A Grammar Nerd’s Defense

I’m raising Grammar Nerds.  I refuse to call them Grammar Nazis and I truly do wish we could retire that term.

I recently commented on Facebook about the poor grammar in a letter sent out by our school.  I said something about expecting better from the school I send my children to.  What I forgot to consider was that I live in a small town.  And so I probably know the person who wrote the letter.

Well, I do.  And she’s one of the sweetest, nicest people you could ever meet.  And she was embarrassed and hurt by my remark.  I felt terrible.  On the one hand, I don’t think I was (strictly speaking) wrong to expect more from my school.  On the other hand, I had caused harm by bringing it up in a public manner.  Normally, I would do it privately, and only if I felt the person would want to fix it.

At any rate, I was telling some friends about how terrible I felt.  One of them very sternly told me, “That was bad.  Really bad.  People don’t like it when people do that.  That’s where the term Grammar Nazi comes from.  Because it’s bad.  People don’t like it.”

Let’s just rein it back in for a minute, shall we?  I publicly remarked that a letter that did contain grammar mistakes… contained grammar mistakes.  This wasn’t a random post on Facebook.  It wasn’t an email or text message or some other throwaway communication.  It was official correspondence from my child’s school.  And it was not well edited before it was released.

Was my complaint really comparable to the starvation, torture, rape, and execution of tens of thousands of people?  I mean, really?  Let’s try to keep it in perspective, please.

Needless to say, when I saw a sign on the door at the school saying “Our student’s safety is our top priority”, I kept my mouth shut.  Well, not completely.  I told Jane about the sign, without telling her the mistake, and asked her how it should be spelled.  She said, “S-T-U-D-E-N-T-S apostrophe.  What, did they put the apostrophe before the S?”

She smiled as I commented that I didn’t realize the school was only worried about one student and wondered which one it was.

It was less than a week later when the boys brought home a T-shirt order form from their school.  The logo said “To Our School We Proudly Hale”.  Jane was the first to point out that they meant Hail.

We contacted some folks who were very appreciative that we brought it to their attention before the shirts went to print.  It’s nice, as a grammar nerd, to be granted appreciation instead of scorn.  It’s much nicer than being scowled at.  Then again, I suppose how we approach the correction makes all the difference.

But you see, it’s not easy to turn it off.  We notice.  And we actually don’t find grammar all that hard.  We get that it’s easy to type something wrong.  But if it’s something that you’ve read over, there probably shouldn’t be many mistakes.  At least, not the really big ones.  We try to consider people’s feelings, but sometimes the timing is just too perfect or the temptation too great or the frustration too much to bare in silence.

Take a conversation Jane was having with some friends.  She remarked that she was not going to be an orchestra teacher when she grew up and then pointed to one of the girls and indicated that she probably would.

The girl responded, “I’m not going to be no orchestra teacher.”

Jane immediately fired back with, “You aren’t going to be an English teacher either!”

Ok, so out of line?  Yeah.  Probably.  Funny?  Hell, yeah!  I couldn’t believe she had said it, but at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of her either.

One final proud Grammar Mom moment?  I’ve had multiple adults tell me that they ask Daryl for any spelling help they need.  One of them had barely met him two years ago when he was in the third grade.  One of the other students had made a sign that said “Flower Shop”.  Only, she had spelled it “Flower Shope”.  All the other kids told the girl that the E shouldn’t be there.  Daryl walked by, glanced at the sign, and said, “If you want to spell it with an E, you need two P’s.”

We can’t help it, my children and I.  We live in words.  We immerse ourselves in books.  We love to write.  We love the language.  And it actually hurts to see it butchered, even accidentally.  So we try to be compassionate and consider people’s feelings, we really do.  But sometimes, our instincts get the best of us and we just have to let it out.  At least I haven’t taken to carrying around a bottle of white-out and a Sharpie to fix all the misplaced commas and apostrophes that I come across!

The Great Cherry Coke Hunt

I wanted a Cherry Coke.  Really badly.

Most of my adult life I have eschewed soft drinks of any kind.  Either that, or I’ve consumed Code Red.  Or… when concerned about calories, Diet Mountain Dew with cherry drink flavoring added.  I have vacillated between total abstinence and Diet Mountain Dew off and on over the last couple of decades.

Until my doctor expressed her dismay that I was adding chemicals to chemicals and drinking it.  She even started holding me up as an (anonymous) example to her other patients of someone “who ought to know better” doing something profoundly stupid.  And other friends started telling me just how bad the Dew was.

So I kicked Mountain Dew to the curb.

But every once in awhile, during “Happy Hour” at Sonic, I’d get a Coke Zero with cherry and vanilla flavoring added.  I grew to like it.  And then I started worrying about artificial sweeteners.

So a few weeks ago, when I was so very tired at work, I bought a regular, non-diet Cherry Coke.  And loved it.  I knew I was starting a new indulgent phase but justified it (just as I always have) by telling myself that I only drink one 20 oz. bottle a week.  I’ve had one just about every week since.  If I could find it.  A couple of times I’ve had to settle for the inferior Wild Cherry Pepsi.

Because, you see, the Coca-Cola vending machines at work are not overfond of stocking Cherry Coke.  There’s one in the building across from mine, but it’s persnickety about taking my money.  Meaning it often won’t.

And on this particular day last week, when I really didn’t want to settle for Pepsi, it wouldn’t let me feed my dollars in.  Wouldn’t even try to take them.  I knew that the nearby machines didn’t carry Cherry Coke so I widened my search radius.  I checked six additional Coke and Dasani machines, hoping to find Cherry.  I searched upstairs and downstairs.  No Cherry Coke.

I popped my head into an honor-system snack bar and exchanged my bills for quarters.  And tried them in the special golden Cherry Coke possessing machine.  And heard my quarter fall all the way down to the coin return.

Dejected, I left the building and ran into an acquaintance.  I told him my tale of woe.  He asked if I had tried training.  When I asked if they had Cherry Coke in that machine, he said, “I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to check.”

This was an absurd statement since that particular machine was at the far end of the facility.  I pointed out that I was, quite contrary to my norm, wearing heals.  I had already walked enough and couldn’t walk all the way down there on a chance that I’d find Cherry Coke.

“Take my scooter,” he said.  “Seriously, I’m going to be in this building for a little while.  Just go ahead and take it.”

He’s crazy, I thought to myself.  And I am too if I actually take him up on his offer.

And then I climbed into the scooter.  It took me awhile to figure out how to put it in reverse.  I thought I’d thoroughly embarrass myself by climbing back out without going anywhere.  But finally, I was on the go.

I drove to the other end and parked in front of the training department.  I walked past the front desk like I knew exactly what I was doing and entered the break area.  I turned to face the Coca-Cola machine.  The first thing I noticed was the row of Cherry Cokes!  The second thing I noticed was the sign taped to the front that said “Does not work!”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I said something to the woman at the front desk.  And in her, I found a kindred spirit.  A fellow lover of Cherry Coke.  We shared our similar, yet opposite sorrowful tales.  How mine wouldn’t take my money and how hers would take the money but not give her a drink.  She affirmed my crazy scooter borrowing action by stating she would have done the same in a heartbeat.

I stopped at another building and checked some more machines.  I finally resigned myself to Wild Cherry Pepsi.  And felt more than just a tad ridiculous that I had expended the level of time and energy I had to hunt down a Cherry Coke.

Why Do They Call Them SLEEP Overs Anyway?

Daryl had his first sleepover party Friday night, with four of his closest friends.  The last sleepover party (being distinguished from just having a friend or two over) was 3 or 4 years ago for Jane.

Let me just say that boys are waaaaaaaayyyyyy different from girls.  The biggest mishap with the girls was when someone dropped their nail polish bottle and some of the polish splattered out all over the we-don’t-care-about-it-30-year-old-linoleum floor in a room marked for remodeling.  And it was easily cleaned up.

The boys…  well… the boys had a lot of energy.  And they were loud.  They opened presents while my husband and I were back in our bedroom trying to get a little quiet time while we ate our pizza.

They went outside before it got dark.  I stepped out to check on them just in time to see a boy throw something that made a clunk as it stuck into a piece of plywood on the ground.  The other two exclaimed in delight and I began to suspect that… surely not…

“What are you guys doing?”

“Oh, just throwing a sharp piece of wood to see if it’ll stick.”

“Are you sure it’s not a sharp piece of metal?”

Yep.  They were throwing a knife.  A long, former kitchen knife whose handle had seen better days that they found… somewhere…  After that, they moved to pushing a large tub of water down the slide to see what would happen.  Eventually, they returned to the house.

Where a boy promptly got himself trapped in the bathroom.  A mechanism in the doorknob had broken.  We tried to disassemble the knob from the hallway but weren’t successful.  My husband then went outside and instructed the boy to open the window.  He then fed tools in to the kid, who followed his instructions to finish disassembling the knob from the inside.  The door still wouldn’t release, until we saw what part was broken and compensated for it.

Freed from the bathroom, he rejoined the others, who were having yet another epic battle in that slated-for-remodel room that suffered a nail polish spill a few years earlier.  There was a rubber Minecraft sword, a rubber Minecraft pick ax, a couple of thin plastic swords, a wooden sword, and a “whip” that was actually the long plastic tube for some toy.  There were also projectiles: a football and my two exercise weight balls.  I quickly reminded them that there was pottery and glassware all over that room and I’d appreciate them not throwing heavy objects at each other.

The office chair that sits at our computer was used as a tank of sorts, with kids using it to glide quickly across the battlefield.  Until it broke.  When someone jumped on it.  We hated that chair but we weren’t necessarily ready to replace it.

During the night, they decided to add ice cubes to the bowl of Hershey almond nuggets.  So much for using the leftover candy for party favors for Hal’s party.  They also spilled stuff – just water, I think – on the rug and scattered candy all over the place.

And made a lot of noise.  I mean, a lot.

We told them at midnight that we were going to bed and they needed to try to keep it down.  I went in and reminded them again at 1:30.  And 2:00.  And 2:20.  And 2:55.  And 3:10.

By 3:30, I was fed up and desperate.  I stomped back into the living room and said, “Look.  I’m sorry.  But it’s time to turn off the TV, turn off the lights, and be quiet.  I mean, quiet.  No sound.  I’m done.  I have another birthday party to run today and I need my sleep!”

Of course, they were dead to the world the next morning.  I was dead to the world for the entire day.  Shoot, maybe the entire weekend.  Somehow, though, I managed to pull off Hal’s party that afternoon with only a few minor mishaps.  Like buying cups when I was serving Caprisuns.  And forgetting candles and a lighter.  And not bringing bowls for the grapes and cheese crackers.  Yet bringing forks even though they were eating cupcakes.

By the end of the day Saturday, I had also managed to confirm that none of the boys from Daryl’s party had accidentally ended up with one of the other boy’s Xbox controller.  And it was definitely not in my living room.  So it looks like the cost of the party will be increased by the cost of replacing the controller.  And the office chair.  And the bathroom doorknob.

Oh, well.  At least he had a good time.  And I truly wish him the best of luck in convincing me to ever do it again.

TBT: Meeting My Children

My children all have birthdays this week, so it seems appropriate to devote this week’s Throwback Thursday post to their births.  I’ll try not to make it into a long drawn-out birth war story that makes all the men run for the hills and all the been-there-done-that women roll their eyes.

One thing I distinctly remember when I was pregnant with Jane, our first child, was the day that it finally hit me that we were about to become parents.  And that we were locked into it.  Committed.  Baby growing in the belly.  It was going to happen.  And we didn’t know what we were doing and I was scared out of my mind!

I remember trying to run up the headboard “away” from reality, saying to my husband, “Oh, no!  Oh, no!  What have we done?!  We don’t know what we’re doing!  Are we crazy?  We can’t do this!  We can’t do this!”

One similarity with all three births was that I worked all the way up until the day they were born.  All of them.  Although slightly different circumstances each time.  With Jane, I remember preparing everyone the day before.  I asked a guy in a club I was President of to attend a meeting for me in my place if I didn’t show up to work the next day.  I gave another guy a list of things-to-know “just in case I’m not here tomorrow”.  And guess what?  I wasn’t there tomorrow.

Daryl was induced.  I had begun dilating 5 weeks before he was due.  Every week, the nurse would comment, “Well, we probably won’t see you next week!”  And then I’d drag myself in the next week.  Since Jane had woken me up with labor, that’s how I anticipated it happening with Daryl too.  So every morning that I woke up still pregnant, the more depressed I became.  Horrible, terrible people would comment, “You ain’t had that baby yet?!”  I started wearing sunglasses, even in the buildings, as I walked into work – so no one could see the tears.

The week before his due date, they measured me at 5 cm.  Before you say anything, yes.  I know that’s supposed to be active labor.  But there it is.  When I went to my appointment the day before his due date, the doctor looked concerned.  She was afraid that whenever labor did start, I wouldn’t be able to make it to the hospital in time.  So then she did a terrible thing.  She asked me, “Do you want to have a baby today?”

I burst out crying.  Of course I did.  What I did not want (when I was in the right state of mind, that is) was to be induced.  Or have any other interventions.  But she had hit below the belt and I just nodded mutely.  She sent me to the hospital.  I called my husband and my mom.  Husband got there in time.  Mom, who lives in the next state over, made it to the parking lot.

Contrast my quick willingness to head to the hospital with Daryl to the way I conducted myself with Jane.  The night before, I had told my husband that if I went into labor, I would be shaving my legs before we left.  He rolled his eyes.  When I woke him up the next morning by tossing the notebook with the timing of my contractions on the bed, he hopped up and asked if I was ready to go.  I said not quite.  He cried out, “What are you doing?!” when he saw me waddling into the shower.

“I am not going to the hospital with hairy legs!  I told you that last night.  I’m going to shave.”

There indeed was no need to hurry.  She was born a solid 14 hours after we got to the hospital, which was about 3 hours after the contractions woke me up.  And that was after we forced the issue with my lackadaisical body.  I think I might have vegged out too much, trying to stay relaxed.  I put the Gregorian Monks CHANT CD on repeat All.Day.Long.  It drove my mother insane.  She begged for something else to listen to.  I refused.  When they finally shut off the CD to prep for delivery, I could still hear it.

That forced pushing set me up for some panic with kid #2.  Contractions are more intense when you are induced yet still going natural.  So intense that at one point, I started screaming my head off, imagining that I was in for hours of that pain.  I distinctly remember rational-me curled up in a corner of my mind thinking I’ve completely lost it.  What’s she going to do about it?  Instead, that primal urge to push came over me and the boy was out less than four hours after I headed to the hospital.

Despite a speedy delivery, the experience with the inducing and an unpleasant nurse that chastised me for not taking drugs caused me to dislike the thought of returning to the hospital with kid #3.  So I talked to my Primary Care Physician about doing a home birth or using a birthing center.  Since there were not any birthing centers nearby and she was concerned about how quickly the last kid had come and since my births had been non-eventful, she recommended a home birth.

And that’s what Hal was: a planned home birth.  That third pregnancy was the hardest.  I eventually decided that a particular day would have to be my last at work because it was just too uncomfortable to go into work.  I went home, slightly disappointed that I wasn’t able to work up until the end.

Hal, always the thoughtful child, was born in the early morning hours the next day.  I woke up in the middle of the night to extremely sharp and powerful contractions that did not repeat and did not build in frequency.  I eventually retired to the couch so I wouldn’t disturb my husband.  Some time between 2 and 2:30 am, something happened that had not happened naturally with either of the other two.  My water broke.  We called the midwife.  The contractions were suddenly 3 minutes apart.  We called the friend who had agreed to sit with the kids.  We called my mom.

The midwives arrived first and quietly began to assess and prep.  The friend arrived next and quietly whispered outside our bedroom door that she was there.  Mom, again, was unable to cover the distance between us before the child was born.

I had always planned to bring the kids, 5 and 8 years old at the time, into the room to witness the birth.  I learned in those early morning hours, however, that I needed everything in that room to be about me and I couldn’t handle a kid asking a question or getting grossed out.

The kids, prior to the friend arriving, were in their shared room on the other side of our closet.  They could hear me screaming through the contractions (not panicked screams like before – these were intensity-of-effort screams).  They lay there, wondering what was going on, both of them on edge and slightly scared.  One of them finally said, “I think Mommy’s having the baby.”

They were reminiscing about that morning this week, each saying what they remembered.  It was funny to listen to because neither of them had accurate memories.  It made me wonder which of my memories of childhood are faulty.  I also learned that they’ve recounted their versions of events to their friends.  I now wonder what their friends think about me.

Right near the end of my very short (less than 2 hours) labor with Hal, I tried to call them into the room for the birth.  They arrived just in time to see Hal getting placed on my chest.  “Happy Birthday, Daryl!” I said with a tired smile.  I’ll never forget that huge grin that spread across his face as I said it and he looked at his little brother.

And each time, as I cradled my new little one, I felt just the same as I did the first, when the nurses all chuckled and smiled as I whispered, “Oh my goodness!  Oh my goodness!  Oh my goodness!  Oh my goodness!” and stared dumbfounded at the beautiful miracle in my arms.

 

Another Almost-Botched Birthday

We came close to botching another birthday this past weekend.  At least this time, I had help from the birthday girl.  Jane made some friends at summer camp this past summer and her birthday wish was to get to see them.  She assured me that this was attainable because “we all live within 2 1/2 hours of camp.”

There is no point in employing logic when planning with a teenager.  It is lost on them that two people that are 2 1/2 hours from a given location are not necessarily close to each other.  They could, indeed, be a solid 5 hours from each other.  And when only one or two of these people can drive, it seems unlikely that parents would be willing to drive them somewhere to meet another kid from camp.  As she named the towns they each lived in, I found it unlikely we could make this get-together work.

But I am a loving and devoted mother who wants to give my children what they want when possible.  So I first said to find out who was available on that particular Saturday and who was able to travel.  She crafted the text request in such a way that no one answered about whether they were able to travel any distance away from their homes.  One answered that he would be taking the SAT in the morning but was free after.  One said maybe.  One said yes.  One said no.  The local girls, who would be transported with us wherever we went, said yes.

So I said, “Ok.  Tell them that we are going to have your party somewhere at 3:00 Saturday afternoon.  We will pick the somewhere to be as accommodating as possible for the people who are able to come.  See who can be there at that time.”  Same answers.

So then I checked a map.  I already felt like I was having to pull teeth to get any decisions made on this get-together.  After studying the map, I picked a town that was just over an hour from us and also from each of the two yeses.  It would be a longer journey for the maybe, but maybe he could get to the guy closest to him and catch a ride.

“Ok,” I said.  “Tell them the party will be at a park in Townville and see who can still come.”

“Which park?” she asked.

“I’m not going to spend the time picking a park until I know for sure that people can go there.  If either one of those guys bails, then we’ll move the party to the other person’s town.”

“Mom!  We are not irresponsible 10 year olds who say yes to parties when we don’t know whether we can go.  We are responsible teenagers who know what we are doing!  They said they could go.  They know it will be in the {general nearby metro} area.”

“I’m done with this conversation,” I said, and walked away.  Her notion of space is weak as the chosen town is not in the area she described.  After getting dinner in the oven, I tried again.

“Jake can’t come.  He says it’s too far,” she said.  I bit back the urge to point out which one of us had been right about the need to share the location with people.  I merely asked her to confirm with the other person whether he could travel or whether we should travel to his town.

“So at this point,” my husband asked me later, “we are planning a party around one person?”

“Basically,” I said.  But surely one of these friends would be better than none?  I told her to give the boy my phone number so his mother could call and talk if need be.  Several days went by with me pinging her each one.  By Wednesday, I still didn’t know what we were doing.  It distinctly felt like everything was falling apart.

Finally, the boy responded.  His mother said it was too far away and reminded him that he had another party to go to that day anyway.  Ok.  So now what?

She fretted over not being able to get people together for her birthday.  She mentioned a popular girl at school that had dozens at her party.  I said the quantity of people at the party was not nearly as important as how much they mean to you and vice versa.  She seemed to be getting down.

Finally, she named a science museum she wanted to take her local girlfriends to.  I stayed home with the boys.  My husband took the four girls and dropped them off at the museum while he checked out a nearby art museum.  Then he took them to her chosen hamburger joint and a Hot Topic, where they got matching shirts.  One of them then spent the night.  The next day, I delivered her to a movie theater that was showing the “one weekend only” One Direction concert movie.  She didn’t take any friends because none of them are One Direction fans.  Just her.

All in all, I think she had a good birthday.  But it was looking kind of sketchy there for a bit.

The Boy’s Got Ink

My Kindergartner has tattoos.  Lots of them.  All over both upper arms.  He even had to have a discussion with the Principal at school concerning them.  He had placed one on his forearm and had to be told that all tattoos must be high enough to be hidden by his shirt sleeve.

This cracked me up.  For one thing, his dad’s tattoos are almost always visible from under the edges of his shirt sleeves.  I guess he sets a bad example, although he’s eagerly welcomed as a volunteer at the school.  For another, they are temporary tattoos, most of which he’s been getting from the treasure box at school.

Anyway, he’s very proud of them.  He’ll show them to anyone who asks and many people who don’t.  Check ‘em out:

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The unfortunate thing about treasure box tattoos is that the ink doesn’t last as long as one might desire.  They don’t hurt as much either though, so I guess there are trade-offs.  Plus, you ultimately end up getting to have more of them because you get to reuse real estate on your arm.  Looks like Smiley’s space will be available soon.  And whoever that superhero is.

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This pirate skull has definitely seen better days.

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His left arm has quite a few.  I would have expected his right arm to have more since he’s left-handed and I’m pretty sure he puts these on himself.  I’m not sure what the text says and I don’t recognize the vehicle but it looks pretty bad-a**.

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The cat is my favorite.  It looks like it used to be very sparkly.  He was disappointed tonight when he realized he had left his backpack in the other vehicle.  He apparently had new tattoos to add.

Captain America was the most recent addition.  He accidentally ripped some of the ink off when he removed the plastic protector sheet so the “Captain America” text over the name didn’t stick completely.  He was devastated.  This was when I introduced the concept of tattoo removal to him.  He stood patiently as I scraped the not-yet-dry text from his arm.  You can still see the red in the picture.  He didn’t cry out though.  He’s willing to suffer for his art.

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He commented to his dad once that, what with the can’t-be-visible edict the Principal had handed down and all, he didn’t have room for more.  His dad then showed him the tattoos on the undersides of his own arms.  Hal’s eyes lit up!  More room after all!

Sometimes I think that the only reason he stays “on green” in the school behavior chart is so he can acquire more ink.  More power to him.

No Good Deed

A coworker brought four dozen donuts to work Friday.  I’m sure he thought he was doing something that would be appreciated by everyone in the area.  It’s traditional for people to devour donuts.  They are provided at meetings, breakfast meet-ups, church “coffee and donuts” time before worship.  It’s a thing.  People love it.  I’m sure he thought he was being nice.  He anticipated thanks.

He got anything but.

When I walked in the door, Greek yogurt riding along in my bag, I saw the donuts and the first thought that went through my head was, What jerk brought donuts?!

I stood in front of the boxes and lifted the edges just enough to see the types.  Two dozen glazed.  One dozen chocolate icing.  One dozen blueberry cake.  Damn.

I’ll just eat one.  It’s ok, I thought to myself.

No it’s not!  It’s never ok.  Donuts are terrible for you.  Think of all the working out you’ve been doing.  You want to make progress.  Don’t eat a donut.  Eat the yogurt, I responded sternly.

Fine.  I dropped the lid and began to walk around the table.  But… But cake donuts aren’t quite as bad for you.  Are those blueberry?  Maybe I should see exactly what kind those purplish ones are.

Don’t do it!  Just walk away!

I studied the boxes some more and then picked up one of the cake donuts.  When I sniffed it, I accidentally touched it to my nose.  Great!  Now you’ve touched it with your nose.  You are going to have to take it now.

Like you didn’t already have to take it after you touched it.

Quit splitting hairs.  This is all your fault.  Jeez!  You have no self-control.

Whatever.  We’re two sides of the same coin.  We’ll skip the yogurt.  Minimize the calorie hit.  Besides, that yogurt has 10g of fat, half of it saturated.

I went to my desk and shamefully ate the donut.  When I learned who brought them a short time later, I harassed him for putting such temptation upon me.  A handful of others chimed in.  No one seemed happy that he had brought the donuts.  Well, except the youthful recent college grad who ate two because she doesn’t yet have to worry about where the calories go.  And the biggish guy who works out all the time but also eats whatever he wants and doesn’t care.  Everyone else was definitely annoyed.  The donut bringer hunched his shoulders and defensively said, “No one is making you guys eat them.”

Sometime later, a regular visitor entered our area.  He’s very loud and not someone I ever would have pegged as a health nut.  I knew he was there the moment he walked in the door because his voice boomed across the room:  “WHO BROUGHT DONUTS??!! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  THOSE THINGS ARE HORRIBLE FOR YOU!

I died laughing and headed to the front of the room to join the conversation.  So did the donut bringer, a few minutes later.  He glared at us as he walked by and mumbled, “I’m not a jerk.”

Some of us may have had good intentions to not eat the donuts and some of us may have been able to keep to those intentions all morning.  But I couldn’t help but notice that before lunch, all the donuts were gone.

When I told my husband, he was aghast at our response.  “If I were him,” he said, “I’d bring donuts every Friday.  Just because you guys hate it.”

But here’s what I found fascinating (and cause for hope).  We have a snack bar full of junk food and cheap canned soft drinks in the fridge.  People bring candy and other junk and leave it on that table by the door.  But people didn’t like seeing the donuts.  Just a few years ago, no one would have made a scene.  Maybe, just maybe, we are all starting to learn.

Then again, someone set an apple on the table next to the donuts.  The donut bringer indignantly exclaimed, “Ok.  Who put the apple next to my donuts?”

I thought it was a pretty funny statement.  But not nearly as funny as the fact that the lone apple was still sitting there at the end of the day – long after the donuts were gone.  So I took it, intending to eat it.  It wasn’t nearly as tasty as the blueberry cake donut.  I forced myself to take several bites before dropping the remainder in the trash.