Within my circles of friends we’ve often had the discussion lately about the manners of people. Rather, the lack of manners. Midwesterners, by most standards, are kind people and the things I’ve witnessed lately tell me that they are absent of those things taught to them (hopefully) as children. (Complete aside: I’m going to Boston soon and three people have mentioned how unkind Bostonians are! Why is that? Represent, Boston.)

Failing to offer seats for the elderly, not holding the door when people are within a reasonable range, and deserting the common decency to say, “Excuse me” when they want to pass by you. Liz just happened to write about this the other day to which I replied:

I’m so fed up with rudeness that I’m becoming a police officer in my daily life while out and about. It’s pathetic. Normally, my family thinks I’m going to get stabbed over chastising children in public but that’s the educator in me who corrects kids all the time.

But the one that gets me (and I’m sorry if it’s been said) is people failing to say “Excuse me” when they’re trying to get around me. They just stand there.

Yesterday, Mason and I were getting some summer shorts and there was a woman behind him and she assumed I would ask him to move. When he started to move, I pushed him back in place and mouthed “No. Wait.”

She never said it. She moved a different direction.

Served her right. If she doesn’t want to say it, she has to change direction. That was my point anyway.

Later, a lovely woman (I can only guess she’s lovely. It’s my optimistic hope that she’s lovely. She probably has cute feet, too.) named Brigitte commented back (to me):

Mocha, I’m often AFRAID to say “excuse me”, being pathologically shy and sick of getting the big evil-eyed glare and (if I’m lucky) a huffy, grudging move-over to let me by. I figure polite people would anticipate my need on my own, otherwise it’s just easier for someone like me to find another way around.

Well, being an overt Alpha Female myself, I can (miraculously, perhaps?) sense when people are shy and if I meet their eyes I have no problem smiling at them and using the silence of body language to determine that they want to get around me. In fact, smiling seems to help, does it not? One would hope that this small gesture tends to relieve some of the tension or fear that the timid seem to have.

I’ve had some run-ins with acquaintances and co-workers lately that remind me that not everyone is kind. Lately, I’ve been setting firmer boundaries with those who would prefer that I simply behave and comport myself according to their standards. Even in my work life I think I’ve been done dirty but that’s not even a battle I’m going to fight because I have a higher purpose there and it isn’t to engage in fisticuffs with the adults. Because of the small-town nature of my side of the hood, I run into people quite frequently. So much so that I give myself a pep talk before venturing out to places in the event that I see them. Alpha Female or no, when I am caught unawares my behavior is less than stellar. Confidence doesn’t negate the fact that I can be fragile on occasion.

My manners, however, are more prevalent than my Strong Woman Persona lets on and it’s possible that they aren’t always noticeable. I shall have to work on that. Even when I am a bitch I can do it with enough sugar to produce a cavity. Or raise your voice to new heights and point your finger in my face. Both have been done equal amounts of time.

Once, when a parent came in to sling mud my direction after her son received a lower grade than she wanted I was mortified to be in the same room alone with her. Unfortunately, at the time she also wanted her son (an 8th grader) present as well and she was, in essence, giving him permission to be a total shithead to me for the remainder of that school year. The principal at the time stayed with us at my request and intermittently interrupted her to remind her of civility. But, I refused to change the grade he had earned.

“So, you’re saying you won’t change it?! You’re going to keep it a D?”

“Yes, because that’s what he earned. I can’t change it just because you’re asking me to do so.”

“Oh, yes you WILL. You WILL change it.”

I’d had enough by this time, but she took it a step further and called me a racist right after that.

I nearly fainted from the absurdity of the accusation, but I took a deep breath and blinked extra long.

“I’m so sorry.” I started. She thought I was talking to her. I wasn’t. I looked past her at her son sitting on the other side and caught his gaze and uttered the boldest words I can recall ever having left my mouth.

“I’m sorry your mother is teaching you that to be black means you can be lazy and still get what you want. Nothing in the world will ever remotely resemble that. You still have to work hard and do your best.”

That doesn’t mean I didn’t have manners. In fact, I looked at the principal and, like a child requesting permission to leave the dinner table, asked, “May I be excused now?” He agreed.

It is possible that as an educator I have learned to chastise adults, too. Because those were the best manners I could muster at the time.

I’m the worst kind of writer. Looking over what I’ve written is difficult for me, editing is hard to do because I can’t see my mistakes, and when I get into the flow of it I seem to poop out when one sentence is giving me trouble. I can’t commit to the writing! There must be a cure.

The thing that can get me writing though hinges on two things: reading captivating writers (Anne Lamott, David Sedaris, Erma Bombeck) and music. There are certain songs that come on my broken iPod that set my skin to itching to write and I have to sit down RIGHT THEN AND PUKE IT OUT. The iPod, by the way, plays only on the docking station and in order of artist. Yesterday I let it play all the way through and by the end of the day I was up to the B’s only. I’d come into my bedroom and hear Bjork and then Beyonce and finally Bob Marley. Weird playlist, I know.

There’s a weird sense of guilt of not writing here for the last few days. Some of it was forced, however, because my internet cord magically came unplugged. I’m not blaming anyone in particular, but when the PSP needs to be re-charged or a cell phone needs more battery power, IT MIGHT BE NICE TO CHOOSE ANOTHER LOCATION, KIDS.

The other reason, of course, is that writing for other places and guest blogging opportunities are reaching new heights. It’s a nice path to be on, but it leaves me depleted and unable to complete thoughts on so many things I want to explore. Is Imus opening his mouth again? What really went wrong with that entire town where the girls made a pregnancy pact? How on earth can I buy another gallon of gasoline without taking out a loan?

I’ll get to it, I will. Right after I get through the C’s on my iPod. Carmen McRae is kicking my ass with her vocals.

Part of my Trying To Be A Responsible Humanoid is cutting down on gas (doing a LOT of walking both for health reasons and not wasting fuel) and combining meals with my mom when she and I decide to eat dinner together. That extra mouth to feed (read: the 8 year old nephew) isn’t really hurting me except that he’s so fussy that my sister gave my mother a list of foods that he’s sure to eat.

All the boys get along great because I have learned, years ago, to tune them out when they’re playing loudly and I can’t stand one more second of them arguing about who is the best character from Star Wars. While letting them swim today I was reading my novel and only heard them start to get loud with each other when their voices intimated that they were name-calling.

“Wookie!”

“EWOK!”

Last night, while my boys and my nephew ate pizza, the people in the room with taste (read: the adults) enjoyed this salad:

We first had it at a little restaurant named the Plaid Rooster and it was delightful. The last time she was there my mom grabbed a menu and we shopped off the list.

Ingredients:

a spring mix of greens

grilled chicken marinated in pineapple juice and mandarin orange juice

chunks of pineapple

mandarin oranges

red onion

fresh strawberries

sliced almonds

sunflower seeds

creamy poppyseed dressing (we got store bought T. Marzetti’s Poppyseed Dressing but if you must have something homemade because you’re that ambitious, try this one)

The votes are in and this was hard. Extremely hard. I had to run an extra 3 blocks just to sift through the information in my brain just to come up with the Primo Water Winners. Six, in particular, helped spur me to write but I finally wrote their names and picked from a hat. But, you’re all Primo in my book. Even you readers in Bombay and Indonesia. Yeah, I see you peeking at me.

They were all such great suggestions that I spent much of this weekend just writing. Trying not to think too much or too hard about it, just writing. Even though she wasn’t chosen, I have to give a shout out to Natural Mel who gave me such a great iDea for keeping my iPod dry by putting it between 2 sports bras. Genius! Added bonus is that the girls are super protected, though I couldn’t breathe easily while running this morning.

So, the following folks need to email me with their addresses and Primo Water has agreed to deliver a case to your doorstep:

Beth who wrote this thing that is now on a post-it note on my bathroom mirror: “That moments of stupidity are inevitable and that they are hopefully fleeting and that education - whether it’s giving them something tangible or creating for them the tools to survive - is what keeps all of us going.”

Lisse who rarely comments, but once wrote of my favorite things in my angry letter in Catharsis. She wrote: “I’m always impressed with how someone else’s bad behavior jumps right out at you, and you go ahead and call it what it is.” I don’t know why, but her words stayed with me long after I read them.

Tricia who has a large family and could use the extra water bottles for a trip to the beach! She has 8 kids. I’m fatigued just writing that, but everyday she gets up to be a good mom and a great partner and both take an amazing amount of work. I’m going to squeeze the pee out of her at BlogHer. It’s ok, she’ll be replenished with all that water.

Remember when I said I’d been working on some freelance writing? Well, one of those pieces is up over at Alpha Mom. If you’re a Chicagoan or you plan on visiting sometime this summer, I wrote about 50 Things To Do With Kids In Chicago that hold special places in my heart. Hop on over and leave some comment love or add your own in the comments if you so desire.

I have all these irons in the fire with my writing and that has terrified me because I have to keep reminding myself that I WRITE, THEREFORE I AM A WRITER. I don’t have a MFA and I was never a Fellow and I didn’t become a Teacher’s Assistant when I was in college, but I like putting down words. There’s something freeing about taking memories and laying them down on paper. My mom recently gave me Beverly Donofrio’s book Riding In Cars With Boys and I commented how her words could have been mine, her experiences were close to mine (except the drugs, but that’s because I’m a wimp and perhaps that makes me smart or lucky or something) and then I thought, “Kelly! THIS is the summer! Write your book! Do it!”

So there’s that.

I’m also playing host to my 8-year old nephew and the energy alone is quite a buzz. He lets me say goofy stuff to him and just shakes his head. One of his prized possessions is a wooden sword that he wears in the back of his shirt AT ALL TIMES even when we were eating dinner last night. We were play-fighting yesterday and I shouted, “BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL” and my He-Man reference was lost on him, but he giggled nonetheless. He’s one of those old souls and he is an only child who mostly eats chicken nuggets, but I’ve promised his mom that I won’t starve the poor kid. I did kick his butt on a marathon bike ride yesterday but had to stop at Culver’s and get him food halfway through. We sat there and talked like we were 80 years old, that kid can really hold a conversation. I expected him to tell me to hurry up already because he needed to get to his Mah Jong game with Murray and Sylvia.

If I’m slow to post in the next few weeks, just bear with me because this book seems to be spilling out of me regardless of what my own agenda is. That’s frightening to admit because I’ve just made that public and you might hold me to it. It’s why I don’t ever post about trying to lose weight for fear of periodic comments like, “How’s the diet going?” and “Did you work out today?” and “Did you really eat that ice cream? Tsk. Tsk.”

It’s so hard to keep mum on this huge writing project I was asked to participate in and I feel like I’m taking my own hands and covering my mouth to stop myself from blurting it out. But remember that scene in that horrid movie “Pretty Woman” (I’m critical of movies, no joke. Don’t ask me about that new Sex & The City movie because I’ll probably just burst your Carrie Is A Goddess bubble.) when Julia Roberts goes back into that store on Rodeo Drive and tells the woman she’s made a huge mistake?

“Big. Huge.” You know, with emphasis. “BIG. HUGE.”

That’s the size of this thing I’m trying not to tell anyone. Not to irritate you to the point of exhaustion with me, but you will know sometime next month.

Until then I’m off to battle with my sons and my nephew and probably get the crap kicked out of me. Wish me luck. Greyskull is on my side.

I have spent much of today getting some writing done for three publications other than this place. Anyone who’s ever written for someone other than themselves knows this is a feat done best in the cliche cafe while wearing a beret and smoking French cigarettes. Mostly, though, I just listened to my iPod (which is stuck on a new playlist I was creating to go on my marathon bike rides and I went on one yesterday wearing shorts without pockets so I stuck it in my sports bra and it has boob sweat on it - I can’t wait to take it in to get fixed: Tech guy or gal: Ok, so what happened to it? Me: Oh, it’s drenched in sweat from my boobs. Can you fix it?).

Finally, I just left the house to get a passion fruit iced tea and sip it while I let the ideas come to me.

I’m going to slap the Cover Girl off the next girlfriend of mine who says, “Don’t be nervous! Just write! You write every day!”

Then I’m going to crawl into her lap in the fetal position and ask her to rock me to sleep.

So, I’m looking for inspiration. I mean, I have ideas and all, but I seem to write impassioned things when I just happen upon them and it strikes me.

Right now, all I have going for me is a tiny daughter who can’t reach the cereal on the top cupboard (hidden there from her brothers who EAT BOWL AFTER BOWL OF CEREAL WITHOUT STOPPING TO BREATHE). Would you like to see?

What’s on your mind, dear gentle readers? Give me some inspiration, would you? Actually, on second thought, anyone who inspires me the most will win something. I should probably have something to give away because you don’t want me going over to my junk drawer and pulling out expired coupons or pink paperclips with butterflies on them.

Oh! How about some water?

No, seriously. I got some Primo water which uses bottles NOT made from crude oil, but from renewable resources, like corn. Don’t believe me? Watch this video. You’re skeptical, I know. Why should I offer Mocha inspiration for a case of WATER? Because! You’ll be doing something good for the planet! You’ll be helping the environment!

It’s either water or a broken boob-sweated iPod. You want the water.

*EDITED* Votes have been tallied and winners have been chosen. Next post will announce the winners.