Some people tell me I shouldn’t get so worked up about what the federal government’s up to. After all, most of that stuff doesn’t really matter in our everyday lives. Hmm…

I lost my wallet last year. Luckily, I only kept a few things in it – frequent shopper cards, a little cash, pictures of my kids. Unfortunately, I also had my and my baby girl’s Social Security cards in it.  Since I don’t often need our cards, though, I didn’t worry too much about it.

Then my husband decided to refinance our house, and because of the Patriot Act, I have to show my Social Security card to close on the refi.

So I went to my “local” Social Security office. It’s a 30-minute drive to a neighborhood that I wouldn’t exactly call safe. I had to have my kids with me since the office closes at 4pm. I knew right away it’d be a disaster. There were big signs posted on the front door – no food, no cell phones, no guns. So I left the McDonald’s Happy Meals I had gotten to keep my children quiet in the car; I turned off my cell phone, and I tried to reassure my 6-year-old that he need not worry about guns. (He saw the picture on the door and freaked out a bit.)

Once inside, things just got worse. There were about 60 people packed into a 200-square-foot room. I took a number – A31 – and we sat down. That’s when I noticed yet another sign: Keep your children quiet and under control so we can conduct business privately and without interruption. Right. I’ll explain that to my 2-year-old who is already running around checking things out.

I started filling out my application only to discover that I needed my parents’ Social Security numbers. I have no idea what those are, and my parents are on vacation in the Cascades. Besides I can’t use my cell phone to try to get hold of them anyway, remember?

After ten minutes, the irritable clerk finally called a number – A26. Hurray, there were only five people in front of us. Another fifteen minutes and they called A27. By now, my son is whining about the wait and bouncing up and down in his chair, annoying the very large man next to him with lots of rather graphic tattoos and a bolt in his nose. I was trying to keep my daughter entertained, but she was not having it.  She kept wiggling out of my lap and taking off. Every time I would catch her, she’d shriek, and I’d get dirty looks from the clerk. So after waiting about thirty minutes, I gave up.

I bid farewell to the pictures of George W. and Dick Cheney that were looming over our chairs and walked out the door. I heard them call A28 just before the door swung shut. I’ll have to find a time to go back after we return from vacation and before we close on our mortgage. Needless to say, I won’t be taking the kids.

Who says federal government doesn’t affect our daily lives? It just helped ruin a day for me.

I have come to a cosmic understanding. Phones stink. All phones stink, but cell phones are the worst.

I resisted the cell phone craze for quite a long time, but when my son was born, my parents insisted on putting me on their network for “safety.” It was a very nice gesture on their part; although I never had an emergency situation in which I desperately needed the phone, knowing I had it made them feel better.

Eventually, my husband and I decided to get our own phones. He likes technology. He likes being able to talk to his best friend all the time. I, on the other hand, have never liked talking on the phone. I was one of those bizarre teenagers who avoided calls even from my closest friends. My mother used to make me order pizza, and I would break into a cold sweat. Phone conversation just doesn’t work to my strengths. I’m not a glib conversationalist; I don’t think in quick sound bites, plus I’m pretty sarcastic and rather terse. Over the phone, I come off as rude.

A few months ago, we decided to cancel our landline. We were spending over $100 on phones each month, and we needed to streamline our budget. Now we spend about $60 a month on technology that allows people to reach me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Lucky me.

So here are my questions.

1. Why do people need to reach me at all hours of the day or night, no matter where I am or what I’m doing? I’m not the president of the United States; I’m not even a doctor. Good heavens! How on earth did human beings survive before phones?
2. Why should I pay money for people to call me at their convenience? Usually, when I answer, the person on the other end inevitably wants to give me bad news, ask me for something or chastise me for not answering the phone when they called earlier. I pay the bill; I answer when I have time.
3. Why is it okay for someone to interrupt me when they call on the phone? No one ever says, “Hi! Do you have time to talk?” No, they just assume that since I answered, they can launch into a 20-minute discussion. If I don’t answer, they get mad and leave me nasty messages. If someone just walked into my home while I was in middle of changing a diaper or taking a shower, that would be considered rude. Because they call instead of coming over, it’s acceptable?
4. How am I supposed to remember to keep my phone charged, keep it with me at all times and keep the ringer on or off depending on my location and activity? Do other people really spend that much time and energy thinking about such things? I have so many objects to keep track of; the phone is not even in the top ten things I’m worried about. I have my keys, my asthma medication, my wallet, my lunchbox, my school bag, my son’s school bag and all its contents, my daughter’s diaper bag and its contents. I can’t be expected to know where my phone is, what the status of its battery is, and how loud the ringer is set. I’m upstairs, downstairs, out in the yard, in the car, tutoring, teaching, at the store, at the park, at preschool, at the baseball field, at the movies. I really don’t have time.
5. If cell phones are supposed to keep us “safe,” as so many people insist, why do they cause so many dangers on the road? So often when I witness someone driving badly, they’re on the phone.
6. Weren’t cell phones supposed to connect us? I remember a time when I could walk down the street, see a friend or acquaintance and actually strike up a conversation. Not anymore. Nine times out of ten, when I see an acquaintance, they’re walking along, head down, ear to the phone. They might look up and smile or wave, but a conversation is right out. They’re already having one with someone more important than I am.

So that is my rant. I know my position is unpopular, and I accept that. I recently read an article about a couple that had decided to get rid of their televisions. I wonder if I could convince my husband to try a similar experiment with the phones. Probably not.

When did depression become a crime? At what point did the world lose patience with any and all people who made the mistake of admitting they weren’t happy at the moment?

I have been battling depression periodically through much of my life. The first time I had a major bout, I was only about 11 years old. It was written off as adolescence, and I was allowed to muddle through it until I got over it. The second time, I was a junior in high school. As an honors student who was very involved in multiple extracurricular activities, I was assumed to be under too much stress. My parents and friends encouraged me to drop a couple of my more difficult classes and lighten my activity schedule. I did, and I got over it. The third time, I was in college, struggling to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life and heartbroken over a guy. This bout was more serious, and I was put into therapy and given antidepressants. Neither was terribly helpful; I got much better when I got out of town and went to work at Disney World for the summer, though.

Now I’m 35, and I’ve been battling another round of depression for almost two years. In the fifteen years that have passed since my last episode, though, a remarkable shift has taken place. No one has considered that maybe my lifestyle or activities could problems. No one has made any helpful suggestions. No one has really given my situation any thought whatsoever because they no longer feel the need to be burdened by such unpleasantness. I tell people I’m depressed, and everyone comes back with one word: DRUGS.

These days, you tell someone you’re depressed, and they immediately reply, “Have you tried Prozac/Zoloft/Lexapro/insert prescription here? I’ve been on it for ages! It’s great!”

My doctor put me on Lexapro. My husband says it makes me behave better. I admit it seems to improve my outward symptoms. But I still don’t sleep. I still wake up wondering how in the world I’m going to make it through the day. I still feel my heart start racing at the thought of all the things I have to do. I just don’t feel like I have to talk about it. And I guess that’s what most people around me prefer.

My friends and family are used to Little Miss Sunshine. Jennifer, the peppy, happy, smiling and efficient. It disturbs them to think I might be unhappy, and they’re very busy people. They don’t really have time to worry about it. Besides, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not a teenager. My life is great, right? I shouldn’t be depressed.

True, life is pretty good. I have two beautiful, healthy, sweet, smart children. I’m glad I know that because not many people tell me. Lots of people tell me what I should be doing to make them better, though. I get tons of advice from teachers, doctors, dentists, friends who have lots of ideas for more things I should do to improve my kids. Unfortunately, I just don’t have any more time, energy or money to put them in more activities, read more stories, make more crafts, take more walks, play more games.

I have a very nice husband. He’s a terrific dad who makes a good living at a job he doesn’t like much so I can stay home with our children most of the time. He’s a discontented personality, though. Nothing is ever okay. He’s always tired, always ill, always annoyed with something. We never have enough money, enough stuff, enough time. Nothing we buy is ever quite what he wanted. Nothing I cook is ever quite what he wanted.

I have a nice house. It’s always a mess, though, despite my constant efforts to clean it.

I have a great job. I love what I do. But it’s a lot of work for not much money.

I have great friends and family. They are always willing to come to any party I throw, always send me funny e-mails, always invite me to dinner or a movie. I’m sure they would be willing to listen to my worries if they didn’t have so many of their own that I feel too guilty to burden them with mine.

So I take the pills my doctor prescribed so I can be more pleasant to be around. I’ve tried to go off them a few times, but people get frustrated with me almost immediately. Still, I can’t help but feel that I have a right to be depressed without being accused of a chemical imbalance or hormonal problem. I work too much and get nowhere. I get very little encouragement. In fact, most of the folks around me just toss more complications, more tasks, more “constructive criticism” at me, rather than take anything away. The first couple times I went through this, people encouraged me to let some things go. Nowadays, it’s much more a “take-a-pill-shut-up-and-work-harder” attitude.

I blame Tom Cruise. If the moron hadn’t bashed anti-depressants and made it a cause celebre for lunatics like himself, I wouldn’t get accused of being a Scientologist every time I say I don’t like Prozac.

Although this blog has been quiet for a while, I have been thinking about some things I’d like to discuss. One thing I’ve been deliberating on lately is the notion of politically correct speech. I’ve heard some of my right-wing friends and family criticizing the concept recently, and I was considering writing a blog entry on it, but it didn’t seem all that relevant right now.  How ironic that in the midst of my contemplation on political correctness, Ann Coulter would step up to give me something to which I could respond. I suppose I should thank her, but since good manners are lost on her, she would not appreciate the gesture.

Prior to Ms. Coulter’s nasty comments on March 2^nd, I had been thinking about why so many conservatives have a problem with politically correct speech. One thing I’ve noticed is that they just dislike the term. “Politically correct” suggests some kind of federal consequence for saying the “wrong thing.” The idea is unpleasant, like something out of Orwell’s 1984: Say the wrong word, and Big Brother will come for you!

I guess some people have forgotten the genesis of the term. “Politically correct” originally applied to politicians who have to be worried about offending voters. Like many words and phrases in the English language, however, it evolved, adopted by the general public which co-opted it to mean “any expression that might be considered inappropriate or insensitive.” Perhaps we should simply change the term to something more suitable, say “human decency,” “cultural sensitivity,” “social awareness,” or even “Christian morality,” after all Jesus would never have called anyone nasty names.

No matter what you call it, though, rudeness and inappropriate language has historically been and should continue to be punished. When I was little, there was a kids’ show on the local TV station that ended with Cowboy Bob reminding us all, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” And the message was reinforced in elementary school. I got in trouble once for getting mad at my playmates and calling them “faggots,” and I remember being confused when the fifth-grade boys got in trouble for playing a game called “Smear the Queer.” They were allowed to continue playing the game, but they weren’t allowed to call it by that name anymore. Since I didn’t really understand the words “faggot” or “queer,” these situations seemed very strange to me. That was 1981, years before anyone ever spoke of political correctness, but we were still facing unpleasant consequences for calling people rude names.

Now, I grant that our government should not punish us for being rude. We cannot make words illegal. Freedom of speech is too important; however, the First Amendment of our Constitution does not exempt us from being polite; it simply means the government cannot make us be polite. Sadly, no one else wants the job either these days. Parents and society don’t police language much anymore. Cursing in public seems to be far more prevalent than it used to be. In fact, for all the whining and worrying about the dangers of politically correct speech, people seem to be saying whatever they want more than ever. With the advent of cable TV, satellite radio and the Internet, we have infinite outlets for our freedom of expression. Anyone can say anything and get an audience. And they are often rewarded for being rude or outrageous. (See also Rush Limbaugh, South Park, Jerry Springer, Anna Nicole Smith.) Pushing the envelope of acceptable language and behavior has become the great American pastime.

Still, as a society, we do get rankled now and then about something one of our celebrities says. Mel Gibson’s chauvinistic and anti-Semitic tirade got him a lot of bad press and lost him thousands of fans as did Michael Richards’ now-infamous “n-word” rant. Grey’s Anatomy star, Isaiah Washington, faced a similar firestorm for calling a gay co-star a “faggot.” (Sorry, gay friends.) Gibson, Richards and Washington all went to rehab because when a celebrity gets caught being stupid, hateful or criminal, the fashionable thing to do in Hollywood is to go into rehab to show remorse. (See also Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan.)  It seems American society does still have a little common sense when it comes to name-calling. Freedom of speech or not, it’s still rude. Just like we learned as kids.

Enter Ann Coulter. As might be expected from a woman who makes her living with hateful language, Ms. Coulter takes issue with people being held accountable for rude speech. So on March 2^nd at the American Conservative Union’s Political Action Conference, she used her prodigious linguistic powers to kill several birds with one stone. In one fell swoop, she managed to be insult liberals, Democrats, homosexuals, John Edwards, Hollywood celebrities, advocates of cultural sensitivity, and anyone with good manners. Pretty slick.

But I have a bit of advice for her and all those who denounce political correctness: Be careful of whose team you’re playing for. Do you really want to speak like a bigot? Like a chauvinist? Like a homophobic gangsta rapper? Like a 10-year-old playground bully? People who defend Ms. Coulter’s right to use the f-word, who support Mr. Richards’ use of the n-word, who bristle at the public reaction to Gibson’s anti-Jewish speech need to beware of the company they are keeping.

Of course, Coulter is not going to change. Like so many people who take freedom of speech to its ridiculous extremes, she’s mean-spirited, greedy, and self-serving. She chose her words very carefully to take on the many groups she hates so much. She does not believe that Edwards is gay. (After all, he has more evidence of his heterosexuality than she has since he is married and a parent, and she is neither.) She wanted to shock people, garner more attention, sell more books. She claims to be smart, and one would assume she must be since she has a law degree and several published books to her credit. With such language skills, one would think she could come up with something more clever than resorting to name-calling that I can hear from any bad-mannered little punk on the street.

Still, I wish we could disarm hate-mongers like Coulter and Limbaugh, Gibson and Richards by ignoring their words. Words do, after all, get their power from those who hear them, not those who speak them. There is nothing intrinsically evil about the sounds “fa,” “g” and “ot.” We use the sounds in lots of decent words like “fashion,” “goblin,” and “hut.” But when we string the sounds together and add a lot of personal baggage and cultural experience, we end up making the resulting word into a potent expression.

When my son was two years old, he started quoting entire speeches from the movie Toy Story. One of his favorite lines was “My ship!” Unfortunately, he had trouble discerning the hard “P” from a hard “T,” so it came out “My shit!” People would gasp and look suspiciously at my husband and me, and we would have to explain it to them. We hesitated to correct our toddler, though. We didn’t want to embarrass him, or, worse, alert him to an inappropriate attention-getter. We just kept repeating it back to him properly, emphasizing the “P” sound at the end. I wish we could do the same with people like Ms. Coulter. Contrary to her behavior, however, she is not two years old.

If we could ignore people like her, if the hearers could pretend words don’t matter, she and the other name-callers would have no ammunition.  But no matter what the little ones say on the playground, words can hurt even more than sticks and stones. Those of us who were lucky enough to have good moms and dads, though, were taught that “If you can’t say anything nice…” I guess Ms. Coulter missed that lesson.

I cannot believe it’s been almost a month since I wrote a blog entry! It’s been quite a month too. The holidays plus a whole lot of illness equals one wiped-out mom. So now the holidays are over, and everyone is healthy for the moment, *knock on wood* so I’ve had a minute or two to think. And I’ve been thinking about storytelling.

For most of my life, I didn’t really have a grandfather. My dad’s dad passed away when I was just eight years old, and my mom’s father was an abusive alcoholic so we didn’t have much of a relationship with him. So when my husband’s grandpa Fred heartily welcomed me into his family, I was pleased. It was a new experience to me, and I liked listening to his stories. He was from a wealthy family in New England, and his stories painted pictures of a more refined, more conscientious way of living. He came from a world where you “dressed for dinner,” where women wore gloves and men wore hats, where etiquette was not a fifth-grade vocabulary word but an everyday behavior.

But my adopted grandfather was not a snob. For the last fifteen years of his life, he lived in West Baden Springs, Indiana, in a converted Amish pole barn that was probably not much bigger than my parents’ garage. He liked his place in the woods and told us of the intrigues at his country church as well as of the antics of the cats and wildlife that inhabited the woods around his home.

In between his wealthy youth and his modest retirement, Fred served in World War II, fathered two children, lost two wives to cancer, lived in homes all across the country, and tried his hand at several different careers. He met some fascinating people along the way, and I got to hear many stories about these folks as well.
Perhaps it’s because I didn’t really have a grandfather of my own. Perhaps it’s because I never lived with Fred or had to put up with his foibles and peccadilloes for very long. Or perhaps it’s because I hadn’t heard them for years and years, but I enjoyed Fred’s stories and often, I felt like the only person in the room who was actually listening. My mother-in-law and her brother would sometimes interrupt him with an impatient, “Yes, Dad, you’ve told us that before.” My husband would zone out or find a way to sneak out of the room. And it’s true that after a couple years, I started hearing the same stories over again, usually prefaced by Fred’s favorite intro: “Now, I have to tell you this…”

Fred passed away a couple days before Thanksgiving, but he was cremated and will be laid to rest in New Hampshire. So instead of the usual funeral, we’re having a memorial service this Saturday. In preparation for it, my husband’s putting together a slide show, and so we’ve been going through pictures. Some of the photographs are very old and damaged; some of them are of people my mother-in-law does not recognize. And I started thinking about all those stories Fred told over and over again.

I’ve seen it in old people before, this tendency to repeat the same stories, but I’ve always written it off as poor memory, senility, or a need for attention. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s God’s version of Knowledge Management. It’s a way for human beings to pass down what they’ve learned to the next generation. After all, before the invention of written language, oral storytelling was a vital tradition. It was our only way of passing information along to others. Sure, we have other means of preserving our collective knowledge nowadays - books, video, audio, the Internet - but maybe we’re hard-wired to tell our stories over and over again as we sense the end of our lives.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad I listened. I’m glad I can tell my son and daughter a little about the life of their great-grandfather. And I hope they’ll listen to their old mom’s stories. “Now, I have to tell you this!”