Personality Profile
The Husband and I enjoy the television ads for an online dating service
I’ll call WeMatchU. Well, I enjoy the ads; The Husband doesn’t
criticize them so I choose to interpret his silence as tolerance.
All these people getting married after meeting through this service!
What do the people at WeMatchU know that the rest of us don’t?
“Why not go on the site?” The Husband suggested. “They’re advertising a
free personality appraisal.” To my objection that I’m not looking for a
husband, he wisely replied, “Yes, but you write books about people who
are. Consider it research.”
So, I did. I spent close to an hour filling out a lengthy and detailed
questionnaire, careful to follow the site’s advice to answer as quickly
and as honestly as possible.
Of course, this was a disingenuous exercise. My answers had to have
filtered through the fact that I am not actually looking for a new
husband; maybe my answers were more honest because of that. For
example, I didn’t hesitate to admit that I am tempted on occasion to
make fun of a passing stranger because hey, it’s true, and The Husband
knows this about me and actually enjoys my witty, unkind comments. Now,
if I were indeed single there’s no way in hell I’d admit this to a
service seeking to set me up with a nice guy. Puh-lease.
Finally, the questionnaire was completed and I began to read the
service’s legal agreement before proceeding on to receive my
personality profile. And that’s where the whole thing really fell
apart. I am just too afraid of prosecution to claim that I am single
when in the eyes of the IRS I am not single. I booted myself off the
site, disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting my free personality
profile.
Bt what good would it have done if I had? I live with The Husband. He
knows me and even likes me. After ten years he could probably write the
profile himself.
But what if I had gotten the personality profile and it painted a
picture of someone really grim? Would The Husband reconsider his good
opinion of me?
And what if The Husband then got his free personality profile and we
discovered that we were a horrible match, at least in the opinion of
the successful online dating service? Would we be forced to reconsider
our marriage?
Better, in the end, to leave well enough alone. Still, doing the
questionnaire was interesting; it made me think about how we build our
own characters.
So, I suggested to a friend, also not single, that she might enjoy doing the questionnaire as well.
To which she replied: “No, thanks. I’ll probably only learn that I’m not even right for my self.”
Better, in the end, to leave well enough alone.
When One Should Ignore
Though I’m a big proponent of social exchange, there are, I think,
times when one should ignore the presence of an acquaintance.
I’ve mentioned that The Husband and I walk the Back Cove almost daily.
On occasion I pass, going in the opposite direction, a guy named Steve.
Steve, a former linebacker, is currently one of the managers and a
trainer at my gym. When we meet at the gym, we nod, smile, say ‘hi’.
But when we pass on the track around the Cove, Steve running and me
walking – each moving with determination and focus – we don’t
acknowledge one another.
This, I feel, is perfectly acceptable. I don’t want my concentration
broken or my energy output disturbed – and neither, I’m pretty sure,
does Steve.
Still, the other day, when returning my locker key, I felt compelled to
share with Steve my theory, just in case he did think that I was being
rude by plowing past him. He didn’t think I was being rude. A
professional athlete, he appreciated my respecting his workout.
So, a related note to those vacationers who stop a
runner/walker/cyclist with a request for a picture of them in their
touring finest: don’t. Don’t interrupt a person’s workout. Ask the
casual stroller or the person sipping a thousand calorie coffee drink.
And make sure you move off the road.
The Silent Treatment
In our building there are three full time maintenance personnel. I’ll call them Person A, Person B, and Person C.
Whenever I run into Person A or Person B, one of us greets the other
and the other replies in kind. Sometimes, a brief chat ensues. In
short, encountering Person A or Person B constitutes a pleasant bit of
the day.
Encountering Person C, however, is an entirely different story. Person
C – who, by the way, is female – wears an off-putting permanent scowl.
(Are scowls ever welcoming?) Still, when I first ran into her in the
lobby I offered a quick hello – and got no response. Undaunted, the
next time I ran into her, this time in the laundry room, I offered
another greeting (it might have been a nod and a smile). This time,
Person C looked away. The third time I ran into her, this time in the
hallway by the garbage chute, I found myself saying hi, purely by
habit. This time, Person C gave me a look that seemed composed of both
fear and loathing.
This sort of thing went on until last week when, again ignored, I
decided to cease and desist with any attempt to be social. If Person C
was determined not to engage in one of the most basic exchanges of our
civilization – in Larry David’s words, the ‘stop and chat’ – so be it.
Two days ago The Husband and I entered the lobby of our building to
find Person C, with mop and bucket. Determined to play by her rules, I
offered no greeting and pressed the button for the elevator. And then
it happened. I heard The Husband say, “Hi,” – and in response to his
greeting, Person C said, “Hi”. True, the word was brought forth as if
it cost her great pains but it was brought forth. Person C, it seems,
will acknowledge The Husband’s presence but not mine.
By the way, Person C speaks perfectly clear English; I’ve heard her chatting away with Persons A and B.
So, I’m left to wonder what it is about me – generally thought to be a
very friendly person, not in the least intimidating – that so irritates
or offends Person C. Person C doesn’t have to share her life story with
me, but it would be nice if she would offer a nod or smile in response
to my ‘hey’.
In the word s of George Costanza, “We’re living in a society here!”
The Man at the Window
Life round here has been pretty quiet lately. Not that I’m complaining.
In these final few months of writing the book, life needs to be calm
and dictated by routine.
Still, a gal needs her occasional moments of excitement, mainly to remind her that she’s still breathing.
I got one of those moments yesterday around three in the afternoon. I
woke from a light nap – part of my daily schedule, coming just after a
half hour of reading – to find a man at the living room window.
I should point out that we live on the third floor.
There he was, in a yellow hardhat and a harness, just outside the
living room window. My first thought upon seeing him was: I’m glad I
put my pants back on before leaving the bedroom.
Management had notified us some weeks ago of work to be done on the
exterior of the windows. Obviously, the workers have finally gotten
around to our side of the building.
Jack and Betty weren’t thrilled to have this stranger plastered up
against the window but neither did they freak out. But after a while, I
began to wonder: what is the etiquette when dealing with a window
repairman? Every time I went to the kitchen for water or tea I had to
pass this man. Should I wave? Mouth hello? Or simply continue to ignore
him, a stranger virtually in my home.
I continued to ignore him. After all, I thought, what if my greeting
startled him and he fell off the scaffolding? Sure, his harness might
save his life but what if the harness failed? What then? I’d have
killed someone with friendliness.
I must admit that I didn’t enjoy ignoring the repairman. If I see him
in the lobby I’ll have to apologize for what he might have perceived as
rudeness. And maybe I should offer him a cup of tea.
Universal Yawn
One of the great unifiers in life is the yawn.
All humans yawn and lots of animals, too. I’m not sure about insects or
birds or reptiles, or, now that I think about it, fish or seagoing
mammals.
Okay, I guess I’ll stick to cats and their yawning habits. Fifi, long
gone to his eternal reward, was a great one for yawning. He yawned
often and enthusiastically in a skull splitting manner that was amazing
to behold. Really, his mouth opened so widely it seemed that his skull
was splitting in two, that his jaw was becoming unhinged from the upper
region of his face. It was pretty cool.
Betty becomes a demon while yawning. Her small, pretty dark face
suddenly reveals large white fangs; her already huge eyes open to
alarming proportions, showing a white ring around the green, and her
ears slick back against her head. From Baby Goo to Baby Ghoul in an
instant.
Yawns seem to take Jack by surprise. His habitual quizzical expression
is momentarily emphasized. Then, his big, soft pink nose squishes, his
big mouth opens to reveal his insanely long tongue, and more often than
not, Jack finishes the yawn with a bit of a stumble on his big white
paws.
Mornings bring a no doubt heartwarming domestic scene – if there were
anyone to witness – involving The Husband and me and Jack and Betty all
rousing at once, mouths wide in aggressive yawns, covers untangling,
paws stretching, and someone mumbling, “Didn’t we just do this
yesterday”?
At My Back I Hear . . .
The other day in one of our frequent email exchanges, my mother told me
she’d read that the most frequently used word in the English language
is ‘time’. Without the quotes, I imagine.
I’ve been thinking about how I use the word ‘time’ and about how
American culture uses it and about the assumptions and philosophies
behind our usages – and I’m depressed.
Many years ago, in reaction to one of my standard complaints, my
brother said, “When you die, I’m putting these words on your tombstone:
She had so much to do.”
And so little time to do it in? Presumably.
It should be noted that I wear a watch at all times, and check the time
throughout the night. Most mornings I have nowhere to go, but it seems
necessary to keep an eye on the passing of the hours.
What would my life – what would American life – be like if our most
frequently used word was, say, ‘pesto’ or ‘love’ or ‘donut’ or ‘breeze’
or ‘smile’ - something entirely innocuous (unlike, say, a loaded word
such as ‘honor’ or ‘duty’)?
Impossible to know and difficult to imagine, but maybe it would be worthwhile to try.
Charity Isn't Pretty
The other day I received in the mail a solicitation for financial
support from a widely known organization that – Well, I won’t reveal
any more about the organization for fear I’ll be accused of denigration.
Attached to the front page of this solicitation was a nickel. Writing
next to the nickel suggested that I return it along with a check as a
show of my support for the organization’s ‘cause’.
Hence, the ethical dilemma. For a variety of personal reasons, I don’t
want to send a check to this organization. Aren’t I obliged, however,
to return the nickel, which is money I didn’t earn and didn’t simply
find on a sidewalk empty of people and thus of possible ‘owners’?
I know to whom this nickel belongs; it belongs to the ‘cause’ the
organization exists to serve. To keep this nickel would make me feel
guilty, for the obvious reasons. But to return it without an
accompanying check would appear to be an act of – I can’t choose the
proper word here. Let’s just say returning a nickel taped to a piece of
paper feels like the act of a smart aleck. Not to mention that it would
cost me thirty-nine cents, money the organization would have gotten out
of me but to no useful end.
Frankly, I’m a tad pissed at this organization for unloading an ethical
dilemma on me right now when I’ve got plenty of my own ethical concerns
to deal with – and don’t we all!
The Husband pointed out that I’ve never gotten upset about receiving
pre-printed address labels from organizations, including those I have
no intention of supporting. He’s right, and that’s because there’s a
big difference between money and goods. I don’t have the space to go
into this difference here; suffice it to say, I’m pretty sure that
every person who attempts to live an ethical life feels this difference
in his or her gut.
Besides, address labels seem somehow innocuous (and money never does);
no one asks for their return and if one chooses not to send a check but
to use the labels, generally the organization that provided the labels
receives a degree of advertising.
Charity is complicated and it shouldn’t be. I don’t believe that guilt
should be used to squeeze money out of people but maybe guilt is the
most effective weapon when dealing with human beings.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with this stupid nickel. I do know
that I’m writing another check to the Animal Rescue League so that
another Jack and Betty can be saved from the mean streets of Boston.
Animals in the Big City
Yesterday, Mom and I were enjoying the works on the topmost floor of
the Portland Museum of Art. I was studying a painting by Frederick
Church when Mom caught my attention with a wave of her hand.
I crossed the narrow and room to where she stood at a large,
arch-shaped window. Just outside the window, on a section of the roof,
stood a big seagull. “Look against the wall,” Mom whispered.
I did. There were two baby seagulls, all gray and fuzzy and wobbly on
their skinny legs. We watched as the mother regurgitated food and as
the babies tumbled over each other in their eagerness to eat. A museum
employee told us that he and his colleagues had been watching the
seagull family with excitement and concern since before the mother laid
her eggs.
This morning, The Husband walked around the Back Cove, a usual
activity. What made today’s walk unusual was the large moose swimming
toward the bridge and open water. A police officer was watching the
moose’s progress so I can only hope that eventually, with the help of a
wildlife rescue team, the moose was safely relocated to a more rural
environment.
I mentioned this sighting to Mom and she reminded me of the small
raccoon that somehow got stuck on a fire escape on our Netherland
Avenue apartment building. Someone called the police while Mom called
an animal rescue service. A police officer arrived and asked my mother
what she’d been told by the wildlife rescue experts. “They told me,”
she said, “to offer the raccoon a brook trout.” One man looked around
at the assembled group of concerned neighbors and said, “Don’t they
realize this is the Bronx? The best we can offer the raccoon is a bagel
with lox.”
A city is a strange and dangerous place for a wild creature, even one
as used to humans as a seagull. I’m thinking of that long ago raccoon
and this morning’s moose and yesterday’s chicks and praying – in my way
– that they are – or were, or continue to be – safe and free.
The Zoo
The Husband, his daughter, Jenny, her daughter, Madi, and I visited the
zoo the other day. It was the first time I’d been to a zoo in more
years than I can count.
I had a blast. There’s something about watching animal behavior, even
if it’s taking place under less than wild, i.e., normal circumstances,
that makes me feel and act like a kid again – that is, vastly impressed
and excited. We saw tiger cubs curled up together; two cougars playing
with a ball (Note: Fifi was a mini-cougar, I’m convinced); orangutans
chomping on carrots while scampering up a wire fence; a rhino named
Satchmo running (Note: Satchmo is a Katrina survivor); two elephants
placidly eating grass (Note: why do elephants seem so wise?); two sea
lions swimming smoothly on their backs; three eagles preening . . .
I think Madi enjoyed herself, too, which, of course, was the real point
of the expedition. The massive polar bears frightened her a bit at
first until I pointed out that the male bear was big and fuzzy like
Grandpa. That made her laugh though I’m afraid that the bear who chased
her later that night in her dream might have been a relative of Mr.
Polar.
We closed the excursion with a show about tails. Trainers brought out
all sorts of animals with interesting and useful tails, including an
African gray parrot with amazing vocal abilities and a massive boa
constrictor named Bodacious. I clapped and shouted ‘hurray!’ along with
the others, and was interested to see that the only person more
enthusiastic than I was a man in his eighties.
At heart, I have very mixed feelings about animals being kept in
captivity. Clearly, there are pros and cons to the issue. But ethics
aside for a moment, I can’t help but enjoy the opportunity a zoo
affords to be close to animals I would otherwise never see
face-to-face. The experience is awe-inspiring and humbling; humans are
only one puny type of life and no matter how hard we try, we’ll never
match the natural beauty of a leopard or the lazy grace of an albino
snake, or, indeed, the wisdom of an elephant.
Revelations
The Husband and I recently spent a few days with our granddaughter,
Madi, who can proudly tell you that while she is currently two years
old, in August she will be three.
Because I don’t have children of my own, and because I don’t live in
close proximity to my little friends, I find the time I do spend with
them utterly fascinating. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day
one of these friends –and I’m betting it will be Ella – asks in a
rather annoyed tone of voice, “Elise, why are you staring at me?”
Here’s just one of the interesting experiences I enjoyed with Madi. We
were sitting face-to- face, reading a Winnie the Pooh book about
colors, when suddenly Madi began to tell me about her dream of the
night before. Now, we all knew she’d had a bad dream. Her mama, Jenny,
had been called on to give comfort. But until this moment, sitting face
to face over Winnie the Pooh, none of us had known exactly what the bad
dream had entailed.
Without revealing anything too personal, Madi’s dream involved a large
bear and a lobster chasing her and Baba (her stuffed lamb), and an
eventual rescue by Peter, who, on further questioning, was revealed to
be the Peter from Peter and the Wolf.
“Wow,” I said, when Madi finished speaking. “That’s some story.”
Madi fixed me with a serious look. “It’s not a story,” she said emphatically. “It was my dream.”
I got the message. A story is something made up. A dream is real and it
is owned by the dreamer. A dream warrants respect because it is true.
I have to watch my words carefully when talking with the little ones.
If I don’t, they will quickly remind me that they are full people with
all sorts of inherent truths and so, deserving of respect.
Especially when they are dancing along with Angelina Ballerina.
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