As I Blanch at the Thought of it All

Hello, Folksy Friends!  Today you will be hearing from Deb, the etiquette aficionado, regarding the thorny issue of gift-giving.

(Deb, as you know, is something of an etiquette maven (maven: a bird with wings of unequal length) and possesses the following qualities: she is judgmental and refers to herself in the third person.)

'Tis the season for joy and social awkwardness, and also for gift giving.  To whom do we give gifts?  Is it ever polite to refuse a gift?  Do I really have to write a thank-you note for every gift?  Is there ever a time when we must give gifts?  Relax, Deb already knows.  She's just asking to make herself look smarter when she answers.

1. To whom do we give gifts?  In theory, anyone, but in reality, only those with whom one has a relationship that makes a gift appropriate.  The gift should be in proportion to the intensity of the relationship in terms of money; it is inappropriate to give an expensive gift to someone who could not be reasonably expected to reciprocate, as in the following exchange:

Co-Worker 1: Mildred, thank you so much for the can of Pringles and scratch-off lottery tickets.
Mildred: And thank you for the Tiffany key ring.
Co-Worker 1: Indeed.

Giving gifts in the work environment can be tricky, which is why I hate to do it.  I do it, though, at the last minute, every year.

2. Is it ever polite to refuse a gift?  Short answer: usually not.  There are inappropriate gifts, such as the ones Deb receives from her stalkers that include medical waste, but a well-intentioned gift should usually be accepted.  If a gift has been brought to an event at which there are no other gifts, the gift should be set aside, opened later, and thanked with a personal letter.  The exception, of course, is if you are a young, unmarried woman of unquestionable virtue who receives a gift of clothing, jewelry, or something of extreme value from a gentleman, and it is 1909.  In that case, the gift would be returned with a gracious yet frosty, "I'm afraid our relationship does not permit me to accept gifts of this value."

3. Do I have to write a thank-you letter for every gift I receive?  While Deb, of course, routinely writes thank-you letters for everything, including some to dogs who refrain from decorating her lawn, the answer to this is no.  If a gift is opened in the presence of the giver, thanks should be verbally issued then.  No follow-up thank-you letter is necessary.  A gift that is not, however, must be acknowledged, and the correct way is with a letter.  Some relationships may permit phone calls, but Deb pretends that doesn't happen.

4. Is there ever a time when we must give gifts?  Of course.  Don't kid yourself.  Etiquette's official stance, "A gift is never required," is misdirection intended to fool greedy hosts who believe a social event can actually yield a profit if done correctly.  A gracious guest would never attend any of the following events without a tangible gift:

• A shower (wedding or bridal)
• A birthday party (regardless of the age of the recipient)
• A formal dinner
• A wedding
• A bar or bat mitzvah
• An overnight or extended visit

A "tangible gift" is just that: a gift that one can physically put into the hand of another person, that the recipient can then, in theory, put to some purpose.  Gifts can be consumable (food, flowers, tickets) or more permanent.  They do not have to be expensive, but they should be thoughtful.  (In fact, Deb is of the opinion that the less expensive a gift is, the more thoughtful it tends to be, because people with financial restrictions tend to be more creative when it comes to gift-giving.  A gift of money, including gift cards, tends to be larger in terms of financial worth because of the lack of creativity and thought involved.)

And now, Deb would like to address the notion that one's "presence" is "present" enough.  No, it isn't.  I'm sure that the hosts will say it is, or even sincerely feel that it is, but no guest can be considered "gracious" who goes through the following thought process:

1. I've been invited to this wedding.
2. I don't want to give them a present.
3. They should just be grateful I deigned to attend at all.
4. My presence is enough.

Unless one's last name is "Winfrey," there is absolutely no justification for anyone to think this way.  This is one of those classic etiquette disparities between the expectations of hosts and guests.  Hosts should be grateful that guests decided to take the time to attend their events.  Guests should feel grateful that hospitality was extended to them and they were included in such a special time.  Neither side should sit back and say, "Well, they should just be happy and shut up about it."  Guests, give your gifts.  Hosts, say thank you.  Life will be much more gracious.

And goodness knows, we need more graciousness.  Deb is going to lie down now.  

Accepting a Compliment

I've been at my current school for four years.  The first year I was there I gave birth to Dexy in November. As someone who is not exactly petite, the added weight of pregnancy made me easily one of the largest women on campus, if not Earth.

Unfortunately, the weight just kept coming, leading my (hopefully) well-meaning students to make comments like, "Are you having another baby?" or "Did you have that baby? 'Cause your stomach is still all big."  This led to Deb conducting several Teachable Moments in which she taught students that it Isn't Polite To Comment on Someone's Weight.  (Lecture available to the interested.)  By the end of last year, the comments had largely (ha!) gone away.

I taught my lesson well.  Not one student has commented on my 80-pound weight loss.  I thought, perhaps, they just didn't notice.  Perhaps, I reasoned, I don't look all that different, so the kids don't know I'm losing weight.

Excuse me while I bitterly wipe a tear of laughter from my bleary eyes.  Kids notice everything.  How do I know?  One of my fifth-graders had the following exchange with his mother, who works at the school.  (She shared it with me later, I wasn't hiding in a cabinet spying or anything.)

Kid: Mom, have you noticed Ms. Folksy is losing a lot of weight?
Mom: Yes, sweetie, I've noticed.
Kid: She looks really good.
Mom: You could tell her that, I bet it would make her feel good.
Kid: No, she says it's rude to talk about what people weigh.

I suppose I've done a good job.  I think I'm changing my name to Folksy Know It All.

Edit: I wrote the above post on Wednesday night.  On Thursday I had a concert, so I dressed a little nicer than usual.  I was in the fifth grade hall when a (different) fifth grade boy called out.

"Ms. Folksy!" he called.
"Yes, what is it?" I asked.
"You're looking good," he said, head nodding and eyebrows raised.
"Thank you," I said, wondering why it had bothered me before when fifth-grade boys didn't compliment my appearance.  And since when do 5th graders wear velvet smoking jackets to school?

Have a great weekend!

Picture: Sven Makes Deb Dinner

Here is my dinner last night.  Sven carefully made sure I had the exact amount of food I could eat.  For the record, I did eat every bite:

I was stuffed.

In Which Deb is High on Painkillers And Waxes Literary

I'll say it.  I don't like the Harry Potter movies.

I love the books, but really don't care for the film versions.  The last time I tried to watch Part V (Order of the Angst), Momz and I eventually just shut it off and referred to it as an "ordeal."  I don't want to watch a movie that makes me fight to stay awake through every moment unless it stars Charlton Heston and something is made out of people.

Here's my take: the people who have made the Harry Potter movies are afraid of backlash from the audience, who will criticize any detail that is not exactly like the book.  I used to be one of those people myself before I understood a basic truth: film and written fiction are two completely different art forms, therefore different techniques will be used to tell the same story in each.

(True story:  When whats-his-name was making the film version of Rosemary's Baby, he called the author (Ira Levin?) and asked him about a reference that was made in the book to a shirt Rosemary said she bought for her husband that was "in The New Yorker."  The director wanted to know what issue, what brand shirt it was, etc.  Levin said, "I don't know, I made it up.")

Take the Twilight series.  (You knew I was going there, don't judge me.)  The first movie was not great, as it tried very hard to include every hokey line of dialogue that might work in print but would never sound right to the ear if spoken aloud.  The second movie was a big improvement.  The third movie was actually pretty good as they focused more on telling a story and less on making every fanatic in the world happy about including their favorite line.  (I'll also say it: I think the film version of Eclipse had a lot of improvements over the book in terms of narrative flow and plot, but that is part of the limitation of writing a book with a first-person narrator, particularly one as self-centered and self-analytical as Bella.  I told you I was high at the beginning of this.)

For me, the best book-to-film adaptations are the ones that preserve the essential feel of the story while not being afraid to make changes that make the story work better for film.  Here, then, are some of my favorite book-to-film adaptations:

• Gone With the Wind: because Scarlett really only needed one child, right?
• Interview with the Vampire: Did you know Tom Cruise didn't even know he was in that movie until a year later?
• Carrie: I love a movie in which teenagers don't take themselves too seriously, except the one who slaughters the entire town with the force of her mind.
• The Princess Bride: If you've never read this book, you should.  It was written by the guy who also wrote the movie, but there's some great satire there that doesn't translate to film at all and, bless him, he didn't try.
• Rebecca/Jane Eyre: Aren't these really the same movie?  All I can say is, Joan Fontaine's nostrils are magnificent.

So, I hope that is a lesson to all of you aspiring screenwriters/directors out there.  If you're adapting existing material, don't be afraid to change it up a bit, make it your own.

And stay off the painkillers.  Makes it difficult to write a coherent weasel got in the corn.

In Which Deb Reassesses a Major Belief

I have always tried to be a polite person.  Not just by following the rules of etiquette; there are times when, in fact, it is actually less polite to stick to the rules.  (Don't question me, it just is.)  For me, being polite means that I know how to stand up for myself without being obnoxious, that I try to have empathy for other people and not take my frustrations with a systemic problem out on an individual, and that I choose my battles carefully; if it isn't my "hill to die on," so to speak, I let things go.

Today I experienced something that, for the first time, made me wish that I was a rude person.  Today I experienced a kidney stone.  (In fact, I am still experiencing it, as my pain medication is wearing off as I write this post, so I'd better hurry before I reach out through the internets and tear all of your faces off.)

When I woke up this morning, I had my usual vague lower back pain that always goes away after I move around a bit.  This morning, the pain didn't go away, it localized to the bottom left quadrant of my back and settled in.

"That's odd," I said.  "This back pain is kind of weird this morning."

"You're spending too much time on the computer," Sven grumbled.  "It's bad for your back."  (For the record, this is also why I have to wear glasses, have painful menstrual periods, suffer from itchy toes in the winter, and have experienced bouts of puff-knuckle, at least according to Sven.)

"Maybe you're right," I said automatically, and got dressed for work.  That nagging pain would not go away!  By the time I got to work, I knew things weren't right.  I was dizzy and sweaty and felt like I was about to vomit.  I called Sven ("No, I'll be fine, you stay at work,") left work and went to the emergency room, where being polite gets you nowhere.

"Excuse me," I said, gasping in pain, "I'm in a great deal of pain and need to see someone."

"Fill out the top form and have a seat," the nurse said mechanically.  It was at this point that my logical, polite mind said Don't get mad at her, she's following procedure, and yelling at people never solved anything.  There was another, louder part of my mind, however, that was screaming Tell that stupid so-and-so that you're not filling out a damn thing until you get some Demerol!  Fortunately, I listened to my polite self and filled out the form and hunched my way over to the chairs.  It took seventeen hours in my time (but only about fifteen minutes in real time, I suppose) to get back to a room.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" a perky intern asked.  Again, polite Deb is thinking Bless her heart, she's just taking my history, no need to get upset, while the raving lunatic unleashed by unspeakable pain is screaming Tell her to shove that clipboard somewhere dark and get me some morphine! NOW!  I again managed to leash the beast and answered her questions as best I could, though I will tell you now I have no recollection of what she asked me.  I was in so much pain at that point that my hearing was affected.  I wanted to call Sven and tell him to come and hold my hand, but I was in too much pain to even ask for my phone.  Then the lady from the business office came in to ask me about how I was going to pay.  I don't even remember what happened next.

Fortunately, drawing on nearly seventeen years' worth of couples' telepathy, Sven walked in at that point and I could just start crying while he answered the questions.

Pain medication was introduced then, and I felt much better.  Just about normal, in fact.  One CAT scan later, it was confirmed that a tiny, 3mm ball of yuck had lodged in my left kidney and I have to evict him.  Hopefully said eviction will be accomplished today by means of my enormous Bass Pro Shop mug and amazing willpower, but I could be here for a while.  Sven is out now getting my prescriptions filled.

And he'd better get back soon, because Angry Deb is lurking.  Watch out.

Deb's Favorite Things

Hey, y'all.  I bet you're wondering why the topic of today's show was kept such a big secret.  Is it a big star?  Maybe George Clooney or Brad Pitt?

(Excited murmurings from audience)

No, it's not a big star.  It's even better.  Everyone welcome to DEB'S FAVORITE THINGS!!

(Audience screams.  Close up on one woman sobbing.)

Okay, y'all.  Let's begin with one of my absolute favorite things in.  The.  World.  This has saved me more than anything when I'm trying to cool down from those long workouts.  Everyone in the audience is getting a case of Isopure Protein Clear Beverage!!

(Audience screams.  One woman tears off another's head.)

All right, let's all settle down.  Next on my favorite things list is something I found at a local drugstore, and who would expect to find something so gourmet and satisfying there?  BLUE DIAMOND DRY ROASTED ALMONDS!

(Audience screams.  Paramedics enter the room and begin carrying out unconscious audience members.)

Okay, everybody.  I know the holiday season is here and we're all looking for that perfect gift.  Well, look no further.  I got one of these for Sven last year and he.  Loved.  It.  Who would not love this AUTHENTIC TAUN-TAUN SLEEPING BAG?

(Audience screams.  A wedding between audience members spontaneously takes place in the back three rows.)

And for today's final gift, for that person who has everything: I love comedy, and I love podcasts, so everyone today in the audience will receive a genuine COMEDY DEATH RAY RADIO T-SHIRT!!

(Audience screams.  In the front row, a woman spontaneously conceives, carries, and gives birth to a child out of sheer joy.)

Thanks, y'all.  I hope you all know that I received no promotional money or goods for today's show, though I wouldn't turn them down if they were offered.  Enjoy the spirit of the season, everybody.

Tooting My Own Horn

You all know, who have read me for a while, that I love having imaginary interviews.  In my mind, I have sat on the couch of Oprah, matched wits with Jon Stewart, and answered James Lipton's list of questions.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to have a real interview.  With a real journalist.  It really happened.  And it was everything I hoped it would be!

No, I wasn't on television, it was a phone interview, but it has been published.  Read it here:

Galveston Daily News

And if you are here from that article, welcome!  There will be a quiz over all past entries next week.  Begin.

Overachieving

It is, of course, November, which means one thing: the thirty day orgy of creativity known as NaNoWriMo.  Of course, I know all of my faithful readers have the entire month marked in red on their calendars, but to those who might be new, I will explain.

The goal of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writer's Month) is to produce a 50,000 word novel in thirty days.  Beginning at midnight on November 1 and ending on November 30, those who choose to participate in this activity forswear friends, family, and proper nutrition for the duration.  In order to complete your book on time, a daily goal of 1,667 words is the minimum to be completed.  Editing is discouraged; NaNoWriMo is not about quality, it is about quantity.  (December, however, is NaNoFiMo, or National Novel Finishing Month, in which one's NaNoWriMo work can, hopefully, be edited into something semi-coherent.)

Last year I began participating in NaNoWriMo early in November, as soon as I heard about it.  I had no plot, no ideas, and had to start over more than once.  I got my 50,000 words, though, meaning I "won" the contest.  Unfortunately, that book was terrible.  Seriously, completely terrible.  Easily the worst thing I have ever written, and I include the companion book to "The Outsiders" I wrote in eighth grade in that statement.  We will never speak of it again.

This year I started thinking about NaNoWriMo in August.  I knew what I wanted to write: an account of the 1900 Galveston Hurricane, told from the perspective of a young woman who lived through it.  The twist?  Those who have been reading my blog for a while have probably guessed: she lives through it by becoming a vampire.  Yes, another vampire tome has fallen from my pen like drifting autumn leaves, and I couldn't be happier.  I began researching with enthusiasm.  (Just a note: I never research anything beyond a quick Google search, so this is very uncharacteristic behavior for me.)  I drove to Galveston several times and looked at buildings that had survived the storm.  I went to the Rosenberg Library and visited the archives, where original documents from that time period are stored.  I read books, including the superb "Isaac's Storm" by Erik Larson.  I knew who my heroine was and what she was doing, I knew how she was going to get caught in the storm and where she was going to shelter.  I even knew who the vampire who attacked her was and his back story.  (He's a Karankawa Indian, by the way, another bit of obscure coastal Texas lore I was happy to include.)

The problem?  When November 1 hit, I wrote almost 10,000 words in the first 24 hours.  By the end of the first week I was at 25,000.  I hit 50,000 words on November 15.  I finished the book, at 56,000 words, on November 15.  Now what?

Start a second one.

Here's my reasoning: if I finished a 50,000 word book in the first 15 days, I could do another one in the second 15 days, right?  I neglected to think about the two months of research and thought that had gone into the first one (for the record, "Immortal Isle").  What was I thinking?

This new one, tentatively titled "Magic Number," is awful.  Truly, tremendously awful.  It may, in fact, be worse in many respects than last year's.  If I had any artistic integrity, I would junk it and start over and really challenge myself (as I write this, it's November 21, so 9 days to go) but no matter how bad this one is, I'm 37,000 words into it and have an actual shot at finishing the thing.

I love young adult literature.  "Magic Number" was intended as an homage to one of my favorite YA authors, Norma Johnston, the queen (in my opinion) of teenage angst.  Unfortunately, I seem to be incapable of writing a simple, biographical novel.  Halfway through this one, we discover that one corner of our love triangle is the child of secret agents who is being recruited to join the agency herself, and adventure ensues.

Really?  Really, Deb?  A teenage love story drama turns into a suspense thing about secret agents?  Nice.  I just hope I can finish the thing in time to go back and fix some things.  Like take out the whole "secret agent" thing.  I wish I could do it now, but I can't go back and erase 100 pages with only nine days to go.

Or can I?  More later...