Dear Mrs. Ditter, I am staying with a friend who has invited me to help myself in her kitchen. Sitting on her counter is an unopened, Costco-sized box of my very favorite forbidden fruit: sesame snacks. It's been unopened all week and I can hardly contain myself. Should I take her at her word and help myself (I haven't had the guts to ask about these specifically), resign myself to abstinence, or wait up until she gets home tonight and beg? And how seriously, really, can I take someone when they say, "Help yourself"? I know I don't really mean it and am always shocked when someone eats the last of the chocolate, for instance...
Yours, Sesame Snack Deprived
Ooh, I like these two questions, the first one so specific, the second one so general. I also like those sesame snacks, and I cannot believe you've let the box stay closed this long. I would have asked her specifically about the sesame snacks while ripping open the box. However, I'm willing to bet that you go home at the end of your stay without having eaten a single one of those luscious, crunchy, sweet, snappy little sesame treats. Mmm. What you missed!
Let's look at your real question, though, which is "How seriously can we take people when they speak to us? How deeply can we trust the words that come out of their mouths?"
I think this varies for each of us. I also think you've answered that question, for yourself, anyway, in your very next sentence: You don't really mean it when you say "Help yourself." And so it's no surprise that you can't trust that anyone else really means it.
I grant you that finishing off the last of the 62% dark chocolate is somehow much different than making yourself a bowl of oatmeal, even though in a perfect world, both instances would be covered.
In general, I think we need to behave in other people's houses the way we would want them to behave in ours. So, because you "don't really mean it" when you tell other people to help themselves in your kitchen, it seems that you should tread lightly in your friend's kitchen, for your own peace of mind if for no other reason.
Just a thought: This second question obviously leads into a whole other discussion about how much can you trust people--not just in what they say about how you can behave in their house--but I'll just let you reflect on that on your own. Let me know if you have any epiphanies, or even small glimpses. For some reason, I think if you sit with this, you'll feel a little loosening up around this issue: Either you won't say "Help yourself to anything" if you don't mean it, or you'll find that you can say it and mean it.
Now go home and buy yourself some sesame snacks. Bon Appetit!
Questions for Mrs. Ditter? Leave them in the Comments section, below. And as always--thanks for reading.
Not that there's anything wrong, per se, with January. Well, actually, there is, at least when I'm in my politically incorrect, un-evolved, crabby girl frame of mind.
Shall we count the horrifications of January?
1. The holidays are over but the cookie-induced weight gain lingers on.
2. The holidays are over but the house is not yet totally stripped of holiday stuff and it feels cluttered (yes, I can deal with this, and I will, but not today!).
III. The holidays are over and the kids are back at school and I have no further excuses for ignoring the blinking cursor on the blank screen.
D. The holidays are yes, you know, and outside it's a monochromatic blah of rain and clouds and grey sky and drizzle and gloom and dark and ick.
Five. The holidays are blah blah blah and the wind is screaming around the house and it's so cold I can't get up the courage to go outside for a run and also: See Item 1, about cookies and fat thighs, which means on top of everything else, I feel guilty for not getting more exercise, and I keep thinking about that last batch of ginger snaps sitting in the freezer.
So what we have here is a vicious cycle of despair, cabin fever, frigid-wind-induced earaches, and general low mood. Nice, huh? Makes you wanna hang out with Mrs. Ditter, doesn't it?
During my annual Holiday Conference Call with my three sisters, I mentioned that when I die, if it happens to be at the end of January, I will be furious. I mean, really. To go through that stinker of a month and THEN die? That's just adding final insult to ultimate injury.
Which leads me to another reason I hate January: I lost a brother in January, 30 years ago. Believe me, I've worked on being grateful for the terrific person he was, and remembering the funny and outrageous things he did and said, and telling stories about him to my kids, and laughing about him with my best friend, but even after all these years, it still hurts. After 30 years! Part of me wants to sit down and cry, and part of me is just shaking my head, amazed that after all this time, the deep feelings of grief can still--briefly, thank you God--overwhelm me.
I think about him a lot in January. I'm sure he would just laugh at me for still being angry that he died before he hit 25. And that he would urge me to stop stalling and get on with whatever is next on my list. And that he would remind me that life is short (and who knows that better than he?) and I'm not getting any younger. And really, who knows that better than I? See Item 1, above, for further proof that the old metabolism ain't what it used to be and that the once-fine machine is slowing down.
There may come a time when I don't hate January quite so much. I am not holding my breath for that time to show up.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some cookies to hunt down.
As always, if you have any questions for Mrs. Ditter, feel free to leave them in the comments section, below. Anonymity allowed! Comments encouraged. Thanks for reading.
