Teenagers who DON'T only think of themselves.

The other day, four deep in traffic at a light, I saw something worth mentioning. 

A small woman, white-haired and elderly, was, with all her might, pushing what looked like a hand-cart stacked with blankets and other items across the six-lane intersection. She trudged, head down as though she were pushing a car. As she got closer, I saw what was making this journey so hard. It was not a full cart she pushed but a woman the size of two people in a wheelchair. But for her head, the large woman was buried beneath clothing and shopping bags.

They labored until they reached the right turn only lane on the other side. There they  stopped, stymied by the rise of the four inch curb. While those blinkers flashed to her right, the small woman circled the chair nervously, eyes darting to the traffic and back while the woman in the chair tried without success to lift and propel herself, chair and all, up and over the curb.

With one more push, the small woman gave up. She looked around in defeat and I willed the driver at the head of the line - the only one with safe proximity to her - to not be an asshat and help her out before the light turned. He didn't. 

From the other direction appeared two teenagers on bikes, pedaling furiously toward this scene. The bigger one of the two dropped his bike and sprinted, reaching the woman seconds before the light turned. When the other boy caught up, they lifted and shoved the chair onto the sidewalk, then continued moving it up the hill without a break in stride until the incline leveled off, a good hundred feet away. Then, they jogged back down the hill to where they'd dropped their bikes.  

It's the season of teenagers, they're everywhere. Quiet ones, sulky ones, bored and over-achieving and giggly ones. Teenagers who have graduated, who are preparing to leave home, who will become freshmen somewhere. We will see teenagers in their summer jobs, teenagers hanging around doing nothing. We will see them roll their eyes and hear them mumble.

Not me. When I think of teenagers – any teenager – I can't pay attention to what shows.  I've seen too many whose spirit has been tested, and whose generosity and kindness are too distracting to notice how they text when they should be paying attention, or won't help around the house, or just won't think of anyone but themselves. 
I wasn't surprised by what I saw at the intersection that day. Not at all.

But I do wish upon that asshat, several waits at many lights that he just can't seem to hit at the right time.

Everyone was once a five-year-old

Years ago, my very kind sister-in-law, Christine, taught third grade in a bad part of town. Many of the kids lived in poverty, some ran loose after school, a few had parents in jail. At one parent-teacher conference,  the father of one student showed up and demanded to know when his kid was going to be taught some f****** manners.  

I asked how she could tolerate people like this without getting angry or crying. She told me this:

"I picture them as a five-year-old."

What a simple and easy thing to forget. That, when the field of years beyond the very young ones still stretched ahead, whether we were privileged or disadvantaged, rich or poor, loved or neglected we were probably, still, universally compassionate.  

What happens to people?

A while back, I hurried to meet my mother for lunch. I was late, I was frustrated, I'd already texted her to change the time twice.

I found a space in front of the restaurant, opened the door and stepped into the path of a man walking by.  I didn't really apologize, I just rushed to the meter to pay. It was cold, I wasn't wearing gloves, and so on. The man  came up behind me. "Excuse me," he said.

I turned to face him and he adjusted his glasses, the way I've seen people do when they're about to assert themselves. He was around my age, ruddy-faced, a little taller than I am, and  thin. He wore a knit cap, a thin canvas jacket and he carried a backpack big enough for a couple of books. I thought he might be a teacher until I noticed that  his hands were scarlet from the cold, and his sneakers were ripped. He wore no socks. 

Homeless, I thought.

"I wondered if there was any way you could possibly spare just fifty cents," he said. "I can get someplace warm if I buy something," he explained, looking over his shoulder.

Fifty cents, I thought,  who couldn't spare fifty cents?  He looked put together,  like someone I might know in my own  community. Bookish. Like a science teacher. He had his teeth, his eyes weren't bloodshot. He didn't smell. So why was he here,  calling me ma'am and asking for change when he looked like he belonged at Panera?

What happens to people?

Like many assume about panhandlers at on/off ramps, I thought he was probably lying about the warm shelter. Fifty cents, I suspected, was what he needed to buy alcohol or cigarettes, or waste my money in some other way. 

I pulled my parking receipt from the meter. "No, I'm sorry, I don't have it." I said. He watched me for a few seconds, then walked on.

Across the street, another man was hurrying in the cold.  His shoulders were hunched and he was smoking.

My homeless guy called out,  "Excuse  me."

Without breaking stride,  the smoking man looked over and my homeless guy said, "Is there any way I could trouble you for one of those cigarettes?"

"Pay for your own habits," said the man, "That's what I do." He added over his shoulder as he passed,  "Don't waste people's time."

The homeless guy continued up the sidewalk. The other guy continued in the other direction.

"Sir?" I called to the homeless guy. 

He didn't hear me.
I walked behind him, back up the hill.

"Sir?" I called.

Nothing.

"SIR!" 

He turned, and I asked him to wait. "Sometimes, I'm in too much of a hurry," I said when I reached him. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, well!  Oh! That's okay," he shrugged, "No harm done! I'm just sorry to have bothered you." His voice was soft, accentless.

 I put a twenty in his palm.

"Oh..." he said, "This is more than...Oh, thank you, Ma'am. I'm sorry. I just needed something to eat, someplace warm."

I  told him I hoped the day would be good to him. I let go of his hands, and went back down the hill.

On the way into the restaurant, I thought about the way he'd welled up and I wondered if that was part of the act. I believed it was not, and I believed it was irrelevant anyway. Before he wound up begging for change, and enduring the scorn of strangers, and putting his hands and dignity last, he was a five-year-old. 

Some of us are born fighting the odds. Some of us are born sheltered from them. But every life starts with potential. If we are in a position down the road to help a person who has fallen, shouldn't we reach across the circumstances which have differentiated us, and conjure the humanity that unites us? 

If you are lucky enough to live in a community where people are struggling to come with up with real solutions to housing and rehabilitating the homeless, support them. If there are meetings where you can offer input, go, and give it. 

You were a five-year-old too. Who knows what happened to that kid who helped you back up when someone else pushed you down?

Awesome Daniel the car guy

This is not Daniel, but I'll bet he
has a special chair for his foot.

Car specialists scare me.

I'm intimidated by them because after I fall in love with the perfect vehicle, I can't deal. I can't tough-talk trades and money down while I am thinking I wonder if there are cup holders in the back seat.

It's why I've been with the same car make for fifteen years. Better the dealer you know than the dealer you don't. 

But last spring, I became intrigued by another car I'd passed on the highway. I found a dealer, scheduled a test drive and sat down to a discussion of how to "put me in that car": what did I want to pay per month, what did I expect for my car, would I lease or buy, etc. "I'll be right back," she said.

"I'll be right back" only means one thing, which is that now you'll talk to a Sales Manager and, if you're like me, instantly forget how to add or think on your feet.  

This one placed a foot on the seat of a chair across from me (do guys do this only to be intimidating?) and told me I would not get what I wanted for my car, and would not have a payment that low and would not be able to deal on the price of this car because it was "too hot" right now and yes, I might make a deal, but not the one I wanted. "You're right," I said, and left.

Last week, six months later,  my phone rang.

"Hey! Is this Susan?" asked an exuberant twenty-something who spoke in exclamation points and sounded very much like my son (lucky him).

"It is."

"Hey, Susan! It's Daniel from (name of dealer)!! Are you still looking for a (name of car)?"

"I'm not sure."

"Okay. If you were, what color would you want?"

"Gray."

"Okay, awesome. Like a light gray? Dark?"

"Like a charcoal."

"Okay, sweet. Price range?"

"It depends. I'm kind of happy where I am, now."

"Okay, okay. That's awesome, too."

And so on.

"Has anyone called you since you were in?" he asked.

"Not really."

"I can't believe no one's called you."

"No one has."

"You know what? I'm going to find that car. I'm going to find that car right now. We're going to do this. We're going to do this today."

"I'm not in a hurry."

"I'm calling you before the end of the day and I'll have that car so you'll be near your phone, right?"

"Okay."

"Okay, sweet. I can make this happen."

An hour later.

"I have good news!"

"Tell me."

We made a test-drive date for Saturday.

"Okay, Daniel," I said with a serious face. "I am here to drive this vehicle and get a figure for my car. My husband will come back and make the deal."

"You won't be with him?"

"No. We don't do these things together anymore. I pick the car, he does the deal."

Daniel's face fell.
"Daniel, I just get in the way," I said. "I get emotional and then I get angry during the standing up and walking away part and it's just bad for our relationship."

"Okay, no worries. I get it. So, is he going to rake me over the coals, or what?"

"No, of course not."

"I mean is he going to be mean, or what?"

"No, he just does exhaustive research before we buy a car."
"Is he a big guy?"
"Not especially."

"Okay, that's fair. That's cool."

While we waited for the sales manager to get off the phone and come over to put his foot on the chair, I asked Daniel how long he'd been working there.

"Three months," he said.

"Wow, not long. You like it here?"

"It's awesome. I love these guys. But it wasn't what I planned."

"No?"

And without batting an eyelash, he said, "No, I mean. People think car dealers are sketchy. And I never thought I'd get through that. But then it's just really awesome when they work with you and see that you're not just total cheese, AND they can get a car they love, too. How awesome is THAT?"

The car sold to someone else. Within twenty-four hours, he'd found another.

And dozen phone calls and 71 texts later Daniel and I made the deal over the phone. No husbands. No sales managers.  

And here is why Daniel's dealership should want very much to keep him.  Because, with only natural enthusiasm for what he loves to do - find the most awesome car - he found common ground with his customer- even when he believed going in that they would assume  he was "sketchy." I know when he's far more experienced, he'll still lead with that excitement for  matching driver and car, and he will accomplish two things in the process: reverse that "sketchy" perception, and make a lot of money.

It's what happens when people do what they should be doing - matching their work with their gifts, much like: drivers with cars. 

It was a good deal. Daniel made money just by showing up, and I won't have to talk to a Sales Manager for at least three more years.  

And how awesome is THAT.

What entitled behavior of adults teaches the kids

Notes:  

First, I will use the terms "entitlement" and "rudeness" interchangeably in the following post because they are the same thing. 

Second, none of this applies to the beleaguered parents of uncontrollable children we see in airports, supermarkets, or other places where they have to be, and are already miserable enough without the pursed-lip scrutiny of strangers. In those situations, if you're a nice person, the thing to do is tell those parents that someday they'll miss these times and should enjoy them while they can, so that at least you can make them  laugh.  

Please continue.

In my travels around the internet last week, I came across the story of Grant Achatz, a chef in Chicago who is considering a ban on small children in his restaurant, Alinea. The story goes that, short a babysitter, a couple brought their infant with them to the pricey Alinea where dinner runs about $265 a plate. The baby cried throughout the evening (of course) and diners who'd secured their non-refundable plates months in advance, were outraged.

I'd like to be appalled by the entitled behavior of this couple but entitled adults are everywhere and you can only be so appalled by the same thing for so long.  However, I caught a glimpse of entitlement in the making, just last week.  

Which was appalling.  

We were meeting friends for dinner in a restaurant, which, on the scale of eateries in our little Concord, NH is more "up" than "down". It is known for quiet ambiance and is popular among couples in their forties and fifties rather than twenties and thirties. The menu is comprised of old family recipes, the prices are on the higher side.

It was around 6:00 and not that busy yet, so we took a seat at the bar to have a glass of wine and wait. 

A party of six entered the restaurant, two couples, each with a child of about three or four. 

So far so good; cute kids, nice adults.

Within ten minutes, the kids were standing up in the booth and tossing things across the table, while the couples looked past them to chat with each other. The noise level increased and a server appeared to get things rolling. A moment later, there were sounds of a disagreement and the manager headed over.

I began to eavesdrop, first, because that's my job, and, second, because I was sitting right there.

"Why can't you?" one of the men asked the manager.

"Sir, the entrees are served as they are described."

"My kids don't eat like that."

"We can't create and price new entrees to order."

"You can't just throw a little pasta and butter together?"

"It disrupts the kitchen to part from the menu."

"You have, what, like ten people here? I don't see why you can't accommodate us."

This went on for a while. 

"I can't do that." 

"You just don't want to do that."

"I could check with the chef, but I know what the answer will be."

"I've been here many times, tell the chef that."

The manager started for the kitchen, turned, came back.

"On second thought, I'd like you to leave," he said. "I don't appreciate your attitude. It isn't what you're asking for, it's your attitude. "

The man was  incredulous. "You got to be kidding me."

"I mean it," the manager said. "Find another place to eat."

"Just stop," one of the women pleaded,  "Just stop it."

Nothing happened for a few seconds while the manager stood his ground and the man gaped. 

"Go ahead," said the manager, "find somewhere else."

The couples and their children slid from the booth and started for the door, the two men making loud, over the shoulder comments about rude, unaccommodating restaurants to which they would not return, to which they would make sure their friends never returned, or anyone else to whom they would be sure to report what happened, etc.

At the bar, the manager was noticeably upset. 

"Nice job," I said. "I was wondering how far away from them you could put us."

"I never do that," said the manager. "It was his attitude."

And this is the thing about entitled people. They make you feel intolerant when you refuse to put  up with them, and passive when you do.

A year ago, I saw the same kind of thing in another upscale bar (we have three) where my husband and I met for dinner after a week apart. A couple entered, their small, tired, complaining kids in tow, and proceeded to order drinks, appetizers and entrees while their restless children hopped on and off the stools, saying, "Mama, I'm bored." Over a row of planters was an enormous dining room, nearly empty, where Mama might have made her bored children more comfortable, but where, evidently, she did not prefer to sit.  They not only couldn't have appeared less concerned about how their kids were behaving, they couldn't have appeared less concerned about how everyone else was affected.

And this is the other thing about entitled people. They address obnoxious behavior by normalizing it, using lazy rationale like, "Kids will be kids".

I'm fascinated by entitlement; what people expect just for waking up in the morning.  But as satisfying as it is to watch adults who behave this way get their comeuppance, it is discouraging to see them model this behavior in front of their kids who will first be kids, and then be adults.

Entitlement begins at home, where children learn that only some people deserve respect, while others don't, where one's own needs are more important than anyone else's and where demanding and sulking bring faster results than negotiating or compromising. They grow up to treat servers badly, refuse to wait in line, abuse customer service people on the phone and bring their crying babies to very expensive restaurants where they feel they have as much right to stay put as anyone else who paid.

Chef Achatz tweeted the question: "should babies be banned from expensive restaurants?"

They should be. Cell phones are banned in nice dining rooms and like cell phones, babies can go off anytime. But more than that, a restaurant owes me a nice dining experience in exchange for my non-refundable cash, more than they owe entitled, rude people their good manners.

The inexcusable behavior of strangers

Several years ago, I was shopping along a busy street in Portsmouth with a friend when we passed a parked car which had been left running with the windows cracked. Inside, a three or four-year-old girl climbed around on the seats, over and around  the console. All her little light-up sneaker had to do was hit the shift to send the car in motion. 

Without thinking, I tried the door. Locked.

"I'm waiting for the driver," I told my friend.

We stood by the car like sentries, hoping we'd discover that the driver had made a quick run into the dry cleaner, maybe an ATM stop.  The little girl inside the car waved at us.

More than ten minutes went by. My face got warm, my pulse quickened and I knew I was going to initiate something in the next couple of minutes that would be unpleasant.  I suggested to my friend that if a confrontation would make her uncomfortable, she should find something else to do for a moment.

"Are you kidding?" she said,  "I'm not going anywhere."

After several more moments, the stranger exited a Starbucks -  grande in hand -  and I stepped toward her.

"Excuse me," I said. She was startled. "I can't believe you left this child in a running car. What would you have done if she'd put the car in gear?"

The woman ignored me, and searched for her keys.

"We've been standing here waiting for you, and it's actually been over fifteen minutes," I said.

The stranger, rummaging still, said, "The line was long."

"She could have put your car in gear! Or climbed out of the car!" I said.

A little crowd  had gathered and my friend filled them in. Then there was whispering, "What?!" "You're kidding!" "Really?!" "That's inexcusable!" Someone blurted out,  "You don't deserve to be a mother!" and another said, "Some women never get the privilege you know!"  

It was turning into Lord of the Flies with mothers. Without responding, the woman got in her car and drove away, while I considered how crowd-think had ruined my perfectly good intentions.

A few years later, I watched a woman attempt to herd several teenagers through their back to school shopping.  They were raucous and silly and she was already on edge when she came in the store . In only moments one of the teens did something  that  pushed her too far and she began to scream and swear at them.

"Get the f*** in that f****** room before I kick your ass!!"

My face got warm, my pulse quickened and I knew I was going to initiate something in the next couple of minutes that would be unpleasant and so I suggested to my daughter that if a confrontation would make her uncomfortable, she should wait outside. She was gone before I  finished my sentence.

At the counter, quietly, I said to the woman, "I want you to know I am appalled by how you spoke to those kids.  I can only imagine how you talk to them at home." She turned, looked me over, and snorted, "Oh! Really? You're appalled." I thought she might hit me. The teenagers circled like a gang of dogs and when she let loose with a profanity laced rant about people like me who didn't know how to mind their own business in their little worlds where nobody says bad things, they laughed.

Later on, I thought it over.  At arguably some risk, I accomplished nothing. In fact, rather  than inspire this woman to reflect on her inexcusable behavior, I supplied her with a story to tell her friends back in the other little world where they do say bad things.

I vowed never to approach a stranger again on another stranger's behalf. 

I made good on this two nights ago.

I watched a man pull into a handicap parking space , hop from the car, and not walk, not limp, but jog into the restaurant.  Upsetting , yes, but maybe, I thought,  he'd been handicapped until recently and just wasn't anymore and so I checked. Nothing. No placard, no plate.

He just didn't want to look further for a space.

Inside my brother waited to meet me. He suffers from a lung disease which requires him to use oxygen almost all of the time and has a placard hanging from the rear view mirror which he finds humiliating.  Had he not been dropped off,  had he arrived after the man took the space, he would have had to circle endlessly for another or go home.

I watched the man park and leave his car but I said nothing. After I found my own space and went into the restaurant I saw him sitting in a booth behind my brother, and still, I said nothing. Nothing about how those spaces are for others who face greater struggles than limited parking. Nothing about how an unavailable space could spell  the end of the evening for someone who has just spent the day indoors. I said none of those things.

For two reasons: First, because unlike the situation in Portsmouth, there was not a specific victim of this man's bad behavior in sight, only potential ones.  I had no doubt that, had I'd seen him taking the space as my brother was rounding the corner, I would have spoken up. But in this situation,  it was a principle I would have been defending more than a person.

Second, had I approached the man and been met with a response like the mall-woman's it would have ruined dinner for both me and my brother, something we both look forward to each week.

And so, with little reason to act other than to defend my own principles, or the dignity of another who deserves respectful, humane treatment, I said nothing.

And when people learn to need reasons  greater than defending their own principles and standing up for others, to be sure, they will do it less.

And that is inexcusable.

It's wonderful to learn things that will solve problems in the future. After the questions I have asked myself in the aftermath of acting, versus failing to act as I should, I know this:  I may have other dilemmas in the future, but I won't have that one. 

Questions and answers

Once when our son was very small, we waited  in line at a supermarket behind a man who was rather large in the stomach area. Our son stared at him, fascinated. I knew what was coming but  I wasn't quick enough with a distraction.

"Man," said our son, "Do you have a baby in your tummy?"

The man was not upset or amused, he simply turned away. I was mortified. In the car, I explained to our son that there were things we shouldn't ask people about themselves. Personal things. Things that they might not want you to notice.

"Like what?"

I'm sure I came up with something like:  "Well, generally about the way they look. It could hurt their feelings."

Or maybe not, I'm thinking today.

On Saturday, I shopped for a last minute gift. It was a crowded , knick-knacky place where busy people wandered on this third day before Christmas, moving past one another gingerly, saying "Excuse me" in voices edged with their hurry.  A few in line checked their watches.

A man in a wheelchair sat parked to the side, out of the way, while his companion made her way through the line.  Standing in line in front of  the man was a woman with her small child, a girl of about four.

The line halted while someone checked a price and there was time for the girl to stare at the disabled man. He looked the other way, but she was captivated.

"Why are you in that chair?" she asked him.

He looked at her and tilted his head a bit. Then he smiled patiently and said in a tired voice,  "Because, my legs don't work."

She nodded and he offered nothing more.

The mother watched.

 "Why don't they work?" asked the girl.

I looked at the mother to see how she'd react...Don't ask people personal questions...Leave the man alone...I'm sorry sir, she's just curious. But she didn't stop the exchange. Didn't hurry the girl along and didn't say "Shh."  She rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Because," the man said with a little shrug, "that's just the way it is."

She looked at his face. "Is that hard for you?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said, nodding, "sometimes it is."

The woman wished him a Merry Christmas and he smiled. They moved on.

How easily, in our  zeal to explain the world and the people in it, we presume - often wrongly - their feelings. How in our efforts to shape tact, we can suppress candor. And how easily, in our wish to cultivate tolerance, this can be confused with pity. 

But this candid little exchange gone right stayed with me.  The child's natural curiosity, only an inquiry still, about someone different from herself.  The  mother's willingness to trust that this  exchange would  unfold without her interference.  But more than that, I appreciated the man's  honest shrug of a response to the complicated question of "why?"

"It's just the way it is."

That, this child will discover, is the reason for many, many things beyond the doors of that shop.  

And maybe, I would tell a young child today,  adults of all types might not wish to discuss themselves with people they don't know. Possibly, I would dovetail this with a discussion about the issue of striking up conversation with strangers.

Maybe not.

There is a difference between a child's curiosity and an adult's judgment. Not all of us know what it is, but I observed one man who has probably learned it the hard way.

But I could be wrong. 

Care. It's free.

Here are two little stories worth mentioning, even if it isn't Monday yet.

Recently, Larry and I went to Symphony Hall in Boston to see a nearly sold out performance of Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto. We arrived close to the start of the concert and a hurried crowd formed behind us at the stairs to the entrance. Ahead of us, an elderly man, probably late eighties, struggled  with the help of a cane to navigate the climb. A young man ahead of him, probably late twenties, opened the door - and held it open - for the couple of moments it took the older man to reach the top of the stairs. He could have suggested that in the future, the ramp might be easier. But he didn't.

"Take your time," he said quietly. 

The older man nodded his appreciation.

"Have a lovely evening,"  the younger man said, and then followed him in.  

Inside, a clutch of women sat around a small table having the last of their champagne before the start of the concert. Like most of us, they were looking forward to the "Rach 3" but unlike most of us, they were just-out-of-college age.  While one of them entertained the group with pictures from her phone, another spied us and said,  "Excuse me, could one of you take a picture of all of us?" I pointed to my husband and said, "You want him." Larry aimed the phone, took the picture, and showed it to them. They looked at it with polite approval.  

"Thank you so much," they said.

"Wait," Larry said, "let me take a couple more, one of you didn't look ready."  

They were delighted.

It always gives me pause. 

How little it takes,  how nothing it costs.

To bring a moment of real happiness into the life of another.

When you just care a little bit.

Pet peevish

Right after I finished the post I wrote for this space,  I decided to submit it as an article. Good for me, but blog-wise it left me empty-handed, so this will be a cereal-for-dinner kind of post. Not especially compelling, but not about empty nest again either.

Today, I had to choose between: The man who flirted with me in traffic recently (and how long it took for me to realize he wasn't trying to alert me to a problem with my car), or pet peeves.  I'm still a little embarrassed by the man-in-traffic story, so I'll go with pet peeves.

I'll  put these in order of their potential to be irritating.  Peeve number 1, for example, has the power to change my mood, whereas number 4 barely qualifies as a peeve at all and is actually a little amusing when it occurs. Feel free to comment about your own pet peeve.  It means you're a nice person. Negative people are  peeved by too many things to have pets.

Herewith:

1.Unruly, unsupervised children in expensive restaurants.

I will initiate a round of peek-a-boo with a stranger's child who is on the verge of a meltdown if the parent is trying, too.  But in a nice restaurant, where I've paid extra to avoid unruly children, and where the parent is not trying,  it's a mood buster. I once watched an upscale child of upscale people slide off his seat and travel from table to table banging a spoon and bowl together. The mother looked at the other diners and smiled. "Look," she said. "He's thinks he's playing in a band."  This should happen more rarely than it does.

2. People who observe the no smoking rule in public places by stepping outside to light up, twelve inches from the entrance.

Atrociously parked car

3. People who park atrociously and at enough of an angle to encroach on the space of others on the left or right.  

Oh wait, that's me. I do that. 

4.  Phrase abuse.   It's tiring  to think about  how often and  in what situations the phrases "It Takes a Village" and "Perfect Storm" and even "Schizophrenic"  have been misused/misquoted/misapplied/misunderstood .

a) Yes, it takes support and resources and responsible parenting to raise a child. But the whole village to make the child do homework, go to bed, find a summer job and stop texting during dinner?  The whole village? Many people I respect use this expression, but it's still almost-irritating.

b) It is a perfect storm when a situation is aggravated drastically by an exceptionally rare combination of circumstances, or if it is a movie starring George Clooney. It is not a perfect storm if it starts to rain on the way to work, in a traffic jam, on a day when your alarm didn't go off.

c) While I have heard forecasters characterize it this way, the weather  is not schizophrenic because it changes abruptly. The weather is schizophrenic if it manifests itself with auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or is disorganized in its speech and thinking. 

5.  Word abuse, to wit: "surreal" and "ironic" and "empathetic."

a)  Surreal does not mean amazing or surprising or unexpected. It means to have the disorienting, hallucinatory qualities of a dream.

Example:  If you see someone walking down the street who looks like Johnny Depp, that  is not surreal.  If you are walking down the street and an image of Johnny Depp floats before your eyes, that is surreal.

b)  Ironic also does not  mean amazing, or surprising, or unexpected. Ironic refers to the incongruency of simultaneous events.  Or, things that are paradoxically true.

Example:  If someone says to someone else that they saw a person walking down the street who looks like Johnny Depp and the someone recalls that they recently read an article about Johnny Depp in People magazine, that is not ironic. If a person thinks they see someone who looks like Johnny Depp across the street, and heads over for a better look, and is run over by Johnny Depp himself, that is ironic.

c)  The word "empathetic" crashed the dictionary party, it was not invited. It was misused by so many, so often and  in so many contexts the Webster people finally got frustrated enough to deem its useage acceptable. The correct word is empathic.

Example:  If Johnny Depp  is questioned by the police and is charged with negligent driving after running you over and is clearly humiliated, and you can relate because of the humiliating time the police came to question you about all of your outstanding parking tickets (which were mostly paid) what you are feeling is empathic, not empathetic.

That's it, that concludes the post about pet peeves.  Next week, I'll talk about the guy in traffic.  

And what is the topic of the piece I'll submit as an article? Empty Nest, of course. There are a few things I forgot to say about that. If I put it in the blog though, it will start to sag on one side.