In some small way,

I hate scrapbookers. I hate people who happily catalogue the past with brightly colored paper and glue sticks.

Partially, I simply do not understand the urge to do what they do. It goes beyond not spending hours laboring over cute little cut-outs and selecting just the right combinations of patterned and solid paper.

Mostly though, my disagreement with scrapbookers is because I specialize in the end. I am so good at ending relationships, friendships, conflicts, and pretty much anything I set my mind to. And when it's over, I have a story. Inevitably, there's a story.

For example, how about the major blow-out that signaled the death of a seven-year-long friendship? Or that horrendous break-up that couldn't possibly have been any worse? Or that other horrible break-up that could have been worse, but not by much? Or any of those numerous friendships that ended as uneventfully as a dull phone call?

I have my stories. I can tell them. But I would never want to write them in glittery markers among stenciled patterns on acid-free paper.

I specialize in the end. I don't celebrate it.

You wonder why

"I don't understand how any person in today's day and age can just not get it."

"As soon as I left their house, I called my husband and I said, 'I'm on my way home. Get everyone out of the showers. I reak and I am taking a long shower as soon as I get home.' Ugh. . . I can't stand that smell."

"Even when I'm in the car, if someone is doing it in the car in front of me, I can smell that stink and I just wish I had air freshener or the light would turn green or something."



All three of the preceding quotes came from people associated with my work. One is from my boss. Two are from volunteers. All three are associated with a social services agency. Two received extensive training about the importance of not being judgmental. One has conducted that training for the past eight years.

And yet, they say those things. They are supposed to connect to families in need, to ensure that children are well cared for and that parents know how to care for their children. When they see horrific cases of abuse and neglect and yet they fixate on fucking cigarette smoke, I see a problem. And I seem to be the only person who sees the problem.

Why not criticize people for other equally stupid decisions? Say, for example, I follow my boss home and just go off every time she cooks dinner. . . "Ugh. . . I can't stand the smell of garlic." Or say I follow the volunteers around and go postal every time I catch a whiff of their cologne?

If people are going to wage war against smokers, do it on grounds of the effects it has to their health and on society at large (either in terms of environmental effects, lost productivity due to illness, or the magnitude of the health care expenses). If you want, talk about the effects of parents' smoke on their children; that would be highly appropriate. But please don't focus on the smell. And don't treat smokers as though they're ignorant or idiotic.

Sure, it's a stupid decision. But we all make them.

You wonder why people respond negatively to social service agencies? This is just a hunch, but my guess is that judging people doesn't exactly leave them inclined to listen to you or accept your help.

*sob*

I got left out. . .

Question

At what point does a "good" memory become a "bad" memory if the former is just as haunting as the latter?