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It’s All My Fault

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been thinking a lot about responsibility over the past couple of days. For as long as I can remember, I have felt “responsible” for other people’s feelings — their happiness, anger, sadness, hunger, well-being, etc., etc. Some of it, I believe, comes from being an older sibling. I was seven when my brother Jack was born, and from the moment I saw his pursed lips and downy hair, inhaled the baby scent from the top of his head, I wanted to protect him. It was both understood and stated, with my father’s tireless refrain: “Watch your brother. Watch your brother. Watch your brother.” I adored Jack, and enjoyed feeding him, changing his diapers, and cuddling with him on the couch.

The responsibility thing really hit home during Christmas 1977. I brought home an ornament I’d made at school: green construction paper, red yarn, and silver glitter. Although I don’t remember, I must have left it on the dining room table where my stepmother was displaying all of her Princess House crystal. I was at school when Jack pulled on the table cloth and hundreds of dollars of crystal crashed to the floor. When I arrived home that evening, my stepmother screamed and screamed. Since Jack was only a toddler, and was trying to get my ornament, the broken crystal was all my fault.

Years later, when I started dating, I took responsibility for the feelings of my boyfriends, and anyone else who came along. If X had a bad day, it was up to me to cook him a nice meal and let him relax so he cheered up. If X wanted to go to dinner, I chose the restaurant, and if he disliked the meal it was because I had made a bad choice. If X’s family didn’t like me, it was because I was too sensitive and analytical, so I tried really hard to be amazing and wonderful.

Most recently, I’ve been reflecting on how I felt responsible for my father’s happiness. His wife was an incurable cheater, and I never told him, until 1988, when he received an anonymous letter saying “Your wife is sleeping with my brother. He’s married and has five kids.” My father confronted my stepmother, and of course, she said it wasn’t true. So, he hid a tape recorder in his bedroom. Confronted with the evidence, she said, “How dare you spy on me.”

My stepmother was a special kind of crazy, both unpredictable and prone to violent outbursts, the kind of crazy I couldn’t manage as a 20 year old. But, I figured since my father had confided in me, and was planning to divorce her, I should take him out for a drink and spill my guts. We went to the No. 5 in Binghamton, New York, and drank late into the evening. I told him everything I knew about her cheating, starting from when I was four until the present day. My father showed no emotion. The following day, he filed divorce papers and sent them to his mother in law’s house where his wife was staying.

A couple of weeks later, my father invited me to dinner at his house with Jack. On the drive over, he said, “I’m gonna take her back.” I started bawling. All those stories! All of her lies! “How could you?” I asked. My father said when he brought over the papers, she fell to the floor and started kissing his feet. She promised over and over to stay faithful. “I don’t approve,” I said. “But you’re a grown man.” He smiled, and answered, “You’re absolutely right. You’re so protective. Just like grandpa.” Damn straight.

There have a been a couple more times in my adult life where I have had the opportunity to let a person I care about know they were being cheated on. Both times, after telling, it blew up in my face. So, if you’re keeping track, that’s three strikes. I’m out.

It really sucks to see someone you love getting hurt by someone else simply because they are a good liar. However, if you out a cheater, that falls right in line with shooting the messenger. You’re going to get hurt unless the person you tell has an enormous amount of self awareness, and believes you, not the cheater. At the same time, if you’re like me and have a visceral reaction to seeing your loved ones getting screwed over, perhaps you can explore those feelings in a blog post.

P.S. My father and his wife renewed their wedding vows in 1988, moved to Florida the following year, and bought a business. Ten years later, he filed for divorce and they went through an acrimonious process. My father moved back to Binghamton.

Happy Veterans Day from Nancy Navy

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

Yes, I served in the U.S. Navy from 1989 to 1993. It was one of the best decisions I ever made. The chance to go to college and leave my town of little opportunity was too great to pass up. I went to boot camp in Orlando, Florida, Apprenticeship School in San Diego, California, and worked as a data processor at a weather center in Monterey,  California for four years. I also attended Monterey Peninsula College, tutored elementary school children in reading, and participated in fund raisers.

After the navy, I moved to the Pacific Northwest. I attended Walla Walla Community College in Clarkston, Washington, and Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, Idaho. The G.I. Bill helped fund my bachelor’s degree. After earning my B.A. in English and Creative Writing, I went on to earn an M.A. in English from Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington, and an M.F.A. in creative writing from University of Idaho in Moscow, Idaho.

I have lived in Moscow, Idaho for 14 years. My career post navy has consisted of food service, bank teller, writing tutor, and then writing (technical, creative, speeches), editing, and teaching writing and other courses. My current position as Senior Development Writer/Editor for the Washington State University Foundation is my dream job. I know the navy made all of this possible.

I feel incredibly grateful for making the decision to join the navy. Thank you to everyone who served in the military, especially overseas and during wartime. We are blessed.

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One of the Worst Jobs I Ever Had

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

One of the worst jobs I ever had was right after I graduated with my MFA in creative nonfiction. I’d applied as a Chiropractic Assistant (CA) at an office in Moscow, Idaho. The ad promised I’d be writing marketing material, transcribing Dr. X’s notes and working with clients. When I got an interview, I was stoked.

Red flags hit me in the face right after I walked in. All of us interviewees, ranging in age from 17 to 60 plus, were there at the same time: 3:30 p.m. Dr. X and her staff of five CAs introduced themselves. Dr. X, a pale woman in her 60s, had earned a master’s in literature but never found a professorship, so she went into chiropractic medicine. During the interview, Dr. X gave a presentation on light-touch therapy. She mumbled as though she had olives in her mouth.

The second hour of the interview involved writing and editing tests. The other participants were in the room, too, so the process was intimidating and strange. After our assessments, we each met alone with the five staff members. I answered a long list of questions about what kind of team player I would be. No one had told us the interview would last four hours, and I was starving. Needless to say, when I got the call that I was hired, I was stunned.

The 17-year old and the woman in her 20s were hired too. I felt bad for the older women, who I learned later never had a chance. Dr. X did not hire “heavy”, “ugly,” or “old” people. When I discovered I would be making $8.00 an hour with zero benefits, no lunch and a promise of no more than 20 hours per week, I cried. Ten years of education and I was making less than I did as a writing tutor. But my husband was a full-time student and we had two daughters to feed.

My job consisted of watching Dr. X perform light-tough therapy on clients, taking notes, and answering client questions because Dr. X ignored them. She made her money through ridiculously expensive vitamins and new client appointments, which included x-rays. Many clients did not come back, and some of the ones who did asked, “Why am I still in pain?”

I should say that I do believe in chiropractic medicine. As staff members, we received daily adjustments for free, which was a fabulous perk. And it wasn’t all bad: I got to fly to Chicago for a marketing conference, where I found out many business people, who were not chiropractors, owned chiropractic clinics and were getting rich. OK. That wasn’t good.

Dr. X fired the 17-year old because, “He wasn’t fast enough.” She shot me dirty looks every time I talked about something other than work. She also said I was too loud. I do have a deep voice that carries, and I like to laugh. That coupled with some of the stranger techniques I could not get behind, like putting colored sun glasses on clients and using tuning forks over their troubled areas, took their toll. And after several weeks of writing zero marketing materials and getting scowls from Dr. X, I became disenchanted. I still participated in our mandatory prayer circles every morning.

One evening, during a staff meeting (Dr. X did not attend), one of my coworkers said, “Does anyone else notice that Dr. X treats Cindy like crap?” Everyone nodded. And then George, a budding chiropractor who’d worked for Dr. X thirteen years said, “Oh yeah. She always finds a dog to kick around.” The next morning, I called Dr. X and said, “I quit.”

I had never left a job without notice, not even some of the arduous ones from my past, like McDonald’s, U.S. Bank, Subway, and Shari’s Restaurant. Dr. X insisted I come in and work that day, so I did–no sense in stiffing the staff members, whom I really liked. Dr. X ignored me the entire day. And at 5:30 p.m., the staff and I said our good-byes.

Within a week, I landed a job as an administrative assistant to the catering director at a hotel. I made $10.00 an hour with benefits and free lunches. It wasn’t a dream job, but it got me by and paid the bills. My boss there was a delight.