What Home School is NOT Going to Look Like

I don't exactly know what home-schooling A. Peevie will look like--but I have a pretty good idea of what it will NOT look like.

It will not look like A. Peevie and me sitting at the dining room table, with me as teacher and A. Peevie as student. For one thing, our dining room table is far too cluttered for that to work.

It will not look like A. Peevie doing spelling workbooks and reading history textbooks and writing papers.

It will not look like traditional school--except when we choose a traditional classroom approach to a particular subject. We may, for example, request permission for A. Peevie to attend the freshman biology class at our local high school. Our initial forays into this experiment in part-time public schooling have been so far unsuccessful.

Illinois law stipulates that public schools are compelled

To accept in part-time attendance in the regular education program of the district pupils enrolled in nonpublic schools if there is sufficient space in the public school desired to be attended. Request for attendance in the following school year must be submitted by the nonpublic school principal to the public school before May 1. Request may be made only to those public schools located in the district where the child attending the nonpublic school resides.

So I called the school, and wrote a letter (from me, the principal of Peevie Academy of Fun and Learning, or PAFL) requesting possible part-time enrollment for A. Peevie for the fall. The counselor said she'd never heard of such an arrangement; and she referred me to the assistant principal. The assistant principal had also never received a request for part-time attendance by a home-schooled student; and he said he'd do some research and get back to me. One consideration, he said, is that the school is already at or above its intended capacity.

[It does not make sense to me that the school would be required to accept him for full-time enrollment, but would be permitted to deny him admittance for one class. Does that make sense to you? I believe that either way, the school received funding for every enrolled student, whether that student is enrolled part- or full-time.]

I hope that most of A. Peevie's learning will be autodidactic and driven by his own passions. I can envision him starting a reading group with other kids who want to read classic horror fiction by Poe, Shelley, Stevenson, et al. I think he might be interested in participating in a Model United Nations program. My friend Zaby directed my attention to RadioLab, a public radio show "where sound illuminates ideas, and the boundaries blur between science, philosophy and human experience." Perhaps this might become part of A. Peevie's science curriculum.

As the word gets out about this whole nutty home school thing, some people are skeptical--but a surprising number are supportive beyond the call of friendship. The mom of one of A. Peevie's good friends offered to tutor him in math and chemistry. Zaby put together an annotated list of potential resources and ideas for us to investigate. And X-Mom has already offered her insider intel to help me begin to get my brain around the alien notions of home 
schooling and un-schooling; and she has offered to include A. Peevie in her own home school academy as we see fit, and we hope this will be a symbiotic relationship.

This whole process has raised the intriguing question: What does a kid need to learn in high school? and also: What does an 18-year-old need to make his way in the world? What are the foundational pillars of education?


I'm pretty sure that the traditional academic model does not have a corner on the market for the answers to these questions. It's still unsettling, and a bit scary; but also: I'm convinced that for A. Peevie, at least, we will be able to do at least as well, and probably better, than any high school at preparing him for what comes next.

Rules for Parenting a Teenager, Part I

Boy.  When you take a week or so off from blogging, your blog stats plummet like Obama's approval ratings. So, this is me, getting back into the swing of things. 

My big boy, C. Peevie, has finally reached that age when he does not have to be bribed or coerced into showering.  I thought it would never happen.  Now he not only showers, but he even has shampoo preferences, and appears to be single-handedly keeping the Axe brand profitable.

He was sitting on the floor next to my Chair of Don't-Bother-Me-I'm-Watching-TV, and we were watching a Castle re-run.  I looked over at him, and he was sweet and lovable, and his hair was all clean and shiny and soft, and I had the maternal urge to pet him.

"Can I pet you?" I asked, reaching for his hair.  I was sort of proud of myself for respecting his personal boundaries by asking before touching.  Usually I'm a bit more impulsive.

He looked at me, and tipped his head away from my hand.  "Did that sound less creepy in your head?" he asked.  And then he laughed hysterically at his own hilariousness.

Yes, son, as a matter of fact, it did.  It did not sound creepy in my head AT ALL, thankyouverymuch.  I'm still figuring out how to navigate the turbulent waters of teenagerdom.  C. Peevie just turned 15, and it seems like the rules keep changing.  I can hug him, I can't hug him; I can touch his hair, I can't touch his hair. I can watch TV with him, I can't watch TV with him.  He wants junkie snacks, he wants healthy snacks.

But I can always give him rides, or give his friends rides.  That has not changed.

Update: Grand Social Experiment

The Peevies embarked upon a Grand Social Experiment (GSE) back in January, in which we pledged to Not Buy Stuff for One Year. Here's what I've noticed:

I spend less time arguing and debating with my kids about whether or not I will take them to Game Stop or Target or the Mall or Barnes and Noble or Chico's. In fact, I spend zero time arguing about these things, and that last one--well, that's me not arguing with myself about going there.

When we're in Target--to pick up a birthday gift for a friend, or paper towels, or bath soap--I don't have kids nagging me to buy them clothes, games, accessories, Pokemon cards, baseball cards, and sports equipment. We buy what we came for, and we leave without spending money on things we don't really need.

However, when I'm in Target alone, I still find myself wandering down the candle and candle accessory aisle, coveting a box of tea lights or an ocean-breeze-scented pillar candle. I think about my living room wall, still decorated with the Christmasy holly and berry wreath, and I yearn for a spring-themed wreath to take its place. I love bringing home a cute new top for M. Peevie, or a sports-themed t-shirt for the boys, just because. But a pledge is a pledge.

I have allowed myself the sweet luxury of buying fresh flowers at Trader Joe's to brighten up the house. I rationalize it with the assertion that I'm not really buying "stuff" I don't need, stuff which clutters my house and fills boxes and which will eventually end up in a landfill. They're organic! I'm helping the Earth, not hurting it. And in a week or two, when I throw them out, my house will be no more cluttered than it was before.

The hardest part of our Experiment for Mr. Peevie is not buying spontaneous little gifts for the kids, like books and music; and the rare book or CD for himself.

C. Peevie does not seem to struggle much with the boundaries of the GSE, probably because he's more interested in buying food than stuff, and food is not off-limits. If we did a social experiment that involved not eating fast food, or not eating out--that would prove to be a challenge for him.

When we entered the challenge, he had been saving for an electronic game system, and he resigned himself to not being able to buy it for another whole year. Within a month of starting the experiment, he decided he didn't really want it after all--which is kind of a beautiful thing.

A. Peevie, who was the first young Peevie to get on board with the program, asserts that it's not too difficult for him to not buy stuff--but he has had several short periods of covetous despair over certain DS games.

M. Peevie has focused all of her stuff-buying energy on pursuing the purchase of a big-girl desk for her room. She has been coping with a small plastic toddler desk, but has recently mounted a campaign to graduate to a student-size desk. She asked if the desk was included in the purchasing moratorium, and I told her no, because buying a desk is not a clutter issue or an impulse purchase, but an anticipated step in her growing up and exchanging her toddler-sized accessories for surroundings that suit her school-age size.

A few days later she said to me, "Mom, I'm going on strike."

"Really," I said. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not going to do any more of my chores until I get a bigger desk," she said.

"I think you need to get a job so you can buy yourself a desk," I said, trying to get rid of her while I watched 24.

She poked her head back in my room briefly. "Mom, come see me at the commercial," she said. "I have a job idea." When I checked on her a few minutes later, she told me she was going to get a paper route with her friend Jahaylia. We agreed that if she could earn and save enough money for half of the cost of the desk, that Mr. Peevie and I would crack open our own piggy bank and figure out how to pay for the other half.

She's already there. Time to smash the pig.

So far, the GSE has been effective at putting a stop to mindless consumerism and at reducing-- but not eliminating--our frequent urges to buy things just because we can and not because we need them. I drive past Chico's four times a day, and my head still turns involuntarily to register the colors and styles in the storefront windows. On the other hand, I went to the mall to exchange a Christmas present sweater for a new top to wear to the fancy dinner dance that weekend -- but I walked out empty-handed because nothing caught my eye.

I don't know what it all means. We're only two month into the GSE, and so far, it looks like I'm the one who is having the hardest time with it.

Emotional Maturity

The other day I posted a hilarious (to me) true story about a conversation between C. Peevie and myself. Mr. Peevie mentioned it at dinner, and before long we were all laughing and joking about hair cancer.

"It's not funny!" C. Peevie. Long beat. "People are dying."*

*"People are dying" is what the drunk lady said to C. Peevie and his peeps when they were joking around on the El. It has become a Peevie household catchphrase.

"I can't believe you put that in your blog!" C. Peevie continued. "You are NOT going to heaven."

Later, C. Peevie and I were sitting on the couch. "I'm mad about your blog post," he said.

"Really?" I asked, cluelessly. "Why?"

"Because now everyone is going to think I'm really stupid," he said. "I was kidding when I said 'hair cancer.'"

"Sweetie," I said, "No one who knows you thinks you're dumb. And the other four people who read my blog don't matter."

"Well, I don't like it," he said. "It really made me mad." I looked at him. He was serious. I knew I had blown it.

"Honey," I said carefully, "I'm sorry. I invaded your privacy by writing about our conversation, and I'm sorry. I'll take the whole post down if you want, or I'll put in a disclaimer that says you were kidding about hair cancer. I'm really sorry." I believe that sincere apologies should include the words "I'm sorry" at least three times, plus offer a real fix.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, but didn't say anything. "C. Peevie," I said, "I'll make it right, and I won't do it again. Do you want me to take the post down? Or," I suggested, thinking win-win, "you could leave a comment."

He said he'd think about it, but that I didn't need to delete the post. I promised that I would do better at respecting his privacy from now on, and would only post about him with his permission. This might seriously curtail my blogging material, but it's worth it to remain on speaking terms with my teenager.

Meanwhile, how about the emotional maturity of that boy? Only 14 years old, and yet able to come to me, express his feelings when I have seriously offended him, and work toward reconciliation and mutually acceptable boundaries. I have known since he was very little that he is gifted with an emotional intelligence quotient greater than that of most adults, but this awareness and maturity still have the power to astonish me.

C. Peevie is my hero.

Bosses Don't Have to Suck, Part II

Read Part I here.

It took five jobs, seven bosses, and 18 years--but I finally landed a boss that knew how to lead, motivate, manage, and inspire. I would follow her to the ends of the earth, professionally. If you are a boss, and you are not sure if your direct reports would describe you this way (or you're pretty sure they wouldn't!), here's your chance to pick up some pointers.

In the four-plus years that I worked for DellaRella, I never felt anxious about unreasonable or unclear expectations; I never worried that I would be treated unfairly; I never felt the need to vent about the ridiculous antics or seditious attacks of a demented supervisor. Instead, I always knew and understood the expectations and timelines of my work tasks, and if I ran into trouble, I knew I could go to her and she would help me figure out a solution.

In our first telephone conversation, before we had met in person, DellaRella used some jargony-type language that instantly raised red flags; so I went into the interview wondering if this would be another in a long line of double-speaking Animal Farm-esque manipulators. (Yes, I am very quick on the draw with the Harsh and the Judgy. I'm working on it.) We worked out a contract arrangement, and I started working for her as a part-time independent contractor.

My initial doubts proved unfounded. Instead of finding myself in a position of linguistic and professional superiority, I discovered that rarest of breeds: a boss both knowledgeable and humble, both able to lead and willing to learn, having both personal warmth and professional boundaries. She was confident, but not arrogant. She was smart and experienced, but not a know-it-all.

I pinched myself often.

I did my best work while I was reporting to DellaRella, and here's why. She

1. Had clear and reasonable expectations.
2. Met with me often to check in on work in progress and adjust goals.
3. Carefully and thoroughly planned the entire year, with input from her whole team.
4. Allowed me to make mistakes, and worked with me to fix them.
5. Encouraged me frequently.
6. Gave me the support and resources I needed to get my work done. I didn't have to ask twice.
7. Modeled a healthy work/personal life balance.
8. Was reflective about her own strengths and weaknesses.
9. Never spoke disrespectfully to me.
10. Carried the burden of responsibility for a large office herself, but generously shared the credit for success with the team.

It wasn't just me who tightly bonded with DellaRella. Everyone who worked with her felt the same way--even when DR called them on the carpet.

"I can't be mad at her!" her assistant said to me once. "She's very tough on me--but she's right. I screwed up."

DellaRella has moved on to another life in another state--but if I got a call from her today asking me to work with her, I would not hesitate. And once I signed on to her project, I'd make sure that I exceeded her expectations--because a boss like that inspires you to not disappoint.

So here's my challenge to you bosses out there: Examine your boss-style honestly. Do you inspire DellaRella-esque loyalty among your team members?

It's something to aim for.

Another Weird Neighbor Story

Here's something weird and...well, just weird. I have a weird life. Weird neighbors, weird relatives, weird colleagues. Maybe that's just the human condition.

Anyhoo, here's what happened tonight, just now, at midnight: I'm down in the basement, switching back and forth between Angel DVDs and Saturday Night Live, and suddenly I hear "squeak, squeak, squeak!" It sounds like the faucet on the outside of the house.

I get up and go upstairs to the front door. I open it quietly, step outside, and peek around the corner. Lo and behold! A garden hose snaked its way from my own outdoor faucet to my neighbor's backyard.

Huh.

Seriously. Who hooks up a hose to their neighbor's faucet in the middle of the night, to fill up buckets of water on his back deck?

My neighbor, that's who.

Shortly after I wrote about his backyard jungle, his current girlfriend showed up. She was hacking down the two-story weeds in his yard. By herself. At night.

"Hey, girlfriend," we said, introducing ourselves. "Where's The User?"

"He's home. Sick," she said, chopping down a 40-foot Giant Hogweed with a chainsaw.

"Wow," we thought. "How does he keep finding girlfriends to do his manual labor for him? He does not look like he is all that."

So now the weeds have been manicured, but apparently, he still needs assistance cleaning out the rental property. So he showed up tonight with a couple of friends and helped himself to our water. They filled up buckets of water and carried them indoors in the wee hours like confused vandals.

Not that his taking our water actually costs us anything. In Chicago, we still get semi-annual water bills based upon a nebulous and mysterious figuring that does not relate to the amount of water we actually use.

But still. If you were going to hook up a hose to your neighbor's house, wouldn't you at least ask them for permission first? I'm not so much of an Obamocialist yet that I don't care whether my neighbors are helping themselves on my property without so much as a how-de-do, you know?

Strange.

As I watched from my darkened kitchen my neighbor and his pals fill up buckets with contraband water, I wondered what I should do. Should I confront the nefarious water-stealing neighbor? Because I will totally confront dudes in the middle of the night. When C. Peevie was a tiny, sleeping baby, we lived in a neighborhood where people thought it was appropriate to drive up to a house and honk their horn in the middle of the night. I would get out of bed, throw on my robe, stalk across the street and accost the idiots who did not realize that the simple act of getting out of the car and ringing the doorbell would allow a sleep-deprived new mother to avoid going INSANE.

Mr. Peevie was sound asleep, getting his beauty rest in advance of running the marathon tomorrow. It didn't seem like a true emergency, so I let him sleep. I watched my neighbor for a few more minutes, but I decided in the end that it was just a case of Neighbor Lacking Appropriate Social Boundaries, rather than Neighbor Doing Nefarious and Harmful Bad Stuff; and I let it go.

It's very strange and boundary-crossing, don't you think?

Good Coach, Bad Coach

Last night at C. Peevie's game, the opposing coach got kicked out of the game. After grumbling, arguing, and complaining most of the game, he started arguing plate calls late in the final inning when his team was down by five or six runs. The ump got tired of the abuse, and after warning him to stop, he finally gave an ultimatum.

"One more word, and you're out of here," he warned Coach Obnoxious.

"One more word, one more word, one more word!" Coach O. singsonged like a nine-year-old, heading down the third base line toward the plate.

Ump kept his cool and stood his ground. "One more word and your team forfeits the game," he said. "Keep on walking. We're not re-starting the game until you're in your car." Now that's what I call setting boundaries! Go Ump!

"I thought there was going to be fisticuffs!" C. Peevie told me later, after he had made the game-ending put-out with a back-handed scoop-from-the-dirt at first base.

If I were a parent of a kid on that team, I'd be embarrassed and angry. I'd ask the league director to get rid of the coach; and if he stayed, I'd yank my kid off that team. There is no excuse for such childish, inappropriate and unsportsmanlike conduct from anyone in Little League, let alone a coach.

In other Little League news, A. Peevie's coach continues to impress with his kindness. We coaxed, bullied, persuaded, urged and ultimately forced A. Peevie to attend his team's game on Saturday. This two hour process took about as much physical and emotional pain and energy as actual childbirth.

We finally agreed that he would play one full inning, and then if he wanted to come out and sit on the bench for the rest of the game, he could. The coach started A. Peevie in right field. He was in full uniform, his cup was right-side-up, and he was not screaming, crying or complaining, so I considered it a personal victory. I prayed that the ball would not come anywhere near him.

At his first at-bat, A. Peevie placidly watched four pitches in a row sail over his head. I suspected that he would just have placidly watched four pitches in a row sail directly through the strike zone, but I counted my blessings. Four times that game A. Peevie walked on four pitches, scoring twice. He stayed in the game the whole time, and felt like a champ.

I felt my bones melt in relief that we gotten through one more little league trauma.

This little drama doesn't even take into account how excruciating minor league baseball really is, especially early in the season: tiny ten-year-olds try desperately to get the ball over the plate while parents bake on the bleachers, or, more likely in our lattitude, wrap themselves in blankets until mid-June. Games go on and on while players walk the basepaths and teams score 14 passive runs in a single inning.

Occasionally there's a pitch in the vicinity of the strike zone, and a lucky batter makes a connection. Inevitably the ball squirts through the legs of an infielder, and comes to rest in shallow right field. The right fielder jogs over, picks it up from where it's resting on a clump of grass, and attempts to throw it to first base without regard for where the runner actually is.

More often than not, the ball squigs past the first baseman, rolling clear over to the fence, and the runner keeps running. Minor leaguers throw the ball behind the runner, so most hits end up becoming home-runs, which is the only other way a team scores other than by walks.

Only eight more regular season games to go.

Meanwhile, we've had a reprieve from having three kids playing ball at the same time because of M. Peevie's season-stalling broken wrist. Cast comes off Thursday, then removable velcro cast for a week, then she's back in the swing as well.

Good News, Bad News

Good news! I'm working on five different projects this week.

Well, actually, two of them are somewhat inactive, but technically still in progress. The other three are all on tight deadlines.

I am so very grateful to be working. Me--the Player! Grateful to be working. Must be a sign of the apocalypse.

Bad news! I had this tender red lump on my neck which I thought was probably a baby alien, a la Sigourney Weaver. The surgeon took one look at it and disagreed with my diagnosis (so ridiculously arrogant, these surgeons).

"It's an infected cebaceous cyst," he said confidently. "It needs to come out now."

[I want you to know that on purpose I did not make the words "infected cebaceous cyst" a hot link because the pictures are kind of gross. I'm not a little proud of myself for having that kind of self-control and respect for my readers TMI boundaries. Feel free to look it up on your own if you want...Bucky.]

Um, now? I have my busiest work week in eight months, and you're telling me I must have surgery?

"Yes, now," he reiterated. "I'll squeeze you into my schedule tomorrow, first thing in the morning. You don't want to mess around with that thing."

"That thing"? Here I was fondly thinking up names for it, and imagining it's four tiny arms and six tiny eyes--and he rudely calls it a "thing." Surgeons--they're so artless and businesslike.

Good news! I had the surgery yesterday (well, it's late, so technically it was the day before yesterday) and was back in the Green Room saddle by 10:30 a.m. The surgery took 15 minutes, I was told--all I remember is the anesthesiologist, Dr. Mayer, telling me he'd be giving me something to help me relax, and then I felt all happy, and I said, "Aaahhhh, I like that." Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the recovery room, wanting to propose to Dr. Mayer.

I did end up crashing for a three-hour nap shortly thereafter because the general anesthesia and the extremely short night of sleep the night before wiped every last ounce of energy and alertness right out of me--but now I'm back to my perky and cheerful self.

Wait. Perky and cheerful? They must have performed a personality transplant while they were at it.

OK, this is meandering and completely unprofessional, as blog posts go. Chalk it up to the pain meds. Lovely, lovely pain meds.

I'll be back tomorrow to talk about National Poetry Month. You can get prepared by pulling a copy of The Collected Works of Emily Dickinson off your bookshelf and reading a couple of poems to yourself. Out loud, of course.

Creepy, or Just Me?

A boyfriend from eons ago--let's call him David McCall--contacted me through LinkedIn. He used his American name and had shortened his long Middle Eastern last name to a less ethnic-sounding name. He was ostensibly looking for an editor for an engineering report and his resume. I wondered who the guy was, and why was he asking for rates from a writer in Chicago when writers in LA are a dime a dozen.

Then I put two and two together: the first name, the still-recognizable last name, the engineering specialty, the LA location, and most importantly, the LinkedIn connection through the university we both attended--and I figured out who he was. But why the sneakiness? Why contact me as a potential client instead of coming right out and saying, hey, it's me, how the heck are you?

It felt sneaky and manipulative to me, so I did not respond.

The next day, I had another email from David McCall--this time using his full name instead of the Americanized version. This time he was straight up, re-introducing himself, asking about my parents and siblings, and hoping to get re-connected. He also mentioned the engineering report--but I still think it's a smokescreen, a way for him to say how he found me without saying he was looking specifically for me.

I don't know--maybe I'm a little too optimistic about my own attractiveness. But hey, who wouldn't want to hook up with me? I might be a middle-aged, overweight, mildly depressed, unemployed, happily married mother of three above-average-but-incredibly-loud children, but I do have great hair and a killer sense of humor.

But since he was honest, and since I was impressed that he remembered my parents names and the names of all my siblings 20 years later, I responded to his email with an email of my own. I was friendly, but not too friendly, and included details about my perfect family and my deliriously happy marriage, so that there would be no misunderstanding about my intentions.

(Listen to me. I really do have an inflated sense of self-worth, don't I? Like if I'm not careful, every man on the planet who once vaguely knew me would be knocking on my door if I wasn't clear enough about my lack of availability. I crack my own self up.)

When David M. wrote back, I was immensely relieved to find out that he was married, with two very young children. I thought, finally, he's reached a happy, healthy place. (Early on in my marriage, this guy would call me once every four or five years, and tell me yukky stories about his pathetic lonely life and tell me I was still his best friend; and I could not wait to get off the phone. I was happy when he finally stopped calling after about ten years.)

Anyway, I started regretting accepting his friend invitation on LinkedIn when he called me on my cell phone one afternoon shortly thereafter. On my cell phone--after no contact for almost 20 years! My own parents don't call me on my cell phone! Where the hell did he get the number? I wondered-- and then I realized: it's on my email signature line. I gave it to him myself.

And here's the weird part: I picked up the call because the number had a 773 area code--the area code of my part of Chicago. I thought it was going to be a neighbor or a friend, and when I heard this voice from my past, I was flustered, creeped out, and probably rude. I told him I couldn't talk and to call back later. My stomach was still churning hours later--but that might just have been the tuna I had for lunch.

How and why was he calling from a 773 area code? Does he have some kind of magical re-routing software to hide the origins of his calls? It's very 24--and again, this felt slightly manipulative to me.

Later I found that he had emailed me again, requesting my parents' phone number because, he said, "I miss them." My parents. He misses them. Oh, and he asked again for a quote on revising his resume. Doing his resume will require talking to him on the phone for about an hour, and frankly, I don't really want that kind of contact with an old boyfriend who got a little too clingy after our relationship was over. I didn't respond.

About a week later, I got another email from him alleging that that he had heard about the shooting at a church in Illinois and was worried about my family's safety. Again, a little disingenuous. David McCall knows I live in Chicago, and the shooting was nowhere near Chicago. He asked again for my parents phone number.

I wrote back, curtly told him yes, we were fine, and said that I'd need to check with my parents first before giving out their phone number. I never did get back to him with the phone number, or with a quote on his resume. I should have emailed him and just told him it made me uncomfortable--but I didn't.

This week, a month later, I got another kind of weird and freaky email from him, written all in the third person about a man who happened to be surfing the internet looking for a technical writer when he happened upon the profile of a writer who turned out to be his old friend. He even mentioned the earlier calls from 15 - 20 years ago, and specified that he had no ulterior motive, "particularly after knowing that his friend is also happily married."

Doesn't that clause imply that if his friend were not happily married, that there might have been an ulterior motive? I wonder what his wife thinks about that.

His email continued,

"The man kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting for a response from the writer, but for some odd reason, the writer never, ever bothered to get back to the old friend...Was it right for the friend just to put off the man and deny his friendship? Probably not. The good book says the following..."

--and then quotes three Bible verses, including this one from Job: "My relatives and my close friends have failed me." He asked me--in the third person still--to delete everything he sent me.

He visited my blog at least four times the first week that he contacted me--but I don't know if he still comes by The Green Room. He might be reading this right now and thinking, hey, what a bitch! Or perhaps it will give him a clue about normal social boundaries. Part of me is thinking, how does he have time for all this, with two very young kids and a wife and a big-ass engineering job? I can barely get a blog post written once a week even though I have no clients and my kids are in school all day!

The more I think about it, the more irritated I am that this person has any expectations of me at all, let alone has the nerve to send me an angry, manipulative email quoting the Bible at me! It's exactly this kind of response that confirms for me that my instincts were correct.

I'm probably I'm not being very Jesusy here, but at this point, I don't even know what Jesus wants me to do about this.

Is it creepy, or is it just me?

100 Foods Every Omnivore Should Try

Andrew over on the blog Very Good Taste has posted a list of 100 (somewhat arbitrary) foods every omnivore should try. Being a person who has only rarely met a food she doesn't like (primarily uber-spicy ones), I thought it might be a fun exercise.

Join me: if you have a blog, post the list and indicate your tried, untried, and would-never-trys. Leave me a comment with a link to your post. If you don't have a blog, you can still play. Leave your list in the comments--or a partial list if you want: Just the foods you've tried; or the ones you'd never, ever-in-a-million-years allow to pass your lips.

On my list below, regular type means I haven't tried it (yet) and bold type means I have, and strike-through means I won't ever try it. I've only tried 40 items on the list--I guess I'm not as culinarily cosmopolitan as I'd like to think.

Here's my list:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Only four items are strike-throughs: raw Scotch Bonnet pepper, phaal (which is Indian curry made with the hottest peppers like Scotch Bonnets), roadkill (why is this even on the list? Ew.) and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. I hate coffee: I hate the taste and the after-taste. I even hate the smell, and I definitely hate coffee-breath. I cannot stand coffee-flavored ice-cream or jelly-beans, or even tiramisu.

There is one teensy exception to the I-hate-coffee rule. I do like Kahlua, and Kahlua-flavored drinks. Weird!

To Andrew's list I'd add my own Philadelphia-inspired Must-Taste Foods:

101. Birch beer
102. TastyKake Butterscotch Krimpets
103. Philadelphia street-dirt soft pretzel
104. Bookbinder's turtle soup
105. Authentic Philadelphia-style cheesesteak (not the kind that you can get at Subway)

One point I'd like to make to my readers who are not terribly adventurous in your willingness to taste new foods: Food writer Jeffrey Steingarten argues that we are born with no genetically programmed food aversions; rather, we learn them. "By shutting ourselves off from the bounties of nature," he says, "we become failed omnivores. We let the omnivore team down."

Steingarten goes further, arguing that it is possible to eliminate all of our food phobias through frequent exposure. So theoretically, we could even learn to enjoy roadkill if we ate it often enough. (This is why roadkill does not belong on the 100 Foods list. You might as well include tree branches downed in a high wind. Roadkill is not a food; it is an accident, or a life lesson.)

I don't know if JS is correct or not; I don't even know if it is advisable to train our tastes to accept all foods. But it does seem senseless to avoid foods because of random taste experiences or arbitrary cultural boundaries. So take a chance on Food! Try something new today.

And let me know how it goes. I'll be over here eating my peanut-butter-and-bacon-on-toast.

Dr. Peevie on Healthy Boundaries

Everywhere I go, I see/hear/read about people having trouble with boundaries. It seems that for many people personal boundaries end up trampled in the dirt under the feet of other people's expectations. A lot of times setting a personal boundary means saying "no." And almost always, not setting appropriate personal boundaries brings unnecessary feelings of responsibility, stress, and guilt.

Feelings of responsibility, stress, and guilt are important in all relationships; and when they come from appropriate situations, they help us remember to treat people with kindness and respect--just the way we want to be treated.

But when those feelings arise from inappropriate situations, or a lack of appropriate and healthy boundaries, they are not helpful. They hurt our relationships, and they hurt our own emotional and mental health.

Before I go any further in our boundaries workshop, let me first acknowledge that I am just as emotionally unhealthy as the next person, and frequently moreso. I'm often depressed, moody, and hot-tempered. I am sometimes a martyr, and sometimes I'm just plain selfish and lazy. There's a whole bunch more, but I'm starting to feel bad about myself now, so I'll leave it at that. You get my point.

But boundaries, for some reason, I get. Maybe it's because my best friend is a therapist.

I was reading a blog written by a mom who was uncomfortable telling her child not to do something that other nearby parents were letting their kids do--because she didn't want the other parents to think she was judging them.

Call me rude or insensitive, but I would have no problem at all saying, "M. Peevie, do not climb that tree,' even if the other parents within earshot were letting their kids climb it. So the other parent thinks I'm too strict? Don't care. So the other parent thinks I'm judging her? Unfortunate, but not my problem. (I might actually be judging her, but not out loud.)


I am especially particular about boundaries in the parenting arena. I do not want other people parenting my children unless I or Mr. Peevie have turned over direct or implied responsibility. For example, if we're at your house, and you see my toddler approaching your irreplaceable collection of Lladro sculptures, I totally understand that you might want to step in front of her and redirect her. (Of course, an even better option might be to ask me to redirect her--but sometimes a situation calls for urgent action!)

But if I'm at the grocery store with my hand on the back of my child who is standing up in the cart, I do not appreciate the pimply grocery clerk telling my child to sit down because he might get hurt. I will be responsible for protecting him, thank you very much, person-who-is-making-minimum-wage-and-is-not-even-close-to-getting-laid-let-alone-becoming-a-parent. If you absolutely must insist that the child be seated in the cart, then please direct your instructions to me, but NOT to my child.

Here's another example: My friend Josephine helped her SIL plan and execute her wedding, and she was telling us about all the stress she had felt during the process. A lot of the stress was caused by the bride not being willing or able to make decisions, and as the wedding approached, major items on the plan-your-perfect-wedding checklist remained unchecked. Like the music at the reception, for example. And the flowers.

I felt bad for my friend because she had experienced such a stressful time. But at the same time, I did not really understand why she felt so much stress about a wedding that was not her own. Her SIL was making choices (or NOT making choices) that would have an impact on her own wedding, and the outcome was not only out of Josephine's control, but also not her responsibility. I understood that she wanted to help her SIL--but I could not understand desiring to help someone so much that their own negligence would cause me to feel stress.

So I said this to Josephine, and asked her why she felt so much stress. She said, "Because I care about my SIL, and I wanted her to have a really great wedding." OK--I get that. But again, isn't it possible to care for someone and want the best for them, but also to step back and let them bear the responsibility for their own choices?

In other words, under those circumstances, aren't you making a choice to feel stress about something that is out of your control? And why would you make that choice? Why would you choose to add unnecessary stress to your life?

One place where I'm not as good at setting boundaries as I'd like to be is with my parents. For some reason, I often let them suck me into arguments about theology or politics, and those discussions sometimes leave me feeling beat up. A person should be able to express opinions without being emotionally filleted--but in my family, if you step outside of certain lines, you better be wearing body armor.

I know I'm simplifying things a bit too much. But let's have a conversation about boundaries. Are you good at setting them? Have you set boundaries that people don't seem to get, or constantly try to erode? Do you worry too much about other people's feelings, at the expense of your own mental health?