Margie King
Hillsdale College
33 E College St
Hillsdale, MI 49242
517-607-2491
Friday, January 11, 2019
Friday, January 6, 2012
Seriously late.
Is it possible that it's been an entire year since I posted on my blog? Seriously?
In my mind, I'm writing posts all the time.
But I stop by today to check out the look of my blog because I vaguely remember that the blogdesign I used before wasn't working last time I stopped by.
And wham! That date of January 2011 was mocking me.
Time to get it together.
Seriously.
In my mind, I'm writing posts all the time.
But I stop by today to check out the look of my blog because I vaguely remember that the blogdesign I used before wasn't working last time I stopped by.
And wham! That date of January 2011 was mocking me.
Time to get it together.
Seriously.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Self-FILLINTHEBLANK
Self-loathing.
Self-deprecation.
Self-defense.
Self-destruction.
Self-determination.
But self-editing?
Did you ever think you'd live to see the day when "'Excuse Me, Margie'" would self-edit? Neither did I.
Actually, that's not true. I've been self-editing for, well, forever.
I used to long for the moment when I could be completely honest with my thoughts, my writings.
But in the beginning it was a diary.
And then it was computers.
And special diary software.
And then a PDA.
And then the internet.
But all of these options have flaws: they are not secure. Despite what you think, even using an alias, it's always traceable.
I read long ago, "if you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it." That holds true for simply writing it.
Because somewhere, somehow, someday if you've written it those you love will read it or hear that you've written it.
And so I've always been careful, always self-editing, because even though I have this tremendous need to share my thoughts and to get things off my chest and to think out loud (on paper) and organize my thoughts in writing I cannot shake that in the back of my mind my mother, my sister, my husband, my children, my loved ones may one day come upon something I've written and be hurt by it.
And the potential pain for them is not worth the freedom for me.
I remember once I spent the night at my cousin's house. She lived about 90 minutes from me and it was a treat to visit her on weekends or special occasions. During the week, however, we would write letters to each other. I've always loved writing. And I've always written just the way I speak. It's like "being there". I also always kept a diary.
My cousin, on the other hand, struggled with writing letters. She'd write one pagers and I'd write volumes. She once complimented my ability to write and express feelings just as if I were standing next to her. I encouraged her to try keeping a diary.
But one night I'm at my cousin's house and she's in the bathroom getting ready--or sneaking a cigarette or something--when I open up the drawer or something next to her bed. In it I find this diary entry or letter, I can't remember, but in it my cousin is complaining about the length of my letters.
I wasn't hurt, really, just surprised. Because I longed to receive a letter like the ones I sent to her. But I've never forgotten that.
Another time my mother found my diary. And not only did she read it--she WROTE in it. Not as an editor, but as a commentator! It's funny to me still. And shocking. But I never read my daughter's private thoughts. I was never tempted to go snooping around, either. I always felt -- and still do -- that she's entitled to her feelings about me: good or bad.
And I never wanted her to have to choose: their potential pain or my freedom.
Seriously.
Self-deprecation.
Self-defense.
Self-destruction.
Self-determination.
But self-editing?
Did you ever think you'd live to see the day when "'Excuse Me, Margie'" would self-edit? Neither did I.
Actually, that's not true. I've been self-editing for, well, forever.
I used to long for the moment when I could be completely honest with my thoughts, my writings.
But in the beginning it was a diary.
And then it was computers.
And special diary software.
And then a PDA.
And then the internet.
But all of these options have flaws: they are not secure. Despite what you think, even using an alias, it's always traceable.
I read long ago, "if you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it." That holds true for simply writing it.
Because somewhere, somehow, someday if you've written it those you love will read it or hear that you've written it.
And so I've always been careful, always self-editing, because even though I have this tremendous need to share my thoughts and to get things off my chest and to think out loud (on paper) and organize my thoughts in writing I cannot shake that in the back of my mind my mother, my sister, my husband, my children, my loved ones may one day come upon something I've written and be hurt by it.
And the potential pain for them is not worth the freedom for me.
I remember once I spent the night at my cousin's house. She lived about 90 minutes from me and it was a treat to visit her on weekends or special occasions. During the week, however, we would write letters to each other. I've always loved writing. And I've always written just the way I speak. It's like "being there". I also always kept a diary.
My cousin, on the other hand, struggled with writing letters. She'd write one pagers and I'd write volumes. She once complimented my ability to write and express feelings just as if I were standing next to her. I encouraged her to try keeping a diary.
But one night I'm at my cousin's house and she's in the bathroom getting ready--or sneaking a cigarette or something--when I open up the drawer or something next to her bed. In it I find this diary entry or letter, I can't remember, but in it my cousin is complaining about the length of my letters.
I wasn't hurt, really, just surprised. Because I longed to receive a letter like the ones I sent to her. But I've never forgotten that.
Another time my mother found my diary. And not only did she read it--she WROTE in it. Not as an editor, but as a commentator! It's funny to me still. And shocking. But I never read my daughter's private thoughts. I was never tempted to go snooping around, either. I always felt -- and still do -- that she's entitled to her feelings about me: good or bad.
And I never wanted her to have to choose: their potential pain or my freedom.
Seriously.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
TMI
"TMI"
The first time I heard it was from my brother-in-law. We were sitting outside on Memorial Day too many years ago talking about clothes or body functions or something when he received "TMI".
"Too Much Information"
Well, I hate that our entire culture is absorbed in TMI.
I know it's happened to you:
Your cell phone rings.
You fish around in your pocket for it, but your hands are full.
Cause you ran into the store for only two items--no need for a cart.
So the phone is ringing.
A lovely tone chosen specifically by you to bring you enjoyment.
But on it's third ring the lovely tone is brining sour looks from other shoppers.
You juggle the 9 items you've managed to pick up before you reach the second item that was on your list. You squeeze your hand into your pocket -- those five (fifty!) pounds make it difficult to wrap your fingers around the phone
b
u
t
y
o
u
manage.
And the phone stops ringing.
The other shoppers are relieved, but do not accept that apologetic look on your face.
You take your time extracting your hand from your pocket, careful not to drop any of your items.
And why rush: they'll leave a message,
or you'll call them back.
Everyone has caller ID now, right?
The phone comes out.
No voicemail is left.
You put the phone back in your pocket and head for the check out.
With a sigh you unload your arms and check your call log.
Huh.
It's a number you don't recognize.
But they didn't leave a message.
So, of course, it was a wrong number.
Seriously.
Of course it is.
You pay for your products.
Take your bag to the car, get in and buckle up (where you immediately realize that you forgot the 2nd item on your list when the phone rang but you're too exhausted to haul yourself out of the car and back into the store. You can live without another roll of toilet paper for one more night...right?).
You check your phone one more time.
Just in case the voicemail was delayed in delivery.
To be safe, because you don't want to fiddle with your phone while you're driving.
And there it is.
The number you don't know,
but that somehow now seems a bit familiar.
Maybe someone from work?
Or school?
Or a friend of your child?
Your sister's work?
Seriously, it really looks familiar now.
Can't be because you saw the number way back when your hands were full of spur of the moment product choices.
And you can't help it.
You press call.
Hello. This is me, returning a call to this number.
No. I don't know who you are.
Yes. I know you didn't leave a message.
But maybe I know you.
Or maybe you know me.
No?
A wrong number?
A random act of dialing?
Seriously?
Well, that's TMI.
Because back in the day we could leave our homes and return hours later. If a call came in while you were gone, the caller would leave a message if it was important. Otherwise, the recipient was none-the-wiser about the calls.
But not now. Now there's TMI.
No more prank phone calls.
No more "is your refrigerator running?"
No more "do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
No more "This is Pizza Hut confirming your order of 18 pizzas to be delivered in the next 20 minutes."
And that makes me sad.
Seriously.
The first time I heard it was from my brother-in-law. We were sitting outside on Memorial Day too many years ago talking about clothes or body functions or something when he received "TMI".
"Too Much Information"
Well, I hate that our entire culture is absorbed in TMI.
I know it's happened to you:
Your cell phone rings.
You fish around in your pocket for it, but your hands are full.
Cause you ran into the store for only two items--no need for a cart.
So the phone is ringing.
A lovely tone chosen specifically by you to bring you enjoyment.
But on it's third ring the lovely tone is brining sour looks from other shoppers.
You juggle the 9 items you've managed to pick up before you reach the second item that was on your list. You squeeze your hand into your pocket -- those five (fifty!) pounds make it difficult to wrap your fingers around the phone
b
u
t
y
o
u
manage.
And the phone stops ringing.
The other shoppers are relieved, but do not accept that apologetic look on your face.
You take your time extracting your hand from your pocket, careful not to drop any of your items.
And why rush: they'll leave a message,
or you'll call them back.
Everyone has caller ID now, right?
The phone comes out.
No voicemail is left.
You put the phone back in your pocket and head for the check out.
With a sigh you unload your arms and check your call log.
Huh.
It's a number you don't recognize.
But they didn't leave a message.
So, of course, it was a wrong number.
Seriously.
Of course it is.
You pay for your products.
Take your bag to the car, get in and buckle up (where you immediately realize that you forgot the 2nd item on your list when the phone rang but you're too exhausted to haul yourself out of the car and back into the store. You can live without another roll of toilet paper for one more night...right?).
You check your phone one more time.
Just in case the voicemail was delayed in delivery.
To be safe, because you don't want to fiddle with your phone while you're driving.
And there it is.
The number you don't know,
but that somehow now seems a bit familiar.
Maybe someone from work?
Or school?
Or a friend of your child?
Your sister's work?
Seriously, it really looks familiar now.
Can't be because you saw the number way back when your hands were full of spur of the moment product choices.
And you can't help it.
You press call.
Hello. This is me, returning a call to this number.
No. I don't know who you are.
Yes. I know you didn't leave a message.
But maybe I know you.
Or maybe you know me.
No?
A wrong number?
A random act of dialing?
Seriously?
Well, that's TMI.
Because back in the day we could leave our homes and return hours later. If a call came in while you were gone, the caller would leave a message if it was important. Otherwise, the recipient was none-the-wiser about the calls.
But not now. Now there's TMI.
No more prank phone calls.
No more "is your refrigerator running?"
No more "do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
No more "This is Pizza Hut confirming your order of 18 pizzas to be delivered in the next 20 minutes."
And that makes me sad.
Seriously.
Staying Late
Working past 5 can be a habit.
And for others, it's a self-imposed punishment.
Things at work are particularly busy right now. We have a huge event in Washington, D.C., next week so many people are overworked, overloaded, and burned out. I get that.
But just this afternoon, at 5:08, this gal was complaining--COMPLAINING about "staying late" to work on a project for which the VP decided to wait on until tomorrow.
She went on and on, "I worked over for this? I worked over and you're gonna do that!?"
5:08.
5:08?
Seriously? You're going to complain about 8 minutes when you just took a day of vacation at the beginning of the week, and enjoyed lunch each day since?
Seriously?
Get real.
And for others, it's a self-imposed punishment.
Things at work are particularly busy right now. We have a huge event in Washington, D.C., next week so many people are overworked, overloaded, and burned out. I get that.
But just this afternoon, at 5:08, this gal was complaining--COMPLAINING about "staying late" to work on a project for which the VP decided to wait on until tomorrow.
She went on and on, "I worked over for this? I worked over and you're gonna do that!?"
5:08.
5:08?
Seriously? You're going to complain about 8 minutes when you just took a day of vacation at the beginning of the week, and enjoyed lunch each day since?
Seriously?
Get real.
Timing is Everything
I've had weird sleeping habits for as long as I can remember. For many, many, many years I slept about four hours a night. And I felt great.
Then came 40.
And suddenly, I require a lot more sleep to feel rested.
But my internal night-clock doesn't understand and so I find myself waking up at 2:12am and 3:40 in the morning. It doesn't help that my beloved husband comes home around 2:15 for lunch and I can't resist spending some time with him. Besides...he rubs my feet.
So, here's the time line:
Hubby is up at 9:30pm to get ready for work. Leaves at 9:50.
Son goes to bed at 10.
I go to bed at 10:15, but tiptoe back to the living room to watch tv til 11:30.
Then I go to bed.
2:12am, I wake up.
2:20 I drag my still-awake self out to the living room to await my husband's arrival.
We visit for about 30 minutes, then he heads back to work.
By then, I'm wide awake and I spend some time on work stuff. E-mail mostly.
Then I'm stressed so I spend some time watching tv.
By 5:00am I'm back in bed, and have my alarm set for 6:30. In the summer, I'd hit doze every 9 minutes and finally drag myself out of bed at 8:00. Work starts at 8:30 in the summer.
I arrive around 9. (Though I justify this because I leave the office about 45 minutes - 1 hour later than other staffers.)
But summer is over. In fact, yesterday was the first day of school.
My son is excited - and so are we - at the possibilities for greatness this year: For a teacher that inspires, and instills the importance of reading into my son's life. For a newly updated playground with really cool four square sections on the pavement.
And so we go to bed, miraculously, by 10:45 we're all tucked in.
At 1:45am, my husband gets up.
At 3:40 I wake up.
At 5:40 my son wakes up.
We know this is not good.
But we can't help it:
There's GREATNESS awaiting us in the morning, right?
But I insist on pretending to be in control and therefore make us go to bed.
So, at 6:15am, the three of us get INTO ONE BED, and I turn off my 6:30am alarm. I can see Kent on the other side of the bed double-checking his alarm. He set it before we went to bed the first time for 6:45.
And there we are: three sardines, sleepy and sick from lack of sleep, in bed with thirty blissful minutes of sleep to look forward to before the alarm sounds and the GREAT DAY OFFICIALLY STARTS.
I doze off, and the alarm goes off.
We hit the floor running.
Everyone's (amazingly) in a good mood.
There's even time for toast.
Because it's only 7:00.
But NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
It's not 7:00--it's 7:15.
Because my husband RESET HIS ALARM without telling me! And it's fifteen minutes later than it's supposed to be.
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?
SERIOUSLY???
The BUS runs at SEVEN FIFTEEN!!!!
So, there we were: toast in hand, looking through the still-closed curtain when the bus goes by.
Kent and I trudge back to the bedroom to get officially dressed while I ask him over and over and over "what were you thinking?"
It's the first day of school.
The first day of greatness.
The first day of fourth grade.
And you choose to change the alarm without consulting the rest of the family?
SERIOUSLY?
Yep.
We missed the bus,
had to drive to school.
The back doors to the school were locked.
But George looked great.
And isn't that what's really important?
Then came 40.
And suddenly, I require a lot more sleep to feel rested.
But my internal night-clock doesn't understand and so I find myself waking up at 2:12am and 3:40 in the morning. It doesn't help that my beloved husband comes home around 2:15 for lunch and I can't resist spending some time with him. Besides...he rubs my feet.
So, here's the time line:
Hubby is up at 9:30pm to get ready for work. Leaves at 9:50.
Son goes to bed at 10.
I go to bed at 10:15, but tiptoe back to the living room to watch tv til 11:30.
Then I go to bed.
2:12am, I wake up.
2:20 I drag my still-awake self out to the living room to await my husband's arrival.
We visit for about 30 minutes, then he heads back to work.
By then, I'm wide awake and I spend some time on work stuff. E-mail mostly.
Then I'm stressed so I spend some time watching tv.
By 5:00am I'm back in bed, and have my alarm set for 6:30. In the summer, I'd hit doze every 9 minutes and finally drag myself out of bed at 8:00. Work starts at 8:30 in the summer.
I arrive around 9. (Though I justify this because I leave the office about 45 minutes - 1 hour later than other staffers.)
But summer is over. In fact, yesterday was the first day of school.
My son is excited - and so are we - at the possibilities for greatness this year: For a teacher that inspires, and instills the importance of reading into my son's life. For a newly updated playground with really cool four square sections on the pavement.
And so we go to bed, miraculously, by 10:45 we're all tucked in.
At 1:45am, my husband gets up.
At 3:40 I wake up.
At 5:40 my son wakes up.
We know this is not good.
But we can't help it:
There's GREATNESS awaiting us in the morning, right?
But I insist on pretending to be in control and therefore make us go to bed.
So, at 6:15am, the three of us get INTO ONE BED, and I turn off my 6:30am alarm. I can see Kent on the other side of the bed double-checking his alarm. He set it before we went to bed the first time for 6:45.
And there we are: three sardines, sleepy and sick from lack of sleep, in bed with thirty blissful minutes of sleep to look forward to before the alarm sounds and the GREAT DAY OFFICIALLY STARTS.
I doze off, and the alarm goes off.
We hit the floor running.
Everyone's (amazingly) in a good mood.
There's even time for toast.
Because it's only 7:00.
But NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
It's not 7:00--it's 7:15.
Because my husband RESET HIS ALARM without telling me! And it's fifteen minutes later than it's supposed to be.
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?
SERIOUSLY???
The BUS runs at SEVEN FIFTEEN!!!!
So, there we were: toast in hand, looking through the still-closed curtain when the bus goes by.
Kent and I trudge back to the bedroom to get officially dressed while I ask him over and over and over "what were you thinking?"
It's the first day of school.
The first day of greatness.
The first day of fourth grade.
And you choose to change the alarm without consulting the rest of the family?
SERIOUSLY?
Yep.
We missed the bus,
had to drive to school.
The back doors to the school were locked.
But George looked great.
And isn't that what's really important?
Friday, September 3, 2010
Turn it Down
I am super-sensitive to noise.
There's this guy in the office near me who sighs and sniffs and reads to himself all day. He has an unhealthy fondness for Speakerphone, and recently purchased an iPhone but obviously doesn't know how to turn off the audible notification of new messages feature.
Add to this his booming baritone voice and penchant towards schmoozing and what you've got is noise.
Noise NoisE NOISE.
This morning most folks are out of the office for one reason or another so I turn on my music. I'm listening to Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It's loud enough to hear from my chair, but not loud enough to hear over my printer.
And the Baritone asks me to turn it down.
Seriously?
Jerk.
An End Note:
Just now he turned on a video to watch so I asked him to turn the volume down. He got up and shut his door.
I feel justified.
There's this guy in the office near me who sighs and sniffs and reads to himself all day. He has an unhealthy fondness for Speakerphone, and recently purchased an iPhone but obviously doesn't know how to turn off the audible notification of new messages feature.
Add to this his booming baritone voice and penchant towards schmoozing and what you've got is noise.
Noise NoisE NOISE.
This morning most folks are out of the office for one reason or another so I turn on my music. I'm listening to Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It's loud enough to hear from my chair, but not loud enough to hear over my printer.
And the Baritone asks me to turn it down.
Seriously?
Jerk.
An End Note:
Just now he turned on a video to watch so I asked him to turn the volume down. He got up and shut his door.
I feel justified.
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