Knee Jerk Lessons From The Blog

Deb: A few times on our blog we have encountered angry and combative people. Let me start by saying how lucky we are not to have run into this more. After all, when you put yourself out there you are opening yourself up to ...well ... the world, and we have been so lucky with the people we have connected with.

I have learned a few lessons, particularly from a recent back and forth I had with one such disgruntled reader. I know that people have every right to say what they feel. Hell, we do!  And I wish I could be more like Barb and gently say something like, “We appreciate your comment,” or some such response. But I can’t. Or at least I couldn’t. Or haven’t yet. But now I will. Maybe.

Here is my issue with it. The most recent sparring match on the blog is a good example of my point because it was a day where several people had opposing points of view from mine. And I loved it. Had no issue with it at all. Actually a few of the comments were food for thought and made me see something I had not previously seen.

So the whole knee jerking that I did with this one particular person made me examine my response and question myself. These were my conclusions: The three times I have engaged in challenging word ping-pong have all had something in common. The comments aimed at me were angry and disrespectful. I don’t have issue with someone disagreeing with me, but I clearly have issue with feeling attacked. The most recent attack was by someone who totally misunderstood the point I was making and accused me of saying things I simply did not say. In my second response to her, I urged the person in question to re-read the post so that they would see that I had said nothing they were claiming I had said.  This suggestion fell on deaf ears.

Given who I am and how poorly I deal with stress, I set out to delete the comments. I find that when I look at the ugly or the angry in print it makes my stomach churn and I cannot let go of the bad feelings. So I felt I should delete them and put them behind me. My reasons for deleting were the “my house, my rules; my blog, my rules” line of thinking. I would not let someone abuse me in my own home, so why should I on the blog? Afterwards I second guessed myself and wondered if I should just have let it stand. After all, I thought, maybe with the many lumps of sugar come a few lumps on the head. But then I pondered it some more. What do you say when you are being yelled at on the blog? I was not about to keep doing the back and forth with this person who was clearly missing my point. So ... do I just try and be reasonable and when the response is unreasonable, do I just say, “Thank you for your comment,” time and time again? Where do you draw the line? I would love to hear what you guys think. Delete? Not delete? Engage each time. Engage until it is futile?  I sincerely think I handled it wrong by deleting, but I have no viable alternative at this point. The recent person in question told me I should be ashamed of myself for deleting and that I did a great disservice to my readers in doing so. Did I, readers? I want your honest opinions.

I want to be accessible. I want to be thick skinned. But I want to feel safe.

Barbara: I guess I have to go first! Okay. I obviously love and respect you, Deb, and am of the mind that you are entitled to do whatever makes you feel most comfortable in your own “home”. I supported you on the day and I support you now. It is our blog; it is our home.

That said, your compelling question made me think. And thinking made me analyze. And analyzing made me consider a point of view. If it were me (and I guess it is me too because the commenter in question was definitely talking to both of us), my first instinct is that I would have left the comment up. I guess because the worst accusation was that we were “judgmental”. I could live with that even if I don’t feel that way. If we’d been called “bimbo dirtbag sluts”, um, I probably would’ve taken it down (my bimbo sluttishness is my own private business, people). So is that my line in the sand? In the words used???

But I also try to ignore comments that I feel are irate or hostile. Deb, you are very honourably committed to addressing every single person on the blog and I really respect that, but in this case, I’d already decided I wasn’t going to engage. I mean, I might try to get in one counter point (like, “No, that’s not what I meant; I meant this,” or something of that ilk). But I also know that those discussions (aka disagreements) tend to carry on ad nauseum, with each person “hearing” the other with less and less clarity, and with the discussion (aka argument) getting more and more convoluted (as each tries to make “more sense” and inevitably making less).

All this said, the trickiest part for me in answering your question is that my most painful Achilles heal, my most vulnerable underbelly in writing this blog (in writing ANY of the stuff I write), is in my fundamental, determined, and frankly sometimes desperate need to make sure my point is understood. Not in an aggressive, “I want to change your mind for you” kind of way, but (like what you were going for, Deb) in a “THIS is what I mean, not THAT,” kind of way. In a, “Please, please UNDERSTAND me,” kind of way. And then, once I’ve communicated my own true perspective and experience, let the reactions and opinions fall where they may.

Like you, I don’t expect people to agree with me all the time. In fact, I relish the turning of the idea or thought or belief because someone has come in here and eloquently and compassionately made a contrasting point. For heaven’s sake, our tag line is “two different opinions”! I have only ever gotten into trouble (aka gnashing-teeth-frenzied-yelling-pulling-my-own-hair-out altercations) when I’ve tried to EXPLAIN my point to someone who utterly believed my point was some other thing entirely. My lesson-learned was that it wasn’t worth it. I don’t want or mean to dump that lesson in any of your laps. Many people might decide they need to fight the good fight until the bitter end. But in my very personal case, it simply isn’t worth it. To me it feels a lot like pulling sharks away from the carcass after they’ve frenzied on the blood.

But in the end, the real real truth in this debate is that I don’t like how the whole thing made you feel, Deb. And for that I would do anything. Even take down a comment. 

I'm Not Mad, I'm Disappointed

Deb: Is there a worse sentence to hear?

I remember as a child the first time I heard it from my parents. I was mortified. I didn’t know if I would ever redeem myself in their eyes. Of course at that time I had no idea that “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed” was the most oft used weapon in a parent’s arsenal.

And it works because it’s true, isn’t it? When someone is angry with us, we just stick out our chin and wait for the fury to pass, sometimes even giving back as good as we’re getting.

But ... when someone is disappointed in us, it hits like a brick to the head.

Disappointment is a major demotion in the profession of human to human controversy. With the dropping of the “D” word, that person is saying, you are not worth my anger. They are saying that their feelings toward you at that moment in time go to the very core of their being and all they can muster up ... is DISAPPOINTMENT. So, in panicked reaction to this, we scramble to raise ourselves above this lowly status, brick by brick, until we raise ourselves up to “loathed” or even “despised”.

I recently dropped “disappointment” on someone I care for. I was not proud when I pulled this old chestnut out. But I judged at the time that it was my only recourse. I felt they needed to know that I was disappointed with them and along with that I wanted them to know how much I hated feeling this way.

Now THIS was a tactic my parents never used. They did not attach their reluctance to drop the D-bomb to the situation. In fact they always seemed so proud to use it. It was the “good china” of punishments.

But mine was said to a peer, a fully grown up person who deserved, despite my disappointment in them, my love and support.

And I am happy to report that the disappointment card still works its magic. It remains through the centuries, the fuzzy end of the lollypop we never want. And as I watched this person deal with what I said and act on it, without protest, without excuses, without resentment, I marveled. Marveled at the power of the “D”.

I also marveled at their ability to place their ego aside and to listen. I hope it helped that I delivered the message with a spoonful of sugar. But I don’t think so.

I suspect that it will be forever thus. Generations to come will crumble whenever they find themselves on the receiving end of “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed.”

Barbara: You are so right, Deb. On the confession side, I have certainly played this card with my kids, lump in my throat, conviction in my heart. It IS powerful. But at the time, I believed with all my heart that I meant it. Lack of effort, lack of commitment, lack of taking responsibility, all garner a deep sense of maternal “disappointment”. I expect better from them. And I want them to know that. (Not that it happens that often.) That said … it is a magical card that, yup, works every time.

But what I never considered before was the D-word’s omnipotent power. Why not brandish it during much bigger tugs-of-war: invade a country—we’re disappointed in you; oppress the downtrodden—we’re disappointed in you; place greed over compassion—so so very disappointed. It could be the new modus operandi of rulers everywhere: resigned benevolence complete with heartfelt sighs and puppy dog eyes. Kinda love it. 

Deb Got Mad At Me

Barbara: The other day Deb bit my head off.

True story.

It took until today for her to ask my forgiveness.

Deb and I trying to look sexy (with no makeup on
during a ski holiday). Pretend we're mad.

I guess it’s small comfort that she was so contrite about it. She admitted much to me in her apology. She claimed to rue the day. She told me that she deeply regretted her outburst and felt terribly guilty. She even told me that she felt so badly about it she had to confess her transgression to her other best friend––much to that friend’s shock. She wanted to make sure I didn’t hold it against her too much. That we were okay with each other.

I don’t know, guys, it’s hard to offer forgiveness for an affront when … you … didn’t … notice … the  … affront.

Deb and I are not only friends and co-writers, but we are soul sisters. I can’t even imagine her doing something or saying something that would anger me so much as to require contrition, forgiveness, or lost hours of worry. If she bit my head off—as she claims to have done—well, chalk it up to a bad day, or a legitimate but of-the-moment disagreement between two usually compatible friends. But I swear to you—and I am usually a very sensitive soul—I DID NOT NOTICE. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

After we established that the transgression had indeed occurred, we—as dear friends are wont to do (and one of the reasons I LOVE having dear friends)––discussed what actually went down. Turns out Deb wasn’t actually mad at me in that moment, but just irritated in general, and I was the (completely oblivious) target of a momentary (and frankly very subtle) outburst.

An oldie but a goodie.

You know what? Shit happens. Irritation between friends is par for the course, especially those accidental or unintentional clashes. Comes with the territory. And you know what I especially love? That Deb talked to me about it. That we could talk about it together. We are all human in our transgressions, but some of us are also wonderfully humane in our approach to them. Deb, I tip my hat to you. Of course I forgive you, but I also love you for it.

Just, you know, never let it happen again.

Deb: Barb, my neck is soaked with tears. They were orderly tears when they left my eyes, but I was so moved by your loving generosity, I spilled the rest as a result.  Hormones. Yep.  Bad few weeks. But muddling through, and surviving quite nicely, thanks so much.

Thought it was done though, the menopause. Wasn’t, as it turns out. Was not done!!! Still. Hanging in there and working it through. Hmmmnnn.  Official menopause was easier. At least I knew that it was awful all the time ... but on the other hand, at least this time, as willy nilly as it is, I know what I am dealing with. And more importantly, that I’m not going mad. Always an important point when one takes stock at the end of one’s day.

Thanks Barb xoxoxo 

P.S. As I said to Barb earlier when she called me to offer her support, I wish for each of you who are not there yet, a safe, giddy, funny, lovely crossing into menopause. And if it is not thus, I will be your MenoYoda. Something every gal should have. 

Something To Get Mad About

Barbara: I’m not super-political and I’m not an educated advocate, but I do want the world to be a better place. I don’t particularly like to get mad at stuff, I prefer a more moderate approach: accept things you can’t change and work diligently to change the things you can. But there are always going to be those irritating things that come along and slap you in the face.

Environmental issues generally drive me crazy. I mean the stomach-churning, ire-raising, head pounding impotently against the wall kind of crazy. Why? Because it seems like such a simple and obvious corollary: if the world is dirty, we must clean it whatever the cost.

I’m going to digress for just a moment here (it’s my blog and I can tangent if I want to). Deb did a PSA (public service announcement) recently for Greenpeace that is posted on the internet. It is absurdly funny. Tear-wiping hilarious. And absolutely bang-on message-wise: Corporate Obtuseness and Political Support romance each other to become the “perfect” power couple. It’s so funny that I asked Deb if we could post it here. It’s so persuasive that it reminded me of my own recurring outrage at environmental destruction and my desire to get this off my chest:

I understand that corporate polluters will have to undergo expensive and time-consuming overhauls to clean up their act; I accept that this is a big thing to ask industry to do; I know that jobs could be on the line and I realize that my job isn’t one of them. But if I got cancer and the only way for me to survive would be to change my diet from a processed but relatively cheap diet to a healthier but substantially more expensive (and more time-consuming) one, I would do it. I would also encourage any friend or family member to do the same. It would be obvious: eat poorly, get really sick and die a slow, painful death; eat well while investing time and money into my health and … wait for it … enjoy a long, healthy, and abundant life.

I just don’t see the political and corporate sense in looking at the short term (ie, immediate financial gain, no required change, impressive quarterly returns—and who the hell made “quarterly returns” the be all and end all???) when the long-term reality is so bleak (hey, there won’t be no quarterly returns if there ain’t no world).

So—besides getting frothing mad—what do I do? The basics: we sort our garbage 3-ways (recycle, organic, and garbage), carry reusable bags, choose food with its ecological footprint in mind, invest in industry with a conscience, make points from time to time in public forums. Laugh and laugh at Deb’s satire. And then share it with you!

The Madwoman Of Leaside

Deb: A few weeks ago I witnessed something so shocking that I didn’t even know if I could blog about it.

I was driving my car very slowly on a residential street, slowly because there were three boys on bikes just ahead of me. They were around ten years old, I would say. I noticed a dead squirrel up ahead, and in the next second saw one of the young boys ride up beside the dead squirrel––and spit on it. Spit right on the body of this dead little creature.

Well, I don’t mind telling you, I snapped. It was so shocking to me, this ugly act, that my head was spinning.  When I see a dead animal I always give a nod and a “God bless you”, so you can im-frikkin’-agine how I was desperately searching for reasons that this young boy might commit such an ugly soulless act. Not that it would have made it less ugly, but at least I could see a reason from his age and viewpoint if he had spit in clear view of his buddies. This at least would have made some kind of sense in the show-off-appear-tough kid world.

But this was a solitary act. No one saw him. He was not doing it to impress. But he did it. And my blood ran cold.

I watched the other boys pull up on their bikes one by one to chat. I didn’t notice any of them looking back at the squirrel, so I knew he wasn’t even talking about what he had done. He was just laughing. Suddenly, I was running full speed up to him, the red flash of my parking lights setting the mood for the scene that was about to unfold. I am not proud of what happened next, but I just snapped. Went squirrelly!!!

I said to him, “What the hell” ... wait, I should be more specific ... I SCREAMED at him, “What the hell did you just spit on that dead squirrel for you, little monster?”. 

His friends stared at him. “Fuck off, lady,” said evil boy. I could have laid odds on that answer.

“Listen, you evil little bastard, that squirrel is one of GOD’S CREATURES, you soulless little tool!” 

The boys all stared at the crazy lady. Evil boy stuck out his chin in defiance. The other two boys were scared shitless however and were waiting in hope for men in white coats to emerge from the ATM vestibule and carry me away.

“Mind your own business, lady!” said Evil.

I swear to God I was two seconds away from quoting Jacob Marley in Scrooge: ”MANKIND IS MY BUS-I-NESS!” But instead, just to solidify my newfound status as the Madwoman of Leaside, I screeched, “Laugh it up now, kid, because, you see, I know where you are going to end up. Oh yes! You, kid, are going to end up in jail because you are an evil little bastard.” 

And as they hopped on their bikes and peddled away like competitors in the Tour De France, all you could hear aside from the gentle falling of leaves, was the screech of, “Oh yes, don’t think I don’t know!!! You mark my words, you giant knob, you shell of a human being, that’s where you’ll end up if you don’t do some soul-searching! Jail, do you hear meeeeeeeeeeeeeee? JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I stood there, my sweaty body reflected in the shadow of his raised middle finger, and let my heart-rate come down. Then I walked back to my car, passing my tiny stiff little friend. You have been avenged, I thought.

Then, I felt insane.

Good insane. 

I keep checking the mail for a lawsuit. Nope. Just Christmas catalogues.

Barbara: Deb, I’m here to confirm­­––between horrified outrage (at boy) and weak laughter (at you)––that this whole thing was indeed kind of insane. Idiot-child’s senseless action and screaming mama slash Dirty Harry slash morally decent protestor’s response. I feel I can say this to you only because a) you know how much I love and respect you, and (most importantly) b) I have experienced this kind of insensible insanity myself. It is a delirious, almost sexy kind of rage. Because it’s so friggin’ righteous.

Of course there’s the car-jacking incident, but, oh, there are sooooo many other times I can hear the echo of my own maniacal, hoarse, outraged voice screaming at some (very deserving) hooligan or other. I can feel the unfamiliar hot blood coursing through my usually calm warm veins.

I wonder if your outburst ever visits evil boy in his nightmares. I wonder if you’ve changed his unfeeling ways. I wonder if this would be called “fool for thought”.

I also wonder if there isn’t some little squirrel angel looking down upon you now as you pass through his old ‘hood, giving you a little furry nod and bow of acknowledgement and squeaky gratitude for defending his honour. 

A Duck Out Of Water

Deb: I have a few Donald Ducks in my life. Allow me to explain. When I was a kid watching the Mickey Mouse Club, Donald freaked me out. Yes, I was very young, but still. I was always so confused at his anger and jealously towards Mickey. 

I find myself to this very day confused and confounded by the Donald Ducks in my life. People who cling to jealousy, who can’t let go of a grudge, who don’t know how to forgive and forget. How do they function with all that hate and anger? The best life lesson I have learned to this point is forgiveness. It’s the lesson that keeps on giving. Heals you, heals the other guy. It is what brings me peace, and I think/hope it has helped me on my quest to be a better person. 

I have always strived to be Mickey with his sweet optimism and Pollyanna spirit. Mickey is a lover of Man and Mousekind who doesn’t have a bad word to squeak about anyone. He inspired me as a child and still as an adult I was always enthralled with the idea of “Anything can happen day” on the Mickey Mouse Club. I try to look at my journey as an “Anything can happen Life” where every day is a new and positive adventure. And in those moments of my life when I was jealous, vindictive or envious, I thought of Donald with his angry scrunched up sweaty face and I thought, “Yep, that’s what I look like inside and out”. I hated that reflection and the realization that in those ugly moments, the only difference between Donald and me was that I was wearing pants. 

Last year I made a big decision to change something in my life that was causing me to see Donald’s reflection in the mirror on a daily basis. It was a very painful decision, but now when I look in the mirror I see Mickey with his huge hopeful eyes. M,I,C––see you real soon, K,E,Y––why, because we love you! M O U S E. 

Barbara: That’s at once funny and painfully sweet, Deb. 

We’ve spoken many times about the best way to handle things when life gets tough. There’s often a Donald/Mickey quandary, isn’t there? Do you Donald it up and say what you mean and truly feel, and in so doing let that little scrunch-faced-bare-butted brat have his way? Or do you Mickey it, look on the bright side, decide you’re going to be okay if you don’t make those twenty valid but demeaning points, pull up your little be-buttoned shorts, and put your best paw forward? 

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been tempted to let Donald have his quacking way a few times over, even wished afterwards that I’d been “brave enough” to fully unleash his voice (even sometimes long afterwards), but I can truly say now that I have not regretted a single one of Mickey’s good-natured victories.