Your mother wears army boots.

Performance appraisal meetings are being conducted at my office this month. For a half hour, each employee sits with their supervisor and hears what the supervisor thinks of their work. When there's a good, collegial relationship, it's easy. "You did a great job. It's a pleasure to work with you."
"Well, thank you very much. Goodbye."

When the relationship has been less than stellar, it's a painful process.

It's a strange dance between a person who has power and a person who doesn't.

The supervisor gingerly comments on the less-than adequate work.
The employee tries to defend himself.
The supervisor tries to be encouraging and offers suggestions for how to change.
The employee seethes and wonders what's the point.
The supervisor ends the session with a "things will be better next year" comment.
The employee hangs his head and wanders away.

From the manager's point of view, it's tough to face someone and tell them how you really feel. I suspect that most managers avoid being completely frank. Afterall, how do you continue to work with someone when you've just told them they suck.

It's a necessary evil, I suppose.

I wonder what would happen if each supervisor and employee were completely frank?

"You're a control freak!"
"You take no responsibility for your errors!"
"You're a whiner!"
"If you call in sick one more time on a Friday, I'm going to scream!"

Hmmm. Wouldn't that be interesting...

I'm going for the phony approach.

Pray for them

Haiti has essentially been obliterated by a 7.0 earthquake. Wasn't it enough for it to be the poorest country in the western hemisphere? The pain and suffering is unimaginable. We stand by helplessly. We can pray and offer money. What else is there to do?

Are you sure this road leads to enlightenment?

In my quest to get healthier, lose weight, and lower my blood pressure, I've decided to learn yoga. The first class I went to was sublime. The teacher spoke in a soothing voice and reminded us all that if we chose not to do a pose (or couldn't do a pose), we were free to just lie on our mats and breathe. (I'm certain she was looking at me when she said this.) If we wanted to just sit and breathe, she was cool with that. I can do this, I thought. And then I took another class from a different teacher.

I happily went to the class and reassured a person new to the class that it's called "gentle yoga" and that I was quite sure she had nothing to fear. The teacher would be understanding of those of us who couldn't do the poses. And then the class began.

The teacher spoke with a heavy German accent. Though sympathetic, she insisted that we try every pose. "They're not as hard as you may think." I struggled to do the poses, but I tried each one. I even managed to stretch my arms down in front of my prostrate body and nearly (with emphasis on nearly) touch the floor with my palms. I turned my head one direction and my body the other. I was trying. Really, I was.

"Lie down on your stomach," she instructed us.

"Reach your arms behind your back."

"Bend Your legs at the knee and grab your ankles with your hands. If you can't reach your hands, I'll give you a strap to put around your feet so you can reach your hands."

I rolled over onto my ample belly, put my hands behind my back, and came absolutely nowhere near close to grabbing my feet (and my feet are big). I ignored the strap that was next to my mat. I was content with myself. I had caused no injury to myself, I was minding my own business, and no one seemed to care. Well not quite.

"Would you like some help," the teacher asked as she loomed over me, interrupting my deep breathing.

"No, no. I'm fine," I whispered so as not to break the concentration of the rest of the completely silent class.

"Are you sure? It's a great stretch."

"No, no. I'm fine. Really."

"Come on. I'll help you."

"No," I muttered as she straddled my body.

"Here. I'll put the strap around your feet and then you can grab it."

"Ok," I grumbled as she hog tied and quartered me.

"Ok. Relax. I'm going to hold your shoulders."

Relax? Is she serious? She grabbed my shoulders and I hung suspended in the air while Godzilla hovered over me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Ok. I'm fine now. That's enough," I whispered. No response.

"Really. I'm fine now. That's enough." No response.

To hell with the concentration of the rest of the class. "Let me down!" I implored. I flopped to the floor and Godzilla moved on to the next pose.

I have been enlightened: choose your yoga class carefully.

It's raining squirrels...where can I hide?

Squirrels are dropping from the ceiling like flies! You never know when one might fall on your head! They'll grab your hair and scratch your scalp! Look out, 'cause they may have rabies. One might bite you and you'll be frothing at the mouth and carrying on like a crazy fool. Look out, I tell you. Look out!

Ok, maybe there was just one, but the thought of masses of squirrels running around, building nests, and raising babies in the ceiling is a pretty exciting concept. Can't you imagine them leaping from a grand old tree outside the building, onto the ledge, and then tunneling through holes in the building. I can see teams of them hauling twigs and leaves and hoisting them onto the top of the ceiling panels. Maybe there are whole colonies of them, some conducting business, others creating birthing centers.

Oh well, here's the reality: one little baby squirrel was found running around the office, terrorizing the staff. He was scooped up into a box and let go outside.

I prefer the first version.

Falalalala

Christmas is over. The children and their friends are gone. I am sitting in an empty house, staring at the dry, droopy Christmas tree. Before Christmas, when I was picking it out and putting it up, I felt fondly about it. Now it represents work. I am ready to toss it out on the curb. It's a fire hazard. I no longer look at it with nostalgia.

The decorations must go back in their boxes. I'm finished with them.

There is a sense of sadness that it is over. There is also a sense of "on to the next thing."

I try to forget the fits of anger and disappointment, and I focus on the good, happy times. I will long remember our breakfast together when we laughed and traded stories. That is, after all, what makes Christmas special.

I like that they still get excited about Christmas stockings. They still like to amass a pile of presents and rummage through them with excitement.

Christmas is over. Time to move on.

Valentine's Day anyone?

All Grown Up, But Not Quite

"Why can't you get up at 7:30 in the morning like I do?"
"Why can't you get up at 3 in the afternoon like I do?"
"Why can't you buy all organic?"
"It's cheaper if you buy this brand."
The tugs and pulls of adult children coming home are tough on everyone. I try hard not to fall back into the usual mother/child relationship, but I fail miserably over and over. I try hard not to get angry, but I do. I try not to say the things that are at the tip of my tongue, but half the time I fail and blurt it all out.
It is so good to see them, but it is so hard to live with them. I know they feel the same about me.

Jane

The first time I met Jane, I was 19 and dating Jeff. We went to Jane and Don's house in Champaign and sat on their couch and got to know one another. Jane began to describe in minute detail "the beautiful swaying of the mustard plants" in Sweden, a place they had recently visited. She went on and on, waving her hands back and forth. I couldn't contain myself. I began to giggle and then to laugh. Because of the way she described the fields (and my immaturity), all I could envision were dancing jars of French's mustard. Over the years, I came to learn that that's how Jane was--dramatic and passionate.

Our relationship experienced many ups and downs and definitely improved as we both aged. She was deeply and passionately in love with Don, that was clear. What was also clear, however, was that it was sometimes hard for her to know who she was when she wasn't part of him.

In the year after Don died, I called her a number of times just to check in. There weren't many visits because she was embarrassed about the condition of her house. She had always kept a tidy home and was very proud of that. On one visit, she said, "You know, I'm not good at anything. I have no skills." I looked at her and said "You make a mean apple pie." She grinned and said "Yeah, I do, don't I." It seemed to comfort her, and she seemed content.

Every year when Thanksgiving is at my house, I make an apple pie and Jane's sweet potato casserole. When I do that this year, I will laugh and think of Jane's passion and drama and thank her for being part of our lives.