Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

This is going to wipe out any chance that any book of mine will ever be made into a television movie (or as it is more commonly described, “a major television movie event!”), but here goes. Television is too dangerous a medium to take for granted.

For one thing, it’s the hands-down champion of time-killers. Have you ever heard someone complain about the fact that they don’t have time to exercise, read, take piano lessons, or whatever else it may be? Try asking them what television shows they watch. I bet you a copy of TV Guide that they are regular viewers of several shows. Television has become such an ingrained part of our lives that the idea of leaving it off most of the time is a foreign concept.

Back in the days when television was still new, comedian Fred Allen said, “Television is a medium because anything well done is rare.” (It seems only fair to point out that Mr. Allen’s successful comedy career was almost entirely on radio.)

His clever comment, of course, isn’t entirely true. Television is a powerful medium. It can show us the intense reality of a dramatic news event, recreate history, move us, entertain us, and educate us. Not to mention its ability, this time of year, to bring us nausea-inducing repetitions of political ad after political ad.

One problem with television is that, once you begin watching a program, it sucks you in. This is the case whether it’s a high-quality drama, a vivid historical reenactment, a sitcom that makes an art form of inanity, or a documentary on the 87 kinds of spiders found in a tiny section of the Amazon rain forest. You start watching, you zombie out on the couch, and the next thing you know two hours have passed and you’ve forgotten all about your intentions to take an after-dinner walk and then call your sister.

This is why I shuddered earlier this year at the announcement of a new television channel targeted at babies. The six-month to three-year demographic apparently was underrepresented in the market. The channel is commercial-free, presumably in deference to the fact that these kids don’t yet have their own spending money.

Its creators are quick to defend their concept with words like "educational" and "appropriate content" and "interactive." Hogwash. The kind of "interaction" babies and toddlers need involves playing with real objects and real live people, discovering that they can chew on their toes, and tasting the dusty leftover Cheerios that they find under the couch.

When our local paper ran an article recently about this channel for tots, it quoted one mother as saying she had been skeptical until she saw how her one-year-old was "mesmerized" by the programs. Apparently, she thought putting the kid into an electronic trance was a good thing.

This is just what we need—an invasion of baby zombies. Move over, make room on the couch, and pass the pacifier. Hang onto the popcorn, though. After all, everybody knows it’s bad for babies.

Warning to the squeamish, specifically certain members of my family (you know who you are): The following story contains references to bodily fluids. If, while reading, you begin to feel dizzy or the room suddenly seems very warm, push your chair away from the computer, bend forward and put your head between your knees, and breathe.

I am not a fan of Halloween, especially since the kids all grew up and I no longer have the opportunity to cadge chocolate from their trick-or-treat bags. Still, it seems appropriate to acknowledge this gore-ridden holiday in some fashion. So let’s talk about blood.

My family has a tradition of responsible community involvement. We vote, we volunteer, we write letters to the editor, we help out our neighbors. One thing most of us don’t do is give blood. This is due to another long-standing family tradition—fainting.

It seems only fair to my father, a long-time blood donor, to point out that this tradition has come down to the female members of the family from our mother. My father learned about this family trait not long after their marriage. He was doing some leatherwork, gashed his hand, and quite naturally went to his bride for help. She took one look at the blood and passed out on the floor. He had to revive her and get her into bed, presumably being careful not to drip blood on the bedspread. Then he got to go bandage his own hand.

My sisters and I have inherited this tendency. There’s just something about the sight of blood that makes the room get warm and everything get fuzzy. We aren’t wimps. We aren’t uncaring. We aren’t nurses, either. It’s a good thing that none of us were accident-prone as children. It’s an even better thing that none of our children were. Maybe that’s an inherited tendency, too—an adaptation meant to help survive childhood in the absence of maternal wound-tending.

In spite of all this, years ago I decided to be a good citizen by donating blood. The first time, they managed to get half a pint, one slow drop at a time, before giving up on me. The second time, having made the mistake of going to the donation center right before lunch, I fainted. My husband told me later, "Wow—I never saw anyone actually turn green before." I was told gently but firmly that my services as a blood donor were no longer required.

This year, I decided it was time to try again, in a different town where the blood bank had no idea of my history. The first time, I was nervous, so my partner went with me to provide moral support and to be there to drive me home just in case. All went well. Which had its downside; now I felt obligated to donate again.

The second time, with misplaced confidence in my own fortitude, I went by myself. The donation process was fine. I felt fine. Everything was fine. Then they sent me off to sit in the waiting area for the required 15 minutes. I started feeling dizzy, got very warm, and woke up on the cold floor with several concerned faces floating above me. After a few minutes two staff members helped me across the room to a recliner. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is as a mature adult to have someone hold you up by the belt loop in the back of your jeans? I had to sit with my feet up until my blood pressure came back up to a reasonable level, and I had to call someone to come take me home.

Before I left, I was told that my services were no longer required. "It’s just not worth the trouble," the supervisor told me. Whether she meant not worth it for them or for me, I’m not sure. Though it probably isn’t the greatest advertising for the blood center to have passed-out donors lying around in the reception area.

Donating blood is a great thing to do. I highly recommend it—for other people. As for me, I think I’ll carry out my civic responsibilities by writing letters to the editor.

A group of us meet for breakfast nearly every Saturday after an early-morning meeting. There aren’t a lot of choices in that part of town when it comes to breakfast restaurants. We’ve chosen to meet at a place that is convenient, with food that’s okay and service that’s mediocre on a good day. We’ve been meeting there for a couple of years now. We’ve been complaining about it for almost as long.

The problem is the regular waitress. She’s disorganized and inefficient. After all this time, she has to be reminded that we want tea instead of coffee. Between the time she takes our orders and brings them to the table, she’s forgotten who ordered what—even though most of us order the same thing every week. Let’s face it, this woman is one cup of coffee short of a full pot.

Her concept of customer service is somewhat vague, as well. Such as the morning when, without asking, she brought green tea instead of black. A couple of us asked for our usual black tea. She brought new teabags—but then charged us each for two orders of tea. Last week she capped a morning of especially bad service by getting my order (the same order I place every week) completely wrong. Then she insisted it was my mistake. Instead of apologizing, she argued with me. She pulled out her pad. "But that’s what I wrote down. Number seven with sausage. It’s right here."

It didn’t seem to occur to her that having written it down didn’t automatically mean I had said it. I knew what I had ordered, and it wasn’t sausage. That word had not passed my lips. A different s-word nearly did, but fortunately I managed to stop it in time.

Why, you may be wondering by now, haven’t we complained to the management? That’s part of the problem. She is the management. She seems unhappy in her work, unwilling to be there, and unsuited for it—and she’s running the place.

Last week may have been the last straw. We started talking seriously about other places we could go for breakfast. Even high-fat fast food would be better than continuing to put up with this.

We talked about how this woman just didn’t seem to get it, about the glaring and recurring mistakes she made, about how angry she always seemed. Then someone said maybe she was dyslexic or something. Maybe she had learning disabilities, or problems with short-term memory. Maybe her home life was awful. Maybe this job was the only work she knew how to do, even though she wasn’t good at it.

By the time we got that far, I was beginning to feel sorry for the woman. This made her even more exasperating. I didn’t want to have any compassion for her situation. I didn’t want to think of her with sympathy or kindness. I wanted to hang onto my justifiable indignation. I wanted to march out of there in self-righteous search of a kinder, gentler restaurant with a waitress who could remember the difference between coffee and tea.

But once my anger became tainted by compassion, I couldn’t hang onto it any more, no matter how much I wanted to. It was so annoying to have my satisfying fit of righteous indignation wiped out by some empathy that sneaked in when I wasn’t looking.

Okay, then. Since my perfectly good snit was in ruins, the next step was to decide what to do. Ignore her poor service and her irritability? Keep showing up at this restaurant? Overlook her incompetence because I felt sorry for her? Would those be the way to put my reluctant compassion into action?

Not really. Continuing to put up with her bad service certainly wouldn’t foster any additional compassion on my part or any additional skill on hers. Nor is it really a kindness to help someone stay in a job she so clearly dislikes.

My solution? I can go ahead and feel compassionate, kind, and understanding—all the way to a different restaurant.