Hiring Isabel

Isabel came to see me again yesterday. "Kris, I need to talk to you," she said.

As it turns out, she is now in need of a new bicycle, and therefore, is also in need of “a job” for the summer. She told me her daddy had said that he would hire her and increase her allowance from ten dollars a month to fifteen if she talked with me first and I approved it.

And so the interviewing process began. We determined that she knows how to type. No, she’s not very fast, but she does know her letters, and she does know how to spell! I thought we probably would need someone that could type just a little faster than that.

“Well, at least I know how to type!” she said, exasperated at my lack of enthusiasm. “I don’t see why they can’t make keyboards with the keys in alphabetical order!”

I drive a pretty hard bargain, so we went on to explore other possible positions. I told her that unfortunately, with no marketable skills, all I could hire her for was for cleaning duties. That did not appeal to her at all. The job she was really seeking, she said, was that of being a Desk Cleaner-Upper. A Desk Cleaner-Upper is someone who picks up paper clips and straightens up pens, and lines the scotch tape up with the stapler. She proceeded to show me how it was done. Oh. Nice, but I didn’t think it was very practical. I didn’t want my pens disappearing out from under my nose.

So back to the cleaning duties we went. I told her I would hire her to take care of kitchen duty, lobby duty, and bathroom duty. “I don’t do bathrooms,” said Isabel.

“Then I’m not interested in hiring you,” I told her.

“Well, ok,” she finally gave in. “But I won’t do the patient bathroom–just the bathroom in Dad’s office.” Nope. Not acceptable.

“That’s the one we absolutely must have cleaned,” I said.

She gave up a howl of protest: “I would have to call the police if you made me wipe up pee that’s not my own! Please!!”

In the end, we settled for her cleaning the lobby, watering the plants, and cleaning the kitchen every day for the rest of the summer. At $5 per month, I thought it was a deal we could live with. “Alright. Go get started,” I said. And off she trotted.

No more than ten minutes passed before Miss Isabel was back in my office informing me of the weeks she would need off. “Don’t make me fire you before I hire you,” I said. She giggled a little bit, relinquished her days off plan, then went off to resume her cleaning duties.

I looked up a bit later and found her washing the glass of the grandfather clock with the furniture polish.

This arrangement is going to need an adjustment or two.

A Garbage Blessing

Dear God,

As I’m sure you can tell by that pile of unidentifiable slop, that I have finally cleaned out the refrigerator. As hard as I try, it seems I have yet again failed in my responsibility to be a good steward of Leftovers. I think my inherited propensity for collecting margarine and sour cream containers in which to store leftovers might have something to do with my forgetting what food I have in storage, but I won’t get into that now. I would just say, however, that I am very grateful to those little disposable containers for sparing me from having to scrape the filth out–for if nothing else, I am a good steward of Real containers.

I haven’t done anything with the pile yet, as you can see, because the garbage man doesn’t come until morning, and it’s stormy outside right now. Which brings me to the purpose of my little prayer. You see, God, my garbage man knows not what the morrow will bring, but I do. And I think he just might need an extra blessing when he stops by my house.

So bless him, God, for not ever complaining about my garbage. He never tells me how wasteful I am. He never complains about how much garbage I set out for him to pick up. He doesn’t care if I put my garbage in boxes, in trash cans, or in bags. He doesn’t ever complain about anything being too heavy or too bulky. In fact, he never says anything to me about any of it–ever! Without any pomp or fanfare, he just makes it all disappear. And I like that.

My garbage man silently goes about his business. And I go about mine. And we have a pretty good relationship, I think.

So God, please bless that garbage man. A whole bunch.

Amen.

Demoted

Isabel’s mother came into the office the other day. She was borrowing Isabel’s cell phone for some reason (yes, she’s 8 and has a cell phone). She came and showed me the list of Isabel’s contact numbers. Remember John? Yes, she’s still got him on her contact list, but he’s no longer listed as “John.” No–now the list reads: Mom, Dad, Jasmine, Ex-Boyfriend, Mason...

Poor John. He’s really been demoted.

Adam

At the table across the aisle from where Sharon and I sit in our Economics class every Monday and Wednesday night is a young man by the name of Adam. I don’t know him beyond classroom encounters, but were it not for Adam, the class would not be quite so palatable. Yes, Adam is the salt of the class, so to speak, and I really enjoy listening to what he has to say, whether he makes sense or not.

Now this is the second time Adam is taking this particular class. It seems that Adam evidently did not take the articles we are to write for this class seriously enough the first time (we have to write eight economics-related articles in this class). And unfortunately, those missing articles either gave him a flunking grade, or they gave him a grade he needs to replace. At any rate, he and the instructor have an established relationship, and poor Adam gets picked on a lot–all in good fun, of course.

So beings Adam is familiar with the course content, he now not only writes and submits his articles, but he also gives rousing summaries of them when called upon. And the instructor, in kind, calls him out for a lot of the brash statements Adam makes. He makes Adam back his statements up or asks him why he says what he says. After giving a summary on an economics book which has very unkind things to say about the American economy, this little Instructor-Adam exchange took place:

Instructor: “Why do you say that?”

Adam: “I can’t understand it all, but this guy did, and he told me about it!”

The class, of course, erupted into giggles. I think we all like listening to the banter between the two of them. It is especially fun to listen to Adam when he’s on the defensive. This one came up last night:

Instructor: “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

Adam: “I don’t completely understand it either.”

Ahh. Economics! What a wonderfully complicated subject!

Worms Gone Bad

Sharon and I are both enrolled in the same Economics class this semester. The class goes from 5:30 pm to 9:15 pm—a LONG time! It seems the night is never-ending. The instructor is British and loves to tell us what will happen when he takes over as “Economic Dictator.” It’s pretty interesting stuff, in actuality, but the class is so long we sometimes have to take extra measures to keep ourselves awake. Thank goodness for Sharon. She has a knack for pulling all these nifty things out of her bag to distract us. Take her propensity for harboring sour gummy worms, for example. Just when you think you can bear no more, out comes a sour gummy worm, giving your taste buds a shockingly sour—and rather pleasant—sensation. She usually shares with me, although as the “sponge,” I usually get the greens, oranges, and yellows.

So when we were at Wal-Mart the last time, and I saw her grab a bag of worms, I decided I would get my own little stash going on. I planned very carefully and timed it just right to remember to actually stick them into my school bag. Monday came around. I went to work as normal, and then to school in the evening. I knew I was in trouble when I got into my car and saw that my normally stiff school bag had flopped over—as if it had melted. Oh no. Those poor little worms must be in trouble. My initial investigation confirmed that indeed! My boredom-breakers had all melted into one little pile of rainbow-colored worm flesh. There was simply no help for it. Although I was grateful the bag they were in had protected my books from wearing a new skin, it did not help me overcome my disappointment in not having my blue and red supply to help me through the long evening.

I just think it’s unreasonably hot around here.

Skunk Hair and Aging

Today we had the “pleasure” of having Ms. Celia come in for her usual monthly appointment. No one–and I repeat, no one–is fond of Celia, and we don't exactly look forward to her monthly visits. Celia has caused quite a bit of drama in our office in the past, and she is the type of patient who is... well... bipolar. Really. She is a case that is so pathetic though that I can’t help but feel sorry for her. So I spent about thirty minutes talking with her this afternoon while she waited on her cab to arrive.

Now Celia used to have nice gray hair. Several months ago, however, she arrived at our office in her usual whirlwind, sporting a new hair color. As usual, I was not impressed at the fake hair color, but whatever pleases this woman–so shall it be. I thought I had seen it all, but when Celia arrived today, it was all I could do not to flinch. What used to be a reddish brown hair color is now pitch black at the bottom, after which it then turns into a reddish brown color in the temple area. This is all crowned by a “blonde halo.” “Skunk” was what came to mind, but because I am a professional, I gave no indication that anything was amiss.

As distasteful as this patient is, I enjoy getting her to talk about stuff because she is simply so dramatic about things. During the course of the conversation this afternoon, she of her own accord brought up her disastrous hair. Her “friend” did this to her, as it turns out. “I look like a punk rocker now,” she told me miserably. And this poor lady is so embarrassed, she says, that she tries not to go anywhere except where absolutely necessary. She said that people don’t even try to fake it with the new hairdo. In fact, according to her, they actually give a pained expression after uttering, “Celia. What happened to your hair?”

“The first words out of my mouth when I looked into a mirror,” she told me, “was ‘I look like a skunk!’” Celia thinks this is probably as close as she’ll ever get to having a halo, but “I feel like an idiot!”

I was laughing pretty hard by this time. At least she knows it looks bad. From the topic of hair, we started talking about the process of aging. “If there were one thing I could ask God,” she said, “do you know what it would be?”

Yes, Celia, I do want to know.

“I hope the Lord doesn’t strike me down for saying this,” she told me, “but if I could, I would say, ‘Sir, if You have time, could you just explain this “aging” thing to me?’ That is one thing I do not understand! What was God thinking!?” she continued. “How could He start us so right–all cute and cuddly as babies and stuff–and then give us such a terrible end?”

I was laughing so hard by this time, I couldn’t even be called upon to comment. She continued on, “I’m serious. You start out so good, but then you get to where you want to just pee all over yourself! I don’t know how many times–ever since my hip replacement–I have had to pee on myself. I just don’t understand what the point is!”

Once I regained my composure, I explained my views on aging to her, and I think I gave her something to think about at least.

But you know what? Sometimes I don’t get it either.

A Dog in Mourning

Our receptionist is out on vacation this week, so that means I’m out at the front desk a lot. As a result, I have more interaction with the patients than I usually do. "Polly" and "Annie," two of our patients who happen to be sisters, came in today for their regular checkups. Polly lost her husband "Paul" three months ago to cancer. He had also been a patient of ours. During the course of our brief encounter while waiting for the doc to come in, I asked Polly how life is for her by now. She proceeded to tell me about the little Chihuahua she has and how the little dog is still mourning for the deceased Paul. She told me about how when Paul was at the funeral home, she had the dog there. And get this–the dog would not stay out of the casket. He would jump up on a chair, crawl into the casket, and nestle down on Paul’s chest.

Now you have to understand–Paul was as cross as they come. He was a patient of Dr. G’s for at least fifteen years, and after he died, Dr. G was telling me how he had never seen a contrary and disliked person such as Paul was. Paul was just plain mean. His daughter couldn’t even stand him, and in fact, he and Polly got divorced at some point in the past. They fought like cats and dogs all the time. I think it was when he became so very ill that Polly came back and helped take care of him until he died.

Come to think of it, it was Paul who marched into my office when I first started as billing manager and informed me that he was not going to pay another cent of his bill. He did, but it was not an easy feat to pull money out of him.

Anyway, back to the conversation in the lobby. Polly told me how she went against his children’s wishes and bought a mausoleum for the both of them in a town 2 hours away. They had discussed it before he died, after all. When she dies, she is to be placed in the mausoleum beside him–head to head. They chose a mausoleum, she said, because they didn’t like the idea of bugs crawling around on them. Okay. Whatever.

But here’s the kicker. If she dies before Rocco (the dog), the dog is to be put to sleep and then cremated, after which the ashes shall be placed into her coffin, and the three will be a family again. And if Rocco dies before she does, she will cremate him and save his ashes for the Big Event. I, of course, was having an economic fit the whole time she was telling me this. Her sister jumped right in with me and told her that no one in their family has agreed to put that dog to sleep if she dies before he does; they love him too, after all. Polly is a bit cantankerous herself, and so she just ignored Annie’s interruptions and kept talking. So Annie just sat there silently, laughing a little here and there and indicating through the usual motions that Polly is crazy.

The conversation switched then to Annie's big plans for herself when she dies. She thinks the mausoleum idea is absurd and instead plans to be cremated and have her ashes placed in some container in a closet somewhere. "You aren’t at least going to have your ashes scattered over the ocean?" I asked her. "Oh no," she said emphatically. "I can’t swim!"

Then we all had a good laugh.

P.S. For the record, I love my dog, but please don't put her in my coffin with me, dead or alive; I'm a little worried about the space issue.

I really need to finish my will.

Little People Fall in Love Too

Isabel came to visit me again today. "I don’t know if I should even tell you this," she said.

"You know you can tell me anything, Isabel," I replied, barely looking up from my work.

She indicated that she was very sad these days and then proceeded to tell me why. "I know you’re going to say that I’m too young," she began, "but I found out last week that my best friend "John" doesn’t like me anymore." And henceforth began the tale of woe. Evidently, 8 year-old John has moved on to other love conquests since he and Isabel no longer go to the same school. "He told me he likes another girl with dark hair," she ended miserably.

I wanted to laugh hysterically, but a love founded in preschool should be taken seriously, so I listened gravely. I tried to come up with a few words of comfort, but there was no comfort to be had for Isabel. "Kris," she said emphatically, pulling up her chair closer to my desk, "You don’t understand!!! I read in a magazine that it’s mostly people in their twenties who fall in love, but I have discovered that little people fall in love too!" She then told me all about that article she had read in some magazine somewhere and all about meeting John in preschool and all about "the new girl–" that horrid little dark-haired girl who never even knew John in preschool!

She told me how she was with him and his family at a restaurant when she found this terrible news out, and she just kept kicking her foot against the wall. So she wound up with a sore foot, and she was just miserable about it all for three days. She spent quite a bit of time on the floor of her dark closet thinking about it all and another length of time under her brother’s bed (that used to have trash under it but is cleaned out now).

"But I got over it two days ago," she finally finished. "So I’ll be ok. I wasn’t that into that mushy stuff anyway."

Like Dolls in a Dollhouse

My boss’s daughter Isabel is eight years old. She often comes into my office to see me and tells me all about all of her theories on life. This last Friday, she was in a particularly good mood. Her older brother Mason left to go to Virginia for three weeks, and she feels like a freed bird. Mason is a good kid, but as brothers and sisters are sometimes, Isabel can’t always appreciate him. So she was telling me all about what she was going to do in his absence–hide his DVD’s, for example.

Feeling like I should be a good influence, I told her, “Isabel, what you don’t realize is that you are going to miss Mason so much by the time he gets back that you will have forgiven him for everything he’s ever done to you. You’re not going to want to hide his DVD’s.” Isabel straightened up, looked at me in exasperation, rolled her eyes, and said, “Kris! Brothers and sisters are NOT like dolls in a dollhouse: smiling all the time, sharing the bathroom, sharing their toys! It’s more like, ‘Drop, and give me fifty [pushups]!’ or ‘Give me fifty dollars!!’” And I had to remember that indeed! My siblings and I were NEVER like dolls in a dollhouse.

I like Isabel. I think she’s pretty smart!

Discovering Germany

This is my final paper on my experience in Germany.

After much deliberating about participating in the Discover Germany Today program, my sister Sharon and I decided to seize the opportunity and get everything we could from it. Although only a two-week study abroad program, we experienced many things from the German culture and learned many valuable things from the Germans and the German way of life.

Crossing the line from being a tourist to actually participating in the culture was an amazing experience. One of the activities we did in which we actively participated in the culture was to visit a German vocational school and then interact with the students there. We met Markus Hoff, an English and social sciences teacher, prior to class, and he showed us around the school and ended by taking us to his classroom. The students were very receptive and did an amazing job of making us feel welcome.

After listening to a presentation on the European Union by two of Mr. Hoff’s students, we were all required to interact with each other in English. Two German students were assigned to one American student. We were surprised at how well they did with communicating in English; the students should be commended for being willing to communicate in a language that is not their first language. It was soon quite obvious, however, that the German students were much more fluent in English than we were in German. Germans obviously place much more emphasis on learning other languages than do Americans. They begin at a young age and continue learning languages all through their academic years. Mr. Hoff’s personal opinion is that a person should have no less than seven years of English. The Germans’ learning of languages is not limited to English, however, and it is nothing for a German to know up to four different languages, including English, French, Italian, and Spanish. This emphasis on the learning of languages is certainly a strength of the German culture and is one that will surely serve them well.

After observing this in the German people, it was hard to not be embarrassed at my own ineptness with the German language. I very much disliked having to ask almost every person if they spoke English prior to nearly every transaction or encounter with the Germans. How much better and empowering it would be for Americans to start learning languages as young children rather than waiting to be introduced to a foreign language either when in high school or in college!

Another highlight of this trip was the time we spent with Mr. Hans-Ulrich Klose at the Reichstag. The more than two hour encounter with the Deputy Chairman Foreign Policy Committee of the German Bundestag was both humbling and exhilarating. From Mr. Klose, we learned so much more than just the things we chatted about regarding the German way of life. The way we were treated by Mr. Klose and his assistant Judith was nothing short of amazing and went far beyond our expectations. The time that such an important and busy man spent with us was a good lesson simply in how to treat others. He had nothing to gain from the time spent with us, and yet, it did not seem to matter. He actually seemed to enjoy spending time with us and thought nothing of giving us a personal tour through the Reichstag. Although our brief time together is probably already forgotten by Mr. Klose, his kindness to six American strangers will undoubtedly stick in our minds for a long, long time to come.

One of the practical things I learned how to do by participating in this course was simply to navigate the methods of foreign travel. From trains to trams to buses to bicycles, I am now much more comfortable both with utilizing public transport in a foreign country and with being resourceful when the unexpected happens. Sharon and I traveled to Lübeck on our own on the day when we were to pursue a personal interest. We had train troubles on both legs of our journey, and being forced to deal with the unexpected proved to be great experience for us and one that I am sure will prove useful should we ever be in that situation again.

Another thing I am much more comfortable doing is simply being willing to use the little bit of the German language that I have managed to acquire. Our visit and subsequent talk with Patrick and Manuela in Dresden proved to be somewhat liberating for both Sharon and me. Patrick, an American and former WKU student who married a German girl, did much to relax our fears of looking stupid while navigating through the language. Patrick talked about how, even five years after learning the language, he still manages to mess it up all the time. When he gets into a situation where he is floundering for the German word, he simply throws the English word in—and doesn’t apologize for it. The key to learning the language, according to Patrick, is being willing to look stupid while using it. More often than not, the Germans will be delighted to help out, and it is by making these mistakes that one learns.

For all the things one learns by foreign travel, it turns out to be much more a journey about learning of one’s own self and culture than it is learning about a foreign culture. This journey to Germany indeed proved to be a learning experience about myself and my own culture. When comparing the culture of America’s South, from whence I come, to that of the culture of Berlin, the primary thing that comes to mind is simply the value of friendliness and a smile, something that I often take for granted. When in Berlin, I missed the friendliness that I have always associated with customer service. It is not that friendliness is missing from the Berlin culture, however; it’s just that if you want it, you have to initiate it and seek it out. Once you step beyond the surface encounters of customer surface, however, be it in a restaurant or in a shop or on a train, the people of Berlin could not be nicer. But as Mr. Hoff puts it, “Berliners are mean to each other—that’s just how they are.” It was surprising, and somewhat alarming, how quickly I learned to acclimate to this method of communication. When returning to the Nashville airport, however, and upon being greeted by airport personnel with a friendly smile, I had to resist the impulse to bestow a hug upon the unsuspecting individual.

In addition to learning how our cultures differ in the foods we eat and in the services we receive, it was quickly quite obvious how much better the Germans are at conserving energy and at recycling. Germans separate their trash into plastics, papers, and metals. Public trash cans are often found in a grouping of three, and people do quite well in disposing of their trash correctly. When we visited Patrick and Manuela in their home in Dresden, we found them to be no different. Plastics, papers, and even batteries are disposed of in an environmentally-friendly way. What was the most outstanding, however, is that some of it took extra effort to dispose of, e.g., taking batteries to a separate location. And yet, it is so much a part of their way of living, they are not only glad to do it, but they do so without thinking about it. Even toilets in Germany conserve water in that there are two sizes of flushes available—a small and a large. Americans could learn much from the Germans in this area.

But for all the differences we observe between Germans and Americans, from the water we drink to the toilets we use to the foods we eat to the languages we speak, the people themselves are not so very different after all. Every person from Germany whom we were privileged to get to know beyond surface relationships proved to be an outstanding individual whom we enjoyed very much getting to know. And just what can be more valuable than the capacity of one individual to enjoy the company of another? It is these encounters, however brief they may have been, that I shall treasure far more than any souvenir I could have picked up—even chocolate. So to you, Markus, Birte, Patrick, Manuela, Manfred, Elene, Ulrich, Stefan, Herr Klose, Judith, Michael, Susanne, Spencer, and Daniela, and to my traveling companions, Dr. McGee, Sharon, Derek, George, and Thom, I propose a toast to you—mit Leitungswasser (tap water), of course. And I echo the words of Tim Cahill who once said, “A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” Without a doubt, the time and money invested in my journey to Germany has been well worth it, and I am all the richer for it.