people who seem crazy.

I hate the pandering. I hate the angst in the audience of parents who are hoping that the votes will go the way that will benefit their child most– I hate that there aren’t more parents.

I don’t go every month. I don’t speak up when I do go. I sit and wish for a good outcome and try to calm the churning of acid in my belly.

They should give us all homemade bread and butter or something soft and soothing. Pudding maybe.

At least, tonight, the votes went our way. Jack’s school will get the improvements it was promised. Whew.

12 Angry Men and a box of donuts

I was called in to jury duty today. I’ve been “on” all week. In our county jurors call in the night before and listen to a long, rambling message that ends with the group numbers that are required to report.

On Sunday night my number (414) was not called.

On Monday night the message was terse. No juries were needed for the following day so we were off the hook.

On Tuesday my number was not called but 407-413 were called. It wasn’t a good sign.

On Wednesday there was the same terse message as earlier in the week. No juries were needed.

Robby couldn’t believe my luck,”Terri– there’s no way you’re going to get called in now. They won’t call you in for Friday if there weren’t any juries on Thursday…”Of course I was called in. And so was the first group number– poor unlucky souls in 401 had to report on Monday and Friday.

On the elevator ride to the 5th floor, after going through the metal detectors (where I delighted the staff when I emptied my coat pocket of little, metal civil war soldiers of Jack’s), one of my fellow peers shook his head in disgust, “I’ve been called up three times this year. Don’t tell me this is random.” An older man nodded, “Yeah. They figure out who will actually show up and then use us over and over. It’s not random at all.”

I don’t know if that’s true. It’s the first time I’ve been called up in this county. (I was called up in scary Pontiac once but that’s another blog.) We found our waiting room and checked in. My sister had described it in a text perfectly as the ugliest room in the county. Ugly wallpaper borders. Inexplicably there were shiny, glittery numbers– the size you use for your house so the mail is delivered and the fire department knows they’ve come to the right place– on the entry way.

The magazine selection is good. I read an article about Christine Hendricks (MadMen) in a health magazine then read a few pages in the book I brought. Burning a hole in the side of my satchel was the iPad Wally lent me. The county doesn’t have wifi in the waiting room. Ugly wall paper borders, The National Enquirer, and a flat screen television turned to the wrong channel (Why do people watch the Today Show via the Detroit station? How is that helpful? Lansing is geographically closer.)– yes. But no wifi. My plan had been to download 12 Angry Men and watch it while I waited to be selected.

The Juror Coordinator (which made me hope she’d lead us in some choreography later so we could do a flashdance in the courtroom…) gave us our instructions. She made it clear that we would only have one shot at serving today– there is only one judge on duty on Friday and he only hears misdemeanor cases. The room’s climate shifted. There are several bad things that have happened in our town lately– including a handful of pitbull attacks, some child endangerment/abuse, and a stabbing. It was a relief to think that we’d been released from the pressure of any high-profile cases involving murder or felony convictions.

And then, weirdly, she instructed us on how to get out of jury duty. Some tips on what might work.

I understand the responsibility and privilege of jury duty. I understand that the minor inconvenience is really an opportunity to be part of a system that can only be dreamed of in parts of the world. Paint me a Norman Rockwell picture that doesn’t include people in charge giving us the inside track on shirking our duty. I didn’t mind that she recognized our reluctance or empathized with our lack of enthusiasm but it was a little too cynical for me.

I admit– serving on a jury is not something I wanted to do. Or want to do. I don’t like the idea of having to sit in some semblance of judgment. I don’t like the idea of my decision changing the life of someone I don’t know. Even if we do that all the time. My actions impact the people around me whether I know them or not. Whether I’m conscious of the action or not. The ripples I make wobble out across the water and change the tide of the ripples of others. They impact me. I impact them. We impact others. They impact us.

We were told to wait. Six of us would be needed. We eyed each other and wondered if we would be among the third called to the jury box. I opened my book (Grange House by Sarah Blake) and tried to block out the third hour of the Today Show.

And then it was over. Poof. The Juror Coordinator took her place in the front of the room again and announced that the defendant had plead guilty so we were all free to go.

Again, a palpable shift in the room. People starting joking and talking to each other as we lined up to receive our pay for our hard work. Our county pays in cash– it’s a cost-saving measure. No one has to do all the paperwork with issuing checks. I took my $17.50 and said, “Thank you.”

Three of us ended up at our town’s best donut shop. The peerage might have been a little peeved that I scored the last of the walnut fritters. I took a box into work to celebrate my short stint of duty.

Maybe, later today, I’ll gather another 11 people and see if we can come to a group decision about something.

Fired and (n)ice

Last month I sat down with Wally (this blog’s Godfather) and asked for help in figuring out what I should be doing “next.”

It’s not the mid-life crisis that my friend Jason said I could have. Or the inane “I need to find myself” crap that Elizabeth Gilbert has cashed in on with Oprah. Just me reevaluating me. Realizing that Jack is now occupied for a big part of the day… so my hands are a little less full.

I told Wally, “Well– I’m applying for a little job at the library” and how maybe, down the road, that could parlay into a possible grad degree. Wally has an unsettling gaze at times. He turned it on me and pointed out that a little job anywhere– library or Museum or whathaveyou would not necessarily bring more to my life.

It was good we had that conversation. It’s made me more thoughtful in the last month about what it is I should be doing/am doing.

And it was good because, as of Thursday, I’m officially unemployed. My “services” are “no longer needed” at the Museum where I’ve worked for 12 and a half years. The falling shoe came in the form of a phone call. (Note to all people in power out there– a phone call is NOT the way you “let someone go.”)

I was eeirly calm when the call came. Partly because my heart went out of the job a while ago. Partly because the same people inexplicably hired then fired one of my best friends in an attempt to cover up years of mis-management and financial ruin. Partly because the people that I’ve worked for in the last 11 months have no professional Museum background and it’s frustrating.

And mostly because of that conversation with Wally. (To whom, that day, I’d described my work environment as that of a Pit of Dysfunctional Vipers.)

I’m still irritated with the timing of it– I was doing my job well. I’d feel a little bit better if it had been after I’d missed a deadline or made a mistake. Or if I’d been able to look the old man in the eye when I said, “I’m sorry– could you be a little more specific because I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do and yet you’re unhappy with the result? Isn’t that more of your problem than mine?”

Because of that morning with Wally, sipping tea and munching on buttery cookies, I was able to respond appropriately.
Old Man Boss [seriously... he's really old]: You are a very talented young lady…
Me: Sir, let me stop you there. I know that. And I know exactly what kind of loss it will be to the Museum.

I’ve never been fired before. This is new. But so is not having to steel myself to work with a group of people that are worrying about whether they can still get their evening gowns to fit under the life preservers.

So now the slate is clean– what to write upon it?

Politic(ked off)

We voted in our town yesterday. I filled in my little bubbles and got my little sticker.

Today the results are in… and for at least two of the politicians their victory came down, quite possibly, to money. Not politics. Not what they’ve done or what they’ll do… but how much money they spent convincing us to vote for themselves or not to vote for the other guy.

In one instance the reported campaign dollars spent had the ridiculous difference of one candidate spending $30, 000 and the other spending $300,000. My mother and I have mused today over what that money might have been spent on instead… what $300,000 could have done for a school or for the local parks department. How many police officers? Could it have repaired a street? Filled the food bank to overflowing? For all one candidate’s campaign promises about “creating jobs!” where was spending $300,000 justified? Six people could have a nice, healthy income for a year…

Our mayoral winner’s victory thoughts quoted in the newspaper included the sentiment for us to remember that they are ”only one person…” which seems a little disconcerting to me. What kind of attitude is that? Don’t expect to much from me even though I promised I’d change everything… Don’t hold me to it because I’m just one person and so unless you do all the work nothing will happen…Don’t blame me– it will be your fault.

At least our school district’s millage passed. It’s part two of a request. Several years ago “we the people” okayed a millage increase to do some necessary structure upgrades with the caveat that this was only half the work that needed to be done– that there would be another “ask.” I’m glad people supported it. It was a pretty narrow margin– 51% to 49% is a little too-close for comfort.

Personally I wish that there could be a silly poll question on the ballots. Something to leave us laughing like what color we want the park pool house painted or the best Coney Island in town… something frivolous and silly.

Maybe How would you spend $300,000 to improve our town?

 

Checking out of Hotel Rwanda

Trish and I went up to the “good theater” (a 30 minute drive north) to see Hotel Rwanda this week. The good theater has stadium seating, bouncy seats, the snack bar of our dreams, and excellent popcorn. All very important when settling in for a nice movie about genocide.

Who knew a bloody civil war could make for such a date movie? We were the only noncouple in a very crowded theater. I realize I’m not one to talk here– my first date with Robby was to see Schindler’s List. (And no, Mrs. Seinfeld, we didn’t make out during it.) Still. We were surprised. Didn’t expect to find a crowded theater. Thought we’d kind of have the place to ourselves. As it was then we had to whisper our comments. Like our utter ignorance in all things Hutu and Tutsi. (Which are which? Who is Huto? Et Tutsi Brutus?) Luckily the filmmakers had an ignorant cameraman to provide that information for– thank you Joaquin Pheonix in your very quiet little turn as the ignorant cameraman for asking.

As the lights came up we sat a little stunned at the overwhelming cruelty of 1994. What the heck were we doing that we didn’t know about this? we asked each other… then remembered that Trish was making Keegan and I was planning a wedding. Huh. (Speaking of relationships– the one in front of us was clearly ended as the neandrathal of a date stood by while his girlfriend sobbed inconsolably. Sorry buddy. Maybe next time you can take a girl to a Nora Ephron film?)

Our review? Excellent movie. Fantastic performances from Mr. Don Cheadle and his on-screen wife Sophie in particular.

Go see it.
Take a date.