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How Can You Be So Stupid?

4/26/2015

I begin with a disclaimer. I am not an expert on anything. I’m just a people watcher who notices things.

Of all of my driving pet peeves, the crime against humanity at the top of my list is people who don’t pull out into the intersection while they wait to turn left.

Here’s how it should go. You approach an intersection with a green light. You would like to make a left turn to go home for lunch (and you may be somewhat hangry*). But there is traffic in the oncoming lane. So you pull straight out into the intersection to wait for a break in the traffic. When the traffic clears, you proceed with your turn. If the traffic clears enough, the person waiting behind you to turn left gets to go too. If the traffic does not clear and the light turns red, since you are already out in the intersection you wait for the oncoming traffic to stop and then proceed quickly with your turn. The person behind you may turn close on your heels or wait for the next green, depending on their position and guts.

See how easy that is? What you do NOT do is stop BEHIND THE CROSSWALK to wait for a break in traffic and then timidly take FOREVER to make your TURN. (Yes, I'm yelling.) Because if you WAIT BEHIND THE CROSSWALK and the break in traffic never comes and the light turns red, you AND your left-turn-buddy behind you are STUCK THERE for another WHOLE TRAFFIC CYCLE. There is a sub-set of jerks who wait behind the crosswalk through an entire green light and then when the light turns red, floor it and dart out into the intersection to on the red light. I’m pretty sure my system is legal, and I’m positive that one is not.

So I was sitting behind one of those morons who waited behind the line and then darted out when the light turned red last week and when I finished yelling I started thinking about anger. Sometimes I’m driving along, singing with a Christian song on the radio, and it goes something like this: “If we are the body, why aren’t His arms reaching, why aren’t His hands healing, WHAT?! WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?? WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU, MOVE MOVE MOOOVE!!!!”**

How can I be so serene one minute and so infuriated the next? I started thinking about all the things that make me angry and the things I’ve noticed make other people angry and there’s a question that applies to almost every situation: How can you be so stupid? Really, how do you sit behind the line at an intersection and then dart out on a red light? How can you be sick for three weeks and then demand a medical appointment right this minute? Why would you buy that kind of toilet paper when you know I like Cottonelle? How can you possibly vote that way? How can you not see this problem? HOW CAN YOU BE SO STUPID?

I wouldn’t dart out at a red light. I am smart enough to know I’m not the only sick person needing an appointment. I’m bright enough to know my family’s favorite toilet paper. I vote in the best interests of my fellow humans. Why aren’t you more like me?

I’m sure the woman at the gas station drive-up window wondered how I could be so stupid when I zoomed past the sign that read “Stop and order here” and went straight to the pickup window. But she was nicer than I am—she just said “You know you can order back there, hon.” (Oops.)

And that’s the problem. While I’m wondering how other people can be so stupid and why they can’t just drive like they should—like me, obviously—they’re wondering why I’m so stupid and can’t be more like them.

Maybe you don’t get angry. Maybe you get frustrated, or exasperated, or upset. And maybe you don’t think other people are stupid, maybe you think they’re lazy or clueless or selfish. And of course you’re upset when someone gets into the 10-items-or-less line ahead of you with a cart full of groceries. Or when that dear friend you thought you knew puts a sign in his yard supporting a politician everyone knows is crooked (except your clueless idiot of a friend). You’re entitled to feel ang—um, frustrated—at that person. The problem is them, not you! Right? You’re just trying to be normal and reasonable!

Short-term, it feels good to be angry. I’ll admit it. It’s an adrenaline jolt and it makes me feel morally superior. When I catch that guy letting his dog use my front yard for a toilet I fantasize about visiting his house during the night with a load of deposits from our back yard. (We have two dogs, and they’re bigger than his.) He deserves it.

But long-term, anger is draining. It wears me out to be angry. Have you spent any significant amount of time around a chronically angry person? It’s exhausting. And it’s no cuter on you than it is on them. After awhile it’s like bagging up the waste from my back yard and then instead of dumping it at the neighbor’s house (which I am not suggesting), I just lug it around. All the time. It stinks, it’s heavy, and I’m pretty sure it makes me kind of repulsive to the people around me.

I would like people who think I’m stupid to cut me some slack and not expect me to be like them, because I’m not and I can’t be. I’m doing the best I can with what I've got. And in order to lay that sack of crap down, I guess I have to do the same for them.

What makes you angry?

*Hungry + angry

**The first part is If We Are the Body, by Casting Crowns. The second part is all me.

How to Entertain Yourself While Sick at Home

4/8/2015

When I was a kid my mom had a hard-and-fast rule for the five of us: If you were too sick to go to school, you were definitely too sick to go anywhere else. That’s not an issue for me now. If I’m sick enough to stay home from work, I’m sure not taking my no-makeup/crazy hair/sweatpants self out of the house.

But, just like school days, staying home sick isn’t as much fun as you’d expect. You feel like crap, and all your friends are occupied out in the world.

What’s a sickie to do when facing long, lonely hours of misery? We’re no longer at the mercy of the wasteland that is daytime television—now we can binge watch TV series and movies online or on demand. But you really need an activity that allows you to doze off unexpectedly without missing anything. (Heaven forbid you’re struck by an impromptu nap during “Sherlock.”)

I offer the following suggestions:

Facebook-stalk people who aren’t on your friend list. Don’t worry, it’s not real stalking because you’re only reading information they’ve put out there in public. Their mistake. (If you find this appalling, you should probably double check your own privacy settings.)
If you’re not too sick to lift your head off the pillow, look around the room from your chair, couch or bed and make a to-do list (for someone else to do, of course). There’s stuff you don’t notice when you’re busy living your healthy, normal life. But believe you me, when you’re just lying there too miserable to move anything but your eyeballs, you’ll notice some unacceptable situations going on, especially if you’re watching show after show on HGTV. By the end of the day your non-open-concept walls will be closing in on you and you’ll realize that to remain (or become) a Person of Good Taste, that carpet has to be replaced with hand-scraped hardwood. (You have Formica countertops? Animal!) Sounds discouraging, but this will actually give you a reason to go on.
Throw a load of clothes in the washer. When your family comes home, you’ll look like a trooper. Even as sick as you are, you got up and tried to do housework. They’ll have no choice but to finish the load before it gets that smell. (If you live alone, skip this one. Not worth it if you’re not going to impress anyone.)
Feel sorry for yourself. Wade into that pool of self-pity and wallow your brains out. You’re home alone and miserable. Nobody else is going to feel as bad for you as you do. You don’t usually get this kind of uninterrupted sympathy, even from yourself, so enjoy it!

If this list doesn’t sound appealing, good. You must be healthy. But take another look next time you’re sick--when you have a fever, your expectations and entertainment threshold are probably much lower.

Note: I had a fever when I wrote this. And my countertops are not only Formica, they’re stock.

People in My Head, part 2: The Nurse

3/28/2015

I hope you have seen the classic movie Gone with the Wind. (If you haven’t, you will miss many cultural references in your lifetime.) It’s a HUGE story. My youngest daughter watched it for the first time a couple years ago and at the end, asked, “What is this, a Tarantino movie?” (What can I say, the Civil War was a violent time.) Reading the book is a great idea, but that won’t help you right now because the nurse in my head is from the movie, and she’s not even a real nurse.

In one iconic scene from the movie, the war is going badly for the South. Pampered Southern ladies Scarlett and Melanie are in Atlanta. Melanie is about to have a baby, and the young house maid, Prissy (played by Butterfly McQueen, who, before becoming an actor, wanted to be a nurse), brags to Scarlett that she knows all about delivering babies and has assisted at many births. But when the doctor can’t come because he is tending to wounded Confederate soldiers, and Scarlett tells Prissy she has to go it alone, Prissy breaks down and shrieks the truth: “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ babies!” http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/281121/Gone-With-The-Wind-Movie-Clip-Bringing-A-Baby.html (I love this part of the movie so much that I sometimes shriek Prissy’s line myself when I’m feeling overwhelmed by life.)

Prissy is the nurse in my head. She tells me she knows everything about everything, but I think all my 21st century Prissy is doing is trying to match my symptoms to the most terrifying disease, syndrome, infection or condition she can find. She tells me it’s going to be ok and that she has taken care of this kind of problem many times before. But the minute I wake up with a scratchy throat, she screams, “IT’S EBOLA! YOU’VE GOT EBOLA!” When my oldest daughter broke her arm (and when my son broke his head, and when my other daughter got stitches, etc., etc.) and I was trying to act like a calm grownup, Prissy was in my head shrieking “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout broken bones!” When I have heartburn, she tells me it’s a heart attack. And, like in the movie, she doesn’t bring the doctor. She tells me the doctor is busy with real sick people. “There’s folks dying out there, quit worrying about your mole . . . although it is bigger than last week. What, you can’t remember how big it was last week? You have Alzheimer’s AND melanoma!”

She’s no Florence Nightingale, but I guess it could be worse. I could be stuck with Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, or Annie Wilkes, from Misery. Prissy hasn’t had me lobotomized or broken my ankles. Yet.

Doctors are not amused by Prissy. They don’t seem to like walking into the exam room, asking what brings me in today, and hearing Prissy’s suggestions about what the problem might be. I try to leave Prissy in the car when I go to the doctor, but if she insists on coming in with me I get sort of a kick out of seeing my doctor roll her eyes, because if she rolls her eyes that means I’m being ridiculous and Prissy is wrong and I do not have Ebola or Alzheimer’s or Pseudobulbar Affect. (Have you SEEN that commercial? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqjT_YqmNas. Prissy has me terrified of it! I’m afraid to laugh too hard at a joke or tear up over that commercial where the different species of animals are friends because what if it’s not really that funny or that touching and I have Pseudobulbar Affect?! Someone please tell me if you notice this behavior.)

Another thing about doctors—have you noticed that when you’re young, you call the doctor’s office all urgent because you think you might have strep and want to get rid of it ASAP, and since you’re there anyway you mention some other random problems and Life Questions and they assure you that you’re fine and throw you out. You go to the doctor when YOU want to see the DOCTOR. But once you hit 50 you try to duck into the doctor’s office, snag a scrip for heartburn that’s been going on for 473 days in a row and duck out with a friendly “thanks-seeya-next-year,” but now they want to chat and ask a hundred questions about this heartburn and a bunch of other things you’d rather not think about like colonoscopies and sketchy bloodwork. The DOCTOR wants to see YOU. This is a 180 in the ol’ doctor/patient relationship, and it does not feel like a good one. Hitting 50 must be one of those milestones, like puberty, except nobody tells you your body is about to make some changes and it’s not fun or exciting.

I suppose my doctor should be glad I have Prissy in my head, because I show up in her office as requested just to shut Prissy up. (Prissy says “You’re welcome.”)

People in My Head, part 1: The Hoarder

11/22/2014

If you’ve ever watched Hoarders on A & E or Hoarding: Buried Alive on TLC, you’ve probably noticed that every episode follows a pattern: Introduction of the hoarder, a walk through the house, the hoarder expresses willingness to let a professional help get their stuff “organized.” (Quick quiz: What is the proper container for “organizing” dead cats? Answer: Your freezer or Ziploc bags. Look it up yourself. I can’t bring myself to post the link.) Then a team of kind friends, stunned relatives and incredibly stoic organizers assembles, led by a psychologist. The hoarder is more or less gung-ho to save their home, or at least mildly cooperative. The psychologist and lead organizer explain the plan and the consequences for not cleaning up, which may involve the city bulldozing the house. Watching this part, you feel relieved. Yes. Let’s watch this transformation. If this place can be cleaned up, I can surely get my sock drawer under control.

And then reality sinks in and the hoarder starts feeling the pressure of all those hazmat-suited people picking through their precious collection and throwing things into the back of a truck. A freakout threatens. The psychologist steps in, warning the cleanup team to slow down and let the hoarder see what’s being put into the truck, the yard sale pile, the donate pile and the back of the Animal Control truck. So in the midst of mind-blowing, soul-crushing, ceiling-high, floor-rotting piles of used Depends, pets (dead and/or alive), vermin, spoiled food, papers, books, toys crusted with filth, clothing and kitchen gadgets with the tags still on and dangerous rusty appliances, the hoarder begins delicately picking through each . . . and . . . every . . . item . . . one . . . by . . . one. EVERY SINGLE TINY THING, no matter how disgusting. They can’t seem to prioritize between a food wrapper from 1997 and a current asthma prescription. It is painful to watch. They’re moving at a hopeless pace. You can clearly see that the action the hoarder is taking is not going to fix the problem in this lifetime. You want to yell “No, don’t!” at the tv, like when you’re watching a horror movie and somebody stands with their back to a window.

Well there’s a hoarder in my head. She works the midnight shift. She carefully picks through each and every piece of debris that has come through during the day, and instead of throwing away the obvious trash, she saves it to worry about later. She rummages through dark corners I had forgotten about (or wanted to forget about) and piles of things I meant to throw away but never did. She wakes me up at 3 a.m. to say “Hey, look what I just found! It’s that thing you said today, you know, the thing you thought maybe you shouldn’t say but you did anyway and it seemed funny but it was just stupid. Haha. Way to go!” She asks what I’m going to wear tomorrow, makes fun of it, and then suggests to the Worst Accountant Ever in my head that we should all go shopping. (Of course the Worst Accountant Ever agrees, as usual, without consulting my bank account. More on that in the future.) She’s loud, mean and relentless. She must be guzzling espresso up there. Her favorite stash is the tidy, labeled photo albums she keeps about me with names like Things I Wish I’d Done Differently, Diseases and Conditions I Will Probably Die From, People Who Hurt Me, People I Hurt, Why Did I Eat That (Volumes 1-3), and Crap I Wasted Money On. There’s a special album called Stuff I Forgot to Do Today--that one is like Snapchat, it disappears before the next morning when I could actually correct the problem. The past, present and future are all fair game for the Hoarder.

I am working on a way to throw her out, or at least tame her. If I can get her to use her powers for good, like reminding me of useful things and offering encouragement, I could tolerate having her around. Burn those photo albums and start new ones, like People I Love, Nature, Favorite Music, Times God Snatched Me Up Out of the Path of a Speeding Truck and I Didn’t Even Know It—those would be some good things to look through. Hoarder, I know your game and your days are numbered. Clean up or get bulldozed.

7 Things Vacation Makes Me Want to Do Better at Home

6/28/2014

I have WAY more experience staying home than going on vacation, but here are some vacation things I always want to continue when I return home to the state 50% of its residents want to leave.

Set better boundaries. Part of the beauty of getting away is that you’re automatically excused from certain things. “Sorry, I can’t—we’ll be gone.” Whew, huh? We can’t avoid stressors in life, but I could re-evaluate all the things I think I “have to” do, and someday learn to say no without mental anguish.
Purge my house. Living with so few possessions makes me realize I could—and I want to--live with less every day. Why am I keeping all those mismatched socks—their mates are never coming back! And the crafty odds and ends and stretched out sweaters I’m sure I’ll use someday… I blame Pinterest.
Get more sleep. Sleep, much like chocolate and cheese, makes everything better. I can’t help what time my brain nudges me awake to start asking ridiculous “what if” questions, but I can control what time I go to bed. I once read that at the Minirth-Meyer clinics, when a new client first arrives, they schedule no counseling appointments or group therapy for the first few days. They just advise the client to sleep as much as possible. Sometimes that alone is a huge step toward mental health.
Pay more attention to my relationships. I just spent two solid weeks with nobody but my husband for companionship. (I’m pretty sure he’s the only one I could do that with, and not end up as the perpetrator or victim of a homicide.) It was an interesting couple of weeks. There were times I felt like I had just met up with a guy I used to date. We don’t really have to run away from home to get to know each other outside of our daily routine (although it helps). I could have meaningful conversations with my loved ones without leaving town. I think I’ll try it. (What was that sound? Oh. Just my kids groaning.)
Put work in perspective. Get a little mental distance between me and the ol’ 9-5. Actually I think I’m pretty good at this one. (Easy for me to say, with my part-time, summers-off job.) But not everyone is. Ahem.
See the beauty around me. While I’m visiting someone else’s town, someone else is visiting mine. We have a lovely state park seven miles down the road from home—I could actually get away without leaving town. Also, Yard Crashers is not coming to my house. I can quit dreaming, hang some wind chimes next to my lawn chair and enjoy my own space.
Slow. Down. My vacation is not even over—it feels like I just got into low gear—but as departure approaches I can feel my mind beginning to ratchet up for “real life.” Real life will get here soon enough. Enjoy the slow.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

Dogs. Why?

3/19/2014

She was our first properly-bred Whippet--a puppy with a face like an angel and teeth like a shark. She was best friends with our first Whippet, our spunky rescue, Hayley. She was easy to train, from housebreaking to the show ring to general easy-keeper-ness. She made me meet new people against my will. Because of her I became friends with <gasp> strangers from the internet. I joined a kennel club. I—a lifelong hermit and introvert—stepped into a show ring, multiple times, because of this dog. (This was either some kind of insanity or therapy.)

Lydia loved to show. She never achieved her championship but a dog show meant she got to go for a car ride, get petted and fussed over by new people, and have special treats thrown at her over and over. What’s not to like about that? I clicker trained her to stand still and make eye contact with me. Later I almost regretted that--she could stare a hole through a brick wall.

She REALLY loved to race, and in that venue she excelled . . . at bringing home the Valiant Effort award at nearly every meet she entered. Some folks call that the Turtle Award, since it’s given to the dog who finishes last in the meet. But the Valiant Effort award netted her some pretty fabulous prizes over the years! She ran completely focused on the lure, and with her small size and rock-solid personality, she was a great training dog for youngsters just getting started on the track. (And racing meant more internet strangers. Who AM I??)

Lydia never met a dog or person she didn’t like. At home she was a dream girl . . . affectionate, well-behaved and quiet …except when she was quietly shredding something. Squeaky toys were eviscerated in seconds. She killed a few live “toys” in her day, including one Christmas Eve when the kids got home from church ahead of us and we got a phone call saying Lydia and Hayley had killed a bunny. (Merry Christmas, kids! Love, Best Parents Ever.) After she had a litter, she became everybody’s mama. I could never again clean another dog’s ears, grind nails, or do any kind of dog maintenance without her Personal Supervision.

Last year she had a bout of vestibular syndrome, and although she improved, it seemed she did not recover completely. This winter she began showing signs of anxiety and cognitive problems. Medication did not help. Her symptoms became more extreme by the day. She was miserable. Last week I had to make the hardest call a pet owner has to make. The only reason to keep her going would have been because I lacked the courage to let her go. She would have turned 14 on June 12.

It was the fourth time I’ve had to make that call. Each loss has taken a piece of my heart. Each time I ask myself why I have dogs. What was I thinking? Didn’t I see this day coming?

I guess it boils down to what I told my dog-allergic husband when I was trying to convince him to let me bring home yet another dog one time—he loves music. Loves it. Knows albums and the flip sides of 45s and who recorded on what label and who the studio artists were on a favorite album. He could live without music, but it adds something intangible to his life, and his life is richer for it.

And that’s why I have dogs. I have seen the face of a person who timidly asks, “Can I pet your dogs?” light up when the dogs greet them as though they’ve just found the most wonderful human on earth. And when that person says, “Look at this! They really like me!” I just smile and don’t say “They like everybody,” even though they do.

I am richer for the years—and the unconditional love, and the therapy/insanity and the internet strangers who can become incredible friends--they have given me.

Lydia and one of her boys, Buzz.

The Cookie Test

11/26/2013

We used to have a dog who was a bit of a drama queen. Every now and then, out of the blue, she would yelp and start limping. The first few times it happened I would go over her legs and feet, check her back and face (she did occasionally eat bees) . . . nothing. So I started using the Cookie Test. When she acted like she was injured, I would say, “Hayley, want a cookie??” If she just stood there or kept limping, I’d know she had really hurt herself. But more often than not she would come running for her cookie, her mystery pain gone.

The Cookie Test works on kids too, but they can read so we won’t go there.

Nowadays I use the Cookie Test to get myself out of bed on winter days. I wake up with aches and pains. The weak light outside is gray. I’m so tired. I should have gone to bed earlier last night. If only I could take one day to sleep, ALL DAY. I deserve to do nothing for one lousy day. I owe it to myself. It’s cold outside. It’s cold INside. Maybe I’m sick. Is that a stomach ache? I need a mental health day.

But I ask myself, “If this were a day off do you feel too bad to go shopping?”

And then I get up and go to work.

Away From It All

8/20/2013

Just a quick thought for today.

I saw a meme yesterday that said "All I want is a cabin in the middle of nowhere. With wifi."

I've often had that thought. Sometimes life gets to be too much . . . so much noise and stress and aggravation and obligations and general racket.

I would love to live the simple life in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere (but not so simple that it didn't have indoor plumbing), off the grid (but with electricity/internet access), growing my own food (if only I had a clue how to keep a garden alive and wasn’t too lazy to go out in the heat to harvest).

I could so do that.

Although yesterday a spider crawled across my pajama pants while I was reading and I levitated off the chair screaming, knocking my book, laptop and grandson flying . . . and tonight when I took the dogs out I heard a commotion and saw the pasty, pointy face of a possum on the fence, just staring right at me with its beady, glowing, scary eyes. I think my threshold for nature might be too low for log cabin living.

Blabbermouth

7/31/2013

On a Sunday afternoon in the golden age of the 1970s, the teenage me went to my boyfriend’s home for dinner. I don’t remember if it was Christmas time or my birthday or what, but after dinner we were chatting and watching TV and a commercial came on for the popular perfume, Charlie. In front of his parents, he asked if I liked it. With my normal diplomacy I made a vomit sound and said that it smelled like kerosene. (I bet you can see where this is going.) Minutes later I opened my gift from his parents--a bottle of Charlie. I made a quick mental note to someday take revenge on him* for this trap and did my best to amend my statement by saying that on my friend it smelled like kerosene, but she wore way too much of it, and that on me I was sure I’d like it. There! I put some on! See, I do like it! Whaddya know?!

I’m not sure if this makes that story better or worse, but I’m pretty sure it was a re-gift. His mother was a teacher and I was occasionally the recipient of some of her teacher gift overflow. In case you think that makes the story weirder, I have been known to pull over and pick trash from the side of the road, so I’m ok with re-gifting. Usually.

So anyway, this past Sunday I was sitting in church and the worship leader was reading Psalm 139, which says in part, “God . . . I’m an open book to you; even from a distance, you know what I’m thinking . . . You know everything I’m going to say before I start the first sentence.”

Awww, nice! I almost did a coffee spit-take. God knew I was going to say the Charlie thing and just let me? Years later he knew I was about to laugh while scolding my Jr. High daughter because she started to cry and had so much mascara running down her face she looked like Mini Tammy Faye Bakker? (You had to be there. It was funny. I was trying to lighten the moment. She’s still mad.) He couldn’t have stopped me before I said in a job interview that I lacked compassion? (Fine, the mascara thing bears that out but it was a JOB interview, for crying out loud.) Come on, God, I thought we were friends! We talk!

What was he thinking when he gave riffraff like us free will? If that’s not a gift I’ve abused I don’t know what is. Maybe it’s like this--maybe he knows what we’re about to say and smacks himself on the forehead or pounds his head on his desk, but since we get to call our own shots the stupid/angry/weak/hurtful thing gets said. And he hopes that we will come to our senses and ask for his help next time.

Maybe I need to talk less and listen more. And wait. Maybe I’ll try that and see if I can keep my foot out of my mouth for a couple days.

*I believe I got my revenge by marrying the guy. He’s been paying ever since.

The Dirtiest Word

7/23/2013

Some memories are like quick snapshots, and one of my childhood snapshots is of a neighbor girl breathlessly sharing a story in which someone said “the dirtiest word.” I don’t remember anything else about the conversation, but I still hear "...the dirtiest word!!!" and—what do the kids call it, LQTM—laugh quietly to myself.

I can guess what word she meant, but I have my own dirtiest word: Should.

I should be a better mother.
I should be a better wife.
I should be a better Christian.
I should get this laundry put away.
I should get out there and walk, because
    1) I should lose weight
    2) I should get my cholesterol down, and
    3) I should get in shape because if I get my cholesterol down I could live to be 100 and I don’t want to spend those last 20 years in a nursing home.
Speaking of which, I should put more money away for retirement and quit acting like the future will never get here.
I should plan ahead and get dinner in the crock pot by 1:00.
I should make better eye contact.
I should quit worrying.
I should quit shopping so much.
I should quit over-thinking.
I should quit eating sugar.
OH I should give the dogs their heartworm pill! I’ll be right back . . .

So I’m trying to avoid using that “S” word on myself and others. Like other dirty words, it sets a tone and has an impact I don’t want to live with. (I should use better grammar. I think “with” is a preposition. Somebody help me out here.) What makes it a dirty word is that I could add “I’m such a loser” after each of those shoulds. Should reeks of false guilt. And when I use it on someone else it’s like I’m so overflowing with shouldness that I can’t get my whole list done and I want you to do some of it. Even a good should, “Oh, that picture’s so cute you should frame it!” carries an implied burden.

Even worse--should doesn’t get anything done. It’s just a weapon of half-hearted destruction. Picture it: You’re sitting on the couch, enjoying some Cheetos and Pepsi at 10 a.m., and you think, “I should get off this couch, swap these Cheetos for carrot sticks, and put in a load of
laundry.” Do you move? Nope. Maybe you’ll get up during the next commercial, but hello, you’re not going to just walk out before the reveal after investing 45 minutes in Kitchen Crashers! So quit shoulding yourself and either get up and get to work, or stay and enjoy your Cheetos and the kitchen you’ll never have, because really, who gives a should how you spend your morning?

To steal shamelessly from Yoda, do or do not. There is no should. Have a great day. And watch your language.

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