novel « Robin Writes

My husband has been out the farm for a week now, working his tail off. I arrived last Monday in time for the appliance and tile delivery.

Too much tile. Way too much tile.

See, they were supposed to deliver all this stuff on November 16, then rescheduled to November 30, because they were still waiting on the tile. The problem was that they were waiting on the tile we’d canceled because the guy had written up and charged us for the WRONG tile. We were refunded the wrong stuff and ordered the right stuff within minutes of the first order. Minutes.

Well, anyway, they took back the wrong stuff. Of course, I’m wondering what else got messed up . . .

Oh, yeah. The cabinets. They arrived Tuesday, and I have to say, I was impressed with the delivery—both of them, actually. The first guys were hilarious—coming out from STL, it was probably the first time they’d been out in the boonies. The second guys—and one gal, come to think of it—arrived three hours ahead of schedule.

So here’s what the living room looked like that day:

Tile, appliances, etc. were still in the barn and thank goodness—here’s what the “bedroom” looked like:

Between Monday and Tuesday, I learned how to put down cement board. Gee, that’s fun. The drill took off a strip of skin on my thumb—from using it, not from the bit itself—and I have a couple blisters. Yay.

And then we opened up the cabinets. Took me three trips in the truck to the burn pile. It looks like Mount Cardboard up there. Sadly, no pics!

So the base cabinets got set. Remember now, we ordered this stuff the end of October, so I’d pretty much forgotten all the cool stuff—a bread box, a knife drawer, pull-out spice racks and pan holders, and a mixer shelf that lifts up. And the wine racks, of course.

Then it was time for the wall cabinets. Oops.

Between me and my math skills—okay, not “skills” but whatever—and the new guy who helped me design the kitchen, the wall cabinets were a little, um, off. Just a little. So. We ended up running into town to order two more and to return two. That was fun.

More fun, however, was calling the next day after I realized the fifteen-inch cabinet we had opened to the right, not the left. It really does make a difference if the damn thing is sitting on the floor upside down . . .

I had to head back to STL on Thursday, but our friend Ed came down to help. He arrived just as the counter guy was finishing the template for the granite, and he and my husband installed the microwave and the ovens—and I can’t wait to see them in person!

But here they are; you’re getting to see all that *I* got to see:

They’re cement-boarding and tiling the rest of the weekend, while I, sadly, am stuck at my desk. And decorating for Christmas. And paying bills.

So. Not. Fair.

No, not football. Not quite. I’m talking about the recent dust-up at Mizzou.

I lived in CoMo for about 15 years. I’m even a Mizzou alum, sorta kinda. Okay, just one semester, and it really stunk, GPA-wise, but still.

I’ve also been called a lot of names over the years. But I guess that’s okay, because I’m white, right? And I have this “white privilege.”

I’ve certainly been “privileged” in my lifetime, and it may have been because of the color of my skin, but it’s not like God said, “Hey, what color do you wanna be when you’re born? Have any preference?”

Besides, if people are complaining because they’re being “offended” by comments due to their skin color, but then turn around and accuse me of “privilege” because of my skin color, isn’t that a little, well, unfair?

I get the slavery thing: black folks sold other black folks to white folks, who worked them to death and held them against their will and usually treated them like crap.

And then came Reconstruction and the black folks were still treated like crap, even when free, and in many cases it’s still happening.

I get that. I really do, even if I, personally, haven’t experienced it.

But.

There’s always a but.

If a black person is treating ME like crap, because I’m white, that’s not okay either. Even if—and they didn’t—my ancestors had “owned” this person’s ancestors.

Because I am not responsible for what anyone did 150 years ago. I wasn’t there.

Neither were you.

So, back to Mizzou:

Some people insulted some other people. This happens all the time. Everywhere. In this case, the insulters were white and the insultees were black. This, too, happens all the time. No difference. None.

I’ve been insulted, and I’m sure you have too.

Do you call on everyone to give in to your so-called demands? Do you call for the resignation of anyone?

Of course not. You fume and stew and maybe even toss an insult right back. You might blog about it.

That’s it. The End. Move on and take care of your own life.

And what’s up with this “safe space” garbage?

On a college campus, or anywhere, you should be safe from physical harm. You cannot legislate or demand that other people stop thinking or saying things you don’t like.

That’s your safe space. The rest, it’s what you make of it. How you react. Wait, what’s that? How YOU react. No one can “make” you think or feel something; not bad, not good, not anything. Your feelings are YOUR choices to make.

Someone once told me that there are four basic feelings: sad, mad, glad, and afraid. If you’re insulted, you’d probably feel mad; even sad. Glad, of course, is off the table. Maybe you’d feel afraid.

Let’s talk about that for a moment.

Why were you afraid? Did the insulter have a means at his disposal, right then, to physically harm you? Probably not. That’s why he was insulting you. If he’d had a weapon and actually threatened you, you could and should call law enforcement.

But words? Meh. Get a grip. People will keep calling you names your whole life. You won’t like most of them. But it’s not legally actionable. Or even protest-actionable, IMHO.

All it says that you’re a big wuss and too tender to be allowed to be an adult. You need a padded room with zero input or stimulation. Do you really want to live like that?

Oh, you want change? Don’t we all. But change isn’t affected by stomping around and screaming about how unfair things are. Change comes from, trite as it is, one act of kindness at a time, one person at a time.

Change happens with conversation and getting to know people—think about it: you’re probably much more forgiving towards your friends, people you know, than you are to a stranger, right? One of your friends can piss you off, and usually, eventually, you get over it. If you don’t, you have bigger problems than I thought possible.