CONVENTION, MISUNDERSTANDING, AND NUTS
When I went shopping yesterday, I noticed something curious regarding the labels on some jars of nuts. The brands and sizes were the same, but one was labeled “Dry Roasted Peanuts” and the other as “Unsalted Dry Roasted Peanuts.”
There’s nothing mysterious about the fact that one has salt and the other doesn’t, but it’s their choice in labeling the difference that I find interesting. The second one specifically informs that the nuts are unsalted, but the first one simply assumes you know that it contains salt. Now to me that seems backward.
Though I admit harboring great respect for Jimmy Carter, I’m no peanut farmer. So, I’m no expert. But it seems to me that peanuts normally grow unsalted. My guess is the salt is added in the processing stage.
So, if I see a jar labeled, “Dry Roasted Peanuts,” I assume it’s unsalted. I think the unsalted jar label should read “Dry Roasted Peanuts” and the salted variety be specifically labeled “Salted Dry Roasted Peanuts.”
I guess it has to do with convention. If you do browse the nut aisle in a grocery store near you, I imagine that most of them contain salt. You’d be hard pressed to find too many of the unsalted variety, but they do exist.
The convention obviously is to add salt. In our society that is just a given. So, deviations from convention warrant special labeling. And, if you mean to grab the conventional salted variety, but mistakenly grab the unsalted ones, you’ll be disappointed. Maybe even angry if you drive home before noticing.
People don’t come with labels. We don’t really know what’s “inside” each person. But, we do assume they follow conventions. We grow up in a certain society and it’s just expected that people will behave a certain way. If they don’t, we’re shocked, maybe even downright indignant.
But where does the fault lie? Is it in the person for behaving the way they usually behave? Or is it in the person who assumes there is a conventional behavior that governs everyone in their little corner of the world?
Maybe there is no fault. Maybe it’s just misunderstanding. Often misunderstanding gets confused with fault. Differences of opinion become forums for blame. Conflicting assumptions lead to accusations of right and wrong.
We see it between cultures all the time. They’re called “wars.”
We see it between neighbors all the time. They’re called “feuds.”
We see it between family members all the time. They’re called “arguments.”
Misunderstandings mushroom because we approach situations from different assumptions. Perhaps if we take the time to understand each other’s assumptions, there will be less conflict. Who knows, we might even open up our perspectives a bit and see there are other sensible approaches to things we’ve simply accepted without questioning.
Nut anyone? So there’s no misunderstanding, I have two varieties: One with salt and one unsalted.
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I’ve given birth, twice. And I think that whoever planned the birthing procedure should go back to the drawing board.
At the very least, during delivery the husband should be struck mute, unable to utter anything encouraging like, “It’s time to rumble!”
That’s not to say that pregnancy and birth are bad experiences. It’s exciting to bring a new life into the world. The beginning stages of a pregnancy are usually pleasant, too.
I felt good during my first few months. My husband (at the time) was attentive and kind. He’d remove sticks of gum from his pockets before I washed his clothes. When making a wrong turn in the car, his cursing was downright subdued.
But things changed. Between months three and four, I woke up every day feeling queasy. The better part of each morning was spent hunched over the toilet bowl, losing my breakfast. It was like reliving my days as a college freshman the morning after an alcoholic binge.
When the retching subsided, I had to deal with my expanding belly. And it was tough finding appropriate maternity clothes. T-shirts with arrows and crude sayings like, “The beef was here!”, were clearly out.
I also could not abide dresses with frilly ruffles and bows. I’d like to know why the apparel industry thinks if you’re going to have a baby, you should look like one.
My husband’s behavior changed from attentive to annoying. He blamed my irritation with him on hormones, but I knew better. If someone asks you fifty times to plump-up your pillows, and you decline each offer, there shouldn’t be a fifty-first one.
I did have cravings, but they weren’t cute or easy ones. No pickles and ice cream for me in the middle of the night. No Sir, I wanted a full-course dinner.
During the last three months, I felt and looked like a beached whale. The baby’s kicking was exciting at first. But then it reminded me that I’d soon be delivering an object the size of a football out of an opening the size of a grape.
My husband and I signed up to take classes at the hospital on labor and delivery. The first class was on Lamaze breathing, which I coudn’t handle because of my husband’s garlic breath. In the second class they showed a video with women in hard labor and breech deliveries. I didn’t go back.
When my water broke, it took us quite some time to get to the hospital. There was an important baseball game on TV. Once we arrived at the hospital, my husband was very anxious. One of the first things he did was turn on the TV to check the score.
After twelve hours, my labor intensified and I demanded every medication I was entitled to. Personally, I would have preferred being put to sleep completely and woken up when the kid was five years old.
My doctor (a man) denied me any pain medication when it was time to push the baby out. I still haven’t forgiven him.
I think we all know that if it were up to men to give birth without medication, the human species would have died out.
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