Tea with T.

“You can’t help that, we’re all mad here.” – Cheshire Cat

originally posted on March 13, 2010

 

A couple of weekends ago I took my cat to the emergency animal center after she became extremely ill on a Sunday.  History has shown that my entire family is wired to never take ill during banker’s hours (M-F 9-5 with a narrow window on Sat.) and apparently, the cat is no different.

 

The late night technician examined my cat and asked whether or not I brushed the cat’s teeth.  Hello, animal doctor veterinarian lady?!  We are talking about a cat here.  Seriously, do I what?  Brush her … teeth?  I have a pretty strict policy about never cussing via paper, pen or printer but the expletive that fell out of my mouth was sandwiched between an, “OH” and a rather large “NO” that rattled the antibacterial dispenser near the door.  Having spent the better part of the last decade battling to get my 13 year old autistic son to brush HIS teeth it never once occurred to me to add a small hairy cat to the fracas.

 

After being told that kitty’s tartar buildup may have contributed to her illness, I felt bad about never having brushed her teeth.  But, only for a moment before I saw her gnash, thrash and slash as the vet poked around with a cotton swab to provide me with empirical evidence of said dental calculus.  Even in her weakened condition, I could see that kitty would try to claw her way out of having those sharp teeth touched, much less brushed to hissy-fresh breath perfection.

 

Two and a half hours after we arrived, I was informed that Alice “the cat” Katz would be staying overnight so that they could administer fluids, antibiotics and run labs to determine what exactly was wrong with her.  I was given strict instructions to pick her up the next morning before 7am, as the emergency center closed promptly at 7am and if I was late, kitty would then be forced to stay another night to the tune of luxury spa hotel prices.  Picking her up on time wasn’t going to be a problem, but what was is that no veterinarian’s office in my entire valley (or the next two valleys surrounding us) opens before 8am, meaning I would have to entertain a cat with an intravenous fluid line in a small enclosed carrying case for an hour or so.  This was second only to brushing her teeth on my top 10 list of things NOT to do with the cat.

 

As I left Alice for the evening, I noticed that her intravenous fluid line was wrapped in a bandaged clearly marked DO NOT BITE all over it.  Clearly, if the vet thought she was smart enough to understand the importance of brushing her teeth, she must have thought she could read, too.

 

Four days and fourteen hundred dollars later, Alice was released with stable laboratory results and an appetite, but no definitive results as to what was wrong with her.  To add insult to time spent in a tiny steel prison cell (with the world’s tiniest litter box, I might add) Alice came home with shaved front legs that made her look like she had custom Ugg boots made just for her and all the fur removed from her little kitty belly (so they could perform an expensive, inconclusive abdominal ultrasound).  For a better picture of how wacky the poor darling looks, you should know she’s a member of the Munchkin breed of cats, so those would be the short style of Uggs, not the tall.

 

In addition to the humiliating new look they provided Alice with, the vet also handed me a bottle of liquid antibiotic with the news that I would have to administer the frothy white concoction to the cat twice-a-day for thirty days.  Not wanting to disappoint another animal doctor with my unwillingness to put anything in my cat’s mouth, I asked if it was at least fish flavored or something.  The doc looked down at me, chuckled and announced (as though it was the most normal thing) that it was actually bubblegum flavored.  Oh, for the love of Pete’s Dragon.  3 out of 4 dentists may have preferred a particular gum for their patients, but really … who was on the panel that decided that cat medicine should be bubblegum flavored?!  Probably the same evil group that thinks they need their teeth brushed.

 

April can not come soon enough.

“You can’t help that, we’re all mad here.” – Cheshire Cat

originally posted on March 13, 2010

 

A couple of weekends ago I took my cat to the emergency animal center after she became extremely ill on a Sunday.  History has shown that my entire family is wired to never take ill during banker’s hours (M-F 9-5 with a narrow window on Sat.) and apparently, the cat is no different.

 

The late night technician examined my cat and asked whether or not I brushed the cat’s teeth.  Hello, animal doctor veterinarian lady?!  We are talking about a cat here.  Seriously, do I what?  Brush her … teeth?  I have a pretty strict policy about never cussing via paper, pen or printer but the expletive that fell out of my mouth was sandwiched between an, “OH” and a rather large “NO” that rattled the antibacterial dispenser near the door.  Having spent the better part of the last decade battling to get my 13 year old autistic son to brush HIS teeth it never once occurred to me to add a small hairy cat to the fracas.

 

After being told that kitty’s tartar buildup may have contributed to her illness, I felt bad about never having brushed her teeth.  But, only for a moment before I saw her gnash, thrash and slash as the vet poked around with a cotton swab to provide me with empirical evidence of said dental calculus.  Even in her weakened condition, I could see that kitty would try to claw her way out of having those sharp teeth touched, much less brushed to hissy-fresh breath perfection.

 

Two and a half hours after we arrived, I was informed that Alice “the cat” Katz would be staying overnight so that they could administer fluids, antibiotics and run labs to determine what exactly was wrong with her.  I was given strict instructions to pick her up the next morning before 7am, as the emergency center closed promptly at 7am and if I was late, kitty would then be forced to stay another night to the tune of luxury spa hotel prices.  Picking her up on time wasn’t going to be a problem, but what was is that no veterinarian’s office in my entire valley (or the next two valleys surrounding us) opens before 8am, meaning I would have to entertain a cat with an intravenous fluid line in a small enclosed carrying case for an hour or so.  This was second only to brushing her teeth on my top 10 list of things NOT to do with the cat.

 

As I left Alice for the evening, I noticed that her intravenous fluid line was wrapped in a bandaged clearly marked DO NOT BITE all over it.  Clearly, if the vet thought she was smart enough to understand the importance of brushing her teeth, she must have thought she could read, too.

 

Four days and fourteen hundred dollars later, Alice was released with stable laboratory results and an appetite, but no definitive results as to what was wrong with her.  To add insult to time spent in a tiny steel prison cell (with the world’s tiniest litter box, I might add) Alice came home with shaved front legs that made her look like she had custom Ugg boots made just for her and all the fur removed from her little kitty belly (so they could perform an expensive, inconclusive abdominal ultrasound).  For a better picture of how wacky the poor darling looks, you should know she’s a member of the Munchkin breed of cats, so those would be the short style of Uggs, not the tall.

 

In addition to the humiliating new look they provided Alice with, the vet also handed me a bottle of liquid antibiotic with the news that I would have to administer the frothy white concoction to the cat twice-a-day for thirty days.  Not wanting to disappoint another animal doctor with my unwillingness to put anything in my cat’s mouth, I asked if it was at least fish flavored or something.  The doc looked down at me, chuckled and announced (as though it was the most normal thing) that it was actually bubblegum flavored.  Oh, for the love of Pete’s Dragon.  3 out of 4 dentists may have preferred a particular gum for their patients, but really … who was on the panel that decided that cat medicine should be bubblegum flavored?!  Probably the same evil group that thinks they need their teeth brushed.

 

April can not come soon enough.

“You can’t help that, we’re all mad here.” – Cheshire Cat

originally posted on March 13, 2010

 

A couple of weekends ago I took my cat to the emergency animal center after she became extremely ill on a Sunday.  History has shown that my entire family is wired to never take ill during banker’s hours (M-F 9-5 with a narrow window on Sat.) and apparently, the cat is no different.

 

The late night technician examined my cat and asked whether or not I brushed the cat’s teeth.  Hello, animal doctor veterinarian lady?!  We are talking about a cat here.  Seriously, do I what?  Brush her … teeth?  I have a pretty strict policy about never cussing via paper, pen or printer but the expletive that fell out of my mouth was sandwiched between an, “OH” and a rather large “NO” that rattled the antibacterial dispenser near the door.  Having spent the better part of the last decade battling to get my 13 year old autistic son to brush HIS teeth it never once occurred to me to add a small hairy cat to the fracas.

 

After being told that kitty’s tartar buildup may have contributed to her illness, I felt bad about never having brushed her teeth.  But, only for a moment before I saw her gnash, thrash and slash as the vet poked around with a cotton swab to provide me with empirical evidence of said dental calculus.  Even in her weakened condition, I could see that kitty would try to claw her way out of having those sharp teeth touched, much less brushed to hissy-fresh breath perfection.

 

Two and a half hours after we arrived, I was informed that Alice “the cat” Katz would be staying overnight so that they could administer fluids, antibiotics and run labs to determine what exactly was wrong with her.  I was given strict instructions to pick her up the next morning before 7am, as the emergency center closed promptly at 7am and if I was late, kitty would then be forced to stay another night to the tune of luxury spa hotel prices.  Picking her up on time wasn’t going to be a problem, but what was is that no veterinarian’s office in my entire valley (or the next two valleys surrounding us) opens before 8am, meaning I would have to entertain a cat with an intravenous fluid line in a small enclosed carrying case for an hour or so.  This was second only to brushing her teeth on my top 10 list of things NOT to do with the cat.

 

As I left Alice for the evening, I noticed that her intravenous fluid line was wrapped in a bandaged clearly marked DO NOT BITE all over it.  Clearly, if the vet thought she was smart enough to understand the importance of brushing her teeth, she must have thought she could read, too.

 

Four days and fourteen hundred dollars later, Alice was released with stable laboratory results and an appetite, but no definitive results as to what was wrong with her.  To add insult to time spent in a tiny steel prison cell (with the world’s tiniest litter box, I might add) Alice came home with shaved front legs that made her look like she had custom Ugg boots made just for her and all the fur removed from her little kitty belly (so they could perform an expensive, inconclusive abdominal ultrasound).  For a better picture of how wacky the poor darling looks, you should know she’s a member of the Munchkin breed of cats, so those would be the short style of Uggs, not the tall.

 

In addition to the humiliating new look they provided Alice with, the vet also handed me a bottle of liquid antibiotic with the news that I would have to administer the frothy white concoction to the cat twice-a-day for thirty days.  Not wanting to disappoint another animal doctor with my unwillingness to put anything in my cat’s mouth, I asked if it was at least fish flavored or something.  The doc looked down at me, chuckled and announced (as though it was the most normal thing) that it was actually bubblegum flavored.  Oh, for the love of Pete’s Dragon.  3 out of 4 dentists may have preferred a particular gum for their patients, but really … who was on the panel that decided that cat medicine should be bubblegum flavored?!  Probably the same evil group that thinks they need their teeth brushed.

 

April can not come soon enough.

Autism Awareness - Homeland Preparedness

April, according to the powers-that-be, is Autism Awareness Month.  As the mother of a 15 year son with autism, every day is another day to discover new things about autism and I do like to say that we strive to find the “awe” in the middle of it all.  In addition to Autism Awareness Month, April is also historically the month of showers that precedes May flowers and the color chosen to symbolize Autism Awareness Month is blue… ironic, because both are adequate symbols of the occasional tears and sadness that come with autism.  For both parent and child.

 

While I’m happy that autism has its own month, research foundations, catchy slogans and bumper stickers, autism and I are not friends.  I don’t like it, not one little bit.  It is, at times, terrorizing.  There’s a long list of things that I don’t care for about autism, but in particular the rage-filled anger, anxiety and the self-injurious behavior that comes with my son’s inability to communicate (which sometimes overflows and hurts me) are the things I truly dislike.  You may have heard, but the word “hate” is not one I use loosely, and honestly, I can’t even say that I hate autism… because I love my son.  

Heroes, heroes -- everywhere.

This summer I get to attend an event called Comic-Con.  It is a convention, hence the word “Con” -- tho’ the double meaning is not lost on me, seeing how it was my Viking Beau who has talked me into going.  “Comic” – well, that has nothing to do with that funny puppet guy in Vegas.  Comic-Con is all about comic books and the characters that star in them, more Vader than Fator, if you will.

Having never attended Comic-Con, I’ve tried to imagine what it will be like, roaming miles and miles inside the San Diego Convention Center surrounded by people in costume, pretending to be their favorite heroes.  I plan to wear very dark sunglasses, as I have no Poker Face, and do not wish to alarm the wandering princesses and warlords.  I’m a small woman, but I have big eyes (the better to observe you with, my dear) that are bound to expand in an expression that borders on shock and confused at the sight of a grown man dressed in tights and a cape or a little kid dressed as a Klingon (rocking the whole receding crazy-hairline and seriously furrowed brow).  Yeah.  I don’t want to subject the unsuspecting innocent to my scary visage.

Blogher '11

There is a line in This is Spinal Tap that is one of my all-time favorite quotes.  It’s the one where Nigel Tufnel talks about how they turn their specially crafted amplifiers up to 11 (while all others only go to 10) in the event, “… we need that extra push over the cliff.”  This weekend, I got my own personal “push over the cliff” at this year’s BlogHer Conference 2011.  As someone who compulsively writes into a cyber vacuum every week, it was nice to be surrounded by over 3,000 of my fellow bloggers, and feel that gentle push over the cliff, to keep moving forward.

 

If you have the chance to attend any kind of gathering of your “tribe” I would highly recommend you do it.  Whether it is a gargantuan gathering like a conference/convention or a smaller group – there is nothing like the positive energy in a group of like-minded individuals.  Since this conference was attended by primarily females, there was also nothing like the chocolate driven energy provided on nearly every flat convention center surface (Dove Chocolate, Dove Bars, every corner of the S’mores Suite, etc.)  Yeah, there was a whole lot of endorphins wandering the halls of the San Diego Convention Center these past few days (I cannot vouch for certain which hormones filled the hallways a few weeks prior at Comic-Con 2011, but I’m going out on a limb here and say it might have been testosterone).

 

Anthropologists use the term “tribal society” to talk about groups of folks organized largely on the basis of kinship.  Any time you have the chance to gather with peeps who think like you, it is a pretty good thing.  It bolsters the group, makes them stronger and if you share a meal or a pot of tea I’d like to think happier, too.  But, we have to work at, and seek out, our “tribal” members and this is not as easy as it sounds for some folks.  Back in 1985, a cross-section of Americans were asked by a group of researchers how many confidants they had the most common answer was: three.  Less than a decade later the answer from 25% of those polled was: zero.  One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.

 

At the University of Chicago, Psychologist John Cacioppo found that isolation and loneliness affected stress hormones and the circulatory system adversely; increased the risk of suicide (young or old); impaired efficiency of sleep, along with a host of other issues.  Mother Teresa said, “The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.”  We the People, need socialization.

 

My son has a developmental disability that leaves his socialization skills and ability to interact in any kind of “tribal society” a bit off the mark.  Autism is considered a Pervasive Developmental Disorder (PDD) that affects the central nervous system, which inhibits social, speech and learning skills.  As the woman who loves her son as only a mother can, I can honestly tell you that the quirky behavior that often accompanies autism makes it more than a little difficult to gather tribal members.  My son has a great desire to be “part of the crowd” but the crowd doesn’t always respond to his advances.  As a result, the computer fills the need he does have to interact with others.  Mark Zuckerberg, thank you for helping people connect and share via FB, if I didn’t think you seemed slightly adverse to it, I’d hug ya.

 

As a whole, human beings are wired to interact with others.  Even my son, with his wonky autistic wiring wants to make contact, but goes about it a little alien-like.  No matter!  All of us can, and should, push forward to find our community – our network of people to exchange information with.

 

There are those who dismiss the onslaught of social media as superficial.  That’s too bad.  Because I can tell you that some of the happiest people gather on Facebook and Twitter.  Sure, there are some angry fingers slamming away on keyboards by some terribly unhappy individuals out there (relax, I’m not naming names here – at least, not today) but, by and large, you’ll find most posting and tweeting has happy content.  Why?  Even by the glow of a computer monitor, smart phone or pad/tablet…those faces are lit up by the connection made with other human beings.  Earlier this year a survey revealed that 47% of Americans use social media.  There may not be a lot of face-to-face time involved, but there is interaction.  There is a meeting of the minds.  There is socialization.  Not conventional socialization, mind you.  But socializing is happening, nonetheless.  Even my son, with his resistance to social interaction, is happier and more grounded when he has his clan to connect with.

 

As for me and my tribe?  These past few days we gathered in groups.  We listened to the words of our elders (or younger, yet more experienced leaders).  We bonded.  We feasted (boy, did we feast).  Our souls were nourished and we’ve moved over the mountain, having gotten that extra push over the cliff.

 

So, don’t be so quick to snub social media and the bloggers* out there waiting for you to discover them.  To read many of these writers is to sit down with a friend over a cup of tea or glass of wine (*cough cough* Jen Lancaster) and a chance to get to know them better by their words.  Almost all of them give you the ability to speak up, too (via comment link under each essay/article), email or through Facebook and/or Twitter.  No, it isn’t the same as sitting down to a meal or over a campfire, but for this 21 century tribal society – it serves a purpose.  It is, after all, called social media for a reason.

 

 

*Ooh!  Allow me this quick shout out to --

the QC Report, Jennsylvania, JustAddFather, CJaneCreate, GingerMandy, TheTypeAHousewife, RussianHillLife and more to come! 

Autism Awareness Day

The official date for Autism Awareness is April 2^nd.  I don’t need a date on the calendar to make me aware, as EVERY day I see it in the face of my 14 year old son.  Don’t think the irony of the official day being the day after April Fool’s Day is lost on me, either.  As my son drifts in and out of developmental progression and regression, I have learned to always be on my toes, like a nimble court jester, for whatever comes next.  As a parent of an autistic child, you find each day to be the strangest two-steps forward / two-steps back dance you’ve ever done.

 

While the diagnosis of autism and ultimate life commitment to dance alongside the affected person you love may have heartache and missteps as you go, there is also a tremendous amount of joy and laughter along the way, too.  The trick is, to be prepared to swing in a new direction if the music demands.

 

Early on, my son’s inability to communicate (due to language processing difficulties) left him filled with rage, as he lashed out at others and himself.  Self-injurious behavior was a daily occurrence as he banged his head, punched himself or slammed his body into walls and I was called to the elementary school more times than I care to recall if a classmate got in the way.  With time and the onset of language, the rage dissipated and my boy was able to make his desires and frustrations known [and if that isn’t a neon signpost to the rest of us to learn to “use our words” – I don’t know what is].

 

My son’s ability to communicate still isn’t where the world and state academic requirements demand that a 14 year old be.  But, he can still convey thought and emotion with the best of them, usually with a tart twist that is just delicious.  One of my all-time favorite stories involving the filter that my son processes information through is one that his junior high teacher considered an epic fail.  Apparently, when presented with a story that he was supposed to re-tell, he moved on to the next step of the process, completely ignoring the task-at-hand.  It went something like this:

 

“Mary Grace drew a picture of dinosaurs to share with the class which made everyone laugh.  Now, what did I say?”

 

“Maybe if she’d learn to draw better, nobody would make fun of her.”

 

While the teacher was incredibly disappointed at my son’s failure to relay information appropriately, I love the fact that he plowed forward coming to a conclusion that was all his own.  Where she saw the autistic mind moving backward, I saw progression.  My high school Logic & Philosophy teacher probably would’ve loved this kid.  I know I do.

 

This April 2^nd, join me as I raise my mug of tea high in the air to all of the parents, educators, therapists, families and friends who are acutely aware of they dance they do everyday with those they love with autism.  Feel free to cut in at any time and join us, inviting others to do the same.  With awareness, we can partner together to move forward, where autism is concerned.

 

http://www.worldautismawarenessday.org

The rest of the story.

Sharing big news about your life, for the most part, is simple enough.  Etiquette gives us permission to send out personalized engagement, wedding and baby announcements.  In fact, all of life’s main events, even the sad news of one’s passing, can be posted in newspapers across the land, sometimes accompanied by a rather nice photo.  The same, unfortunately (for me) cannot be said of divorce.  As a rule, unless you’re someone on the radar of TMZ or Entertainment Tonight, marital separation is a thing mostly spread along phone lines and whispered about in polite (and especially impolite) conversation.  The grown-up version of this telephone/telegraph game is pretty darn effective, too.  However, just when I think everyone has heard about my situation this past year… along comes a relative or friend who chokes back their potato salad on a sunny Sunday and says, “What the…?!”

 

 Yeah.  Sorry ‘bout that.

 

 Unfortunately, I can’t take out a paid advertisement or send engraved announcements, because I believe Emily Post and Miss Manners would frown on that kind of behavior, but I’ve been given an internet soapbox to stand on and, by golly, I’m going to use it.  After all Emily, your last name was Post.  So, I will.

 

 See, a funny thing happened on the carnival mid-way of marriage.  Literally.  Half way through what was turning out to be a pretty amazing life (two kids, a cat and a Mr. Katz) the man I thought I’d married started to disappear.  Dissolve, actually.  In one year he: suffered the traumatic lost of his mother to pancreatic cancer; found out (by accident) that he had been adopted as an infant (this discovery made at the tender age of 47), thereby wiping out his entire history and tethering to nearly 50 years of Judaism; learned of his only son’s autism; and returned to the destructive crutches of his bachelor days.  The rest of us were left standing like sideshow characters with tricks not good enough to be noticed, at least not by the main act, not for a decade.  Recovery, when your soul has been ripped from the mooring in your heart, isn’t always easy.  Or even an option, for some.

 

Over a ten year period, the foundation on which I’d originally formed the union of my marriage, two + decades ago, underwent a gradual, insidious transformation -- the ground under my feet slowly disintegrated.  What was once a solid surface began to change to broken pavement, which was eventually replaced by eggshells that ultimately crumbled to a fine, lightweight sand, blown hither and yon.  The decision to walk away was not an easy one, but to move forward in an upright fashion, the ground beneath your feet should be stable.

 

Short of wearing a sandwich board while doing the above-mentioned walking away, to let people know what’s happening in your life – informing people of a major life change can be tricky.  At best.  You sort of step into the conversation when asked, or side-step it if you’re not sure what people do or don’t (or should or shouldn’t) know about you.  As a writer, I had a press junket a few years ago that mentioned my books, my family, my cat… and a husband.  In addition to that, thousands of postcards were printed up with similar information.  Having given out handfuls of those postcards, there are still hundreds left.  But, not a husband.  It makes for verrrry interesting dialogue when I’m out on a date and someone looks at the postcard, then up at me, then back at the postcard with a pink-cheeked furtive glance at the Viking at my side.  Yeah.  That’s not weird, at all.  But, there is no budget for new postcards – so, I just smile and let people make up their own stories as they walk away.

 

After all, as I have said repeatedly, at the end of the day – it is all about the storytelling, right?  So, to quote one of my all-time favorite storytellers, Paul Harvey (whose passing we honor on February 28th), those of you who have emailed, Facebooked, called or were just simply flushed as you walked out the door, now you know… The Rest of the Story.

 

Good day!

Argument for argument's sake.

Some people are so good at arguing, they ought to be given a prize for their ability.  Perhaps a big honkin’ flashy medallion attached to an award-winning ribbon with a four foot high gold trophy to match.  Ooh!  Or a ceremony, where they could be presented with epaulettes to display on their shoulders, which are better suited for chips, than crying on, any day.  These are not your downstream version of the Bickersons I’m talking about either.  These provocative, defiant, combative, argumentative people are unpaid professionals when it comes to their quarrelling skills (not to be confused with lawyers, who do argue for a living, but with a means to an end).  Kids, it’s best not to engage these provocative, defiant, combative, argumentative people.  Because somebody’s bound to put an eye out, their words are so sharp.

We’ve all encountered people for whom the phrase, “You say black, he/she says white” was seemingly invented.  You enter into conversation with this type of personality and it has the potential to end up in a heated verbal skirmish, no matter how calm and rational you think you are.  They have no interest in hearing what you have to say, no matter how knowledgeable or reasonable you are.  They can attack your character and chip at your self-esteem no matter how well you believe you’re perceived by the rest of the world.

Case in argument (pardon me, I couldn’t resist that)…

Engaged in a simple conversation with one of these highly-skilled squabblers, I casually mentioned that my son doesn’t eat pancakes anymore.  When queried as to the reason, I explained he’d had a bad experience when a nasty flu-bug caused an unwilling regurgitation of said pancakes and the association ever since had been bad.

“Were they thick pancakes or thin ones?”

“I don’t remember.  But the whole idea of eating any pancake is repulsive to him.”

“Yes, I understand that.  But were they big thick, fluffy pancakes or thin, crepe-like pancakes?”

“Honestly, I don’t recall the size of the pancakes.  It was quite some time ago.  I only remember them on their way out.”

“Perhaps if you told him that you’d make thin, crepe-like pancakes he would like that.”

“Possibly, but with his autism-related language deficit it is pretty difficult to have a conversation about it at all.  So, it has just been easier to avoid pancakes.  Thank heavens there are so many other breakfast choices out there.”

“Don’t talk to him about it.  Just make the other pancakes.”

“Well, there is the sensory issue, too.  The smell of the batter and the maple syrup…”

“Oh, Puh-leez.  You do know that there are other syrups you can put on pancakes besides maple, don’t you?”

What started as a simple tête-à-tête, felt as though it had the potential to turn into a left jab, straight right and ultimate left hook to my yammering jaw – ending the conversation with only one winner standing.   As a diversion tactic, I chose to fall face first into the old axiom “Quit while you’re ahead” and terminated the conversation about my son’s aversion to pancakes, instead asking about the best pancake recipes known to man (or woman, in the case of my sparring partner).

Despite my ability to mix it up with the best of them, arguing is really not one of my favorite pastimes.  It is probably why my competitive gene never really came to fruition.  No, really.  My thinking has always been, “You want to win that badly?  Go right on ahead and be my guest.”  Over the years, I’ve lost jobs, roles and love because of it.  Outside of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, I have never felt there was much to fight about.  Still, there are people who “get all up in your stuff” and before you know it you’re engaged in full-blown communication combat.  But, there are some super tools available to tuck into your conversation utility belt to thwart an attack.

The closest thing I’ve found to superheroes among us, are law enforcement officers and they have some diffusing techniques that they engage to insure that no one is hurt or injured in a confrontation.  While I don’t think riot gear is necessarily needed in most run-ins with provocative, defiant, combative, argumentative people – I do believe the men and women in blue / khaki / green are on to something.  The two key diffusing techniques officers use are Ventilation and Active Listening. 

Ventilation is exactly what it sounds like, let the person vent.  Don’t argue, offer advice or defend yourself.  Just. Listen.  Once the person has expressed themselves, it does help to open up the air around them – but remember not to take ANYthing they’ve just said personally.  Oh, sure spew on you they might, but it won’t leave a stain.  Let it go.

Active Listening also means just what it says.  Do not sit there compiling your grocery shopping list or reviewing the current inventory of your Bucket List.  To be an active listener means offering validation, verification and, for good measure, tossing in some reflective questioning.  Something to the tune of, “I hear the emotion behind what you’re saying.” or “I can certainly understand what you’re saying.” perhaps even a “Could you expand on/explain what you just said?”  Also, it won’t hurt to channel your inner Homer Simpson now and again.  One simple, “D-oh!  I never thought of it that way…” and you may find any electrical charge diffused pretty quickly.

Not all conversation has to be entered into with such forethought, but with provocative, defiant, combative, argumentative people, you do want to try and walk away with all the pieces you came into the battle with.  You may not win any awards or braided epaulettes for your jacket, but as Edgar Watson Howe said, “A boy doesn’t have to go to war to be a hero, he can say he doesn’t like pie when he sees there isn’t enough to go around.”  Sometimes it really is not just what you say, but how you say it.  And who can argue with that?

:^(

The gazelle has the cheetah, the Colorado potato beetle it’s Podisus Maculiventris and glamazons their petite counterparts.  Natural enemies are, for the most part, easily identifiable.  The seemingly innocent emoticon (tiny faces often added to text to signify emotions) has an enemy I never would have seen coming – people who make their bread and butter off of words.  Really high-end crusty bread and creamy butter, too.  Brenda Ehrlich of Mashable.com and Andrea Bartz of Psychology Today have decided to launch war against emoticons, with a campaign calling for Emoticon-Free December.

Wow.  Don’t you people have anything better to do for the holidays?  You know, cookies to be made?  The hopes of small children to dash at your local mall’s photo opportunity with Santa?

Knowing that Ms. Ehrlich and Ms. Bartz are humorists (the forces behind book and blog titled Stuff Hipsters Hate) I’d like to think that their brains are wired to take on bigger stuff than the lowly emoticon.  Seriously.  There is a whole world out there just waiting to be made fun of by brilliant minds like theirs.  Leave those poor smiley and frowny faces alone.

While the smiley face added to a note is nothing new, it does seem to have been catapulted into the webisphere in 1982 by Scott E. Fahlman, a computer scientist at Carnegie Mellon University (BTW: home of Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture – a man whose whole existence could be summed up with a googleplex of smiley faces).  Fahlman thought the emoticon was a good idea because the terribly serious computer science community needed a gentle nudge to assist them in taking online posts with a grain of salt (or sugar).

There is an autistic child in my house who has had difficulty reading facial expressions his whole life, but emoticons have helped him label his own emotions along with the emotions of others – so I’m a fan.  Considering that people with autism typically have special skills that draw them to fields of mathematics and analysis, it is not surprising that the computer science community needed and has benefited, I’m sure, from emoticons.

The two women behind the Emoticon-Free December movement have been quoted as saying, “emoticons have reached STD-like proportions” and that they are nauseated by the scourge of smileys and winks, believing that those who use a wink in a missive wouldn’t do so in real life.

Eww.

Comparing one of the few ways we have to infuse personality into words (words that can often be misinterpreted or taken too seriously) to disease?  Well, that’s just mean.  It is the equivalent of kicking a small dog for just being too darn cute.  We have become such a text-y society with little-to-no face-to-face time with other human beings it really is just a natural instinct to try and include whatever inflection and personality we can into our short interactions with one another.  Honestly, so few words, so little time.  Please forgive me the inclusion of three or four characters to express myself.

Oh, and those of you not brave enough to wink at me in person?  You should know that I’ll still blush just as much behind the comfort my laptop.  And the glow isn’t just from the monitor either.

Emoticon-Free December?  I don’t think so.

>:^p