What’s a Hoosier Thanksgiving feast without persimmon pudding?  A travesty, that’s what!  Whoever heard of such a thing?  Ridiculous.

Persimmons don’t grow in too many places, so chances are good that most of you have never heard of them. However, southern Indiana is a persimmon tree’s favorite home, and the trees grow healthy and prolific here. My fantastic and generous Cousin C gives me persimmon pulp, fresh from her parents’ back yard.  In fact, she brought some over just today!

That means, of course, that tonight’s the night. *

Hint: Don’t EVER taste a green persimmon, unless you like the sensation a blast of raw alum gives to your lips and tongue. Persimmons must be ripe before they can be used. VERY ripe. Asking someone you’re mad at to just “touch your tongue to this green persimmon for a second” is a fun, albeit cruel (depending on the age of the taster) trick to play on someone. Raw alum on the tongue. Yum. It’s a sensation vaguely akin to being turned inside out by the tongue.

On second thought, everybody should try that at least once.  How else can you appreciate the fun of doing it to someone else?

By request (ask, and ye shall receive) here is my very own tried-and-true persimmon pudding recipe again.  I’ve tweaked it over the years until it was perfection in a pan.

Hoosiers can be very protective and possessive of their persimmon pudding recipes, but I’m not. People have been asking me for it, so here it is:

Jane’s Persimmon Pudding

First of all, preheat your oven to 325 degrees. NO HOTTER.

Get out a very large bowl.

Put the following ingredients in it:

2 C. persimmon pulp (Use fresh or frozen; the canned stuff is terrible.)

1/2 tsp. baking soda

1 1/2 C sugar (I use Splenda)

1 C brown sugar (don’t use fake)

1 1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt (don’t leave it out!!!!) (don’t use fake salt, either.)

2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla

2 eggs

2 C flour

2 1/2 C evaporated milk (not sweetened milk)

1/4 stick butter (not merely oil) (margarine works, but butter is better)

Put everything in that large bowl and mix thoroughly. Use an electric mixer if you don’t think you can get it blended by hand. Get the lumps out.

Pour mixture into a large buttered baking pan.

Put the pan in the oven. Set your timer for 60 minutes.

After the timer goes off, stick a toothpick in the center of the pudding. Clean? It’s done.

Let it cool just enough to slice. Most people like to top it with whipped cream. Non-Hoosiers often sprinkle nuts on it.

You can also add coconut or pecans or cocoa to the mixture, but then it’s not Hoosier Persimmon Pudding. Your call.

*. . . for making persimmon pudding. Why, what were YOU thinking?

I worry about the future for different reasons than most people’s reasons.  I worry about the future because present generations aren’t learning about the past.

Seriously.  Our students don’t seem to have anything to make connections to, these days.  They believe ridiculous things on Facebook updates.  They don’t associate Lincoln with the Civil War.  They think the Disney versions of fairy tales are the original versions.  They don’t know that the Little Mermaid died.  They don’t know any nursery rhymes.  They can’t finish a line of poetry.  They don’t know why Paul Revere rode through the streets.  They don’t understand the difference between a comparison and a contrast.  They are uncertain about antonyms and synonyms.  Most of them have never used a thesaurus.  Some of them have never heard of a thesaurus, and when they hear the word, they think it’s a dinosaur.  Most students think a dictionary is good only for a definition, and if they don’t know how to spell a word, they can’t find it.

I worry about a future wherein the so-called “educated” population has nothing filed away in their heads, but rely on Google to find out the simplest things.  I worry about a future that has me picturing, in my head, surgeons googling the whereabouts of the spleen with the patient on the table.  Already, we have a population that doesn’t know how to do math without a calculator.

TV shows make stupid people seem like the norm, and ignorance seem like the ideal.  Our schools are emphasizing conformity and punishing creativity.  Physical ability is trophied even while much of the population’s physical ability is atrophied.  Academic success is pretty much ignored lest some kid’s self-esteem suffer because he/she can’t do “it” as well.

Excellent work that, a generation ago, would have been put up on the wall so all could see and benefit and honor it, is now hastily shunted away because not everybody can do that well.  Kids who can’t do that well now no longer have examples of what things could be like if they worked harder, etc.  Bright, fast kids are advised to slow down, and ignorant teachers “reward” them by giving them more of the same or, even worse, relegating them to the hallway where they spend the day tutoring slow kids.

I worry about the future because people know nothing about the past these days.  I worry about the future because people are spending the present letting other people think for them.

What kind of future is in store for our children if they are not taught about the past, and encouraged to do things more than one way, and encouraged to apply and connect this with that, and that with the other?

Education is about connections.  If our students have nothing in their heads, lives, or experiences, what sense can they make about anything?  How can things be relevant if there is no relativity?

I’ve had students who couldn’t follow the directions on a box of brownie mix.  Oh, they could read the directions, but they weren’t sure about teaspoons, tablespoons, and measuring cups.  Imagine.

Speaking of “imagine,”  I’ve had students who had a hard time imagining anything because imagination requires connections, too.  Image-ing is possible only with prior knowledge – schema.  How can we create the “magic” part of “i-mage-ing” unless we know as much as possible about as many things as possible?

The more schema we can bring to the table, the more connections we’re able to make.  The more connections we make, the more we can understand.  The more we understand, the more we learn.  The more we learn, the more we know.  The more we know, the better able we are to cope and improve the universe.  Not to even mention those  sofa Jeopardy wins.

As for those teachers who advocate “no memorizing, no studying, no homework, no proving knowledge or mastery, and almost total dependence on electronics,” I have only this to say.

Bullshit.  You’re all full of bullshit.

And this from Mamacita, who advocates tech so thoroughly and enthusiastically that my students who don’t use the social networking that they were told to use are left out of the announcement loop altogether.

P.S.  Dear Students:  Midterms are this week.  If you skived off class and didn’t check Twitter, Facebook, Google +, or email, you’ve got a big surprise coming.

And if you aren’t able to make connections, it won’t do you much good to show up, anyway.

“Whyyyyyyyy do I have to learn this? (Best said in a whiny, nasal tone.)

There are many answers to this question, all correct, although “Because it’s going to be on the test” is the poorest answer, even though it might be the only answer the student is capable of understanding AT THE MOMENT. Education is so full of wonders that it’s difficult to highlight just one, but I’ll give it a shot.

One of my favorite educational wonders is the simple fact that there are many things we learn for which we know no immediate reason. This not “knowledge for knowledge’s sake,” although I love to know things just to know them. This is “life prep.”

Hasn’t it ever happened to you, that five, ten, thirty, sixty years later, something pops in your brain and suddenly you make a connection to that little poem your mean third grade teacher made you memorize much against your will, and you are able to comprehend something?

I thought so.

THAT’S why you “have to learn this stuff” now. Some of it is for today, and some of it is for tomorrow, and some of it is for when you’re seventy-two years old and struggling with questions far more difficult than school ever made you do. Each of your teachers is trying to prepare you not merely for the next grade up, but for all of the rest of your life. Everything you have ever learned is stored away in your head, somewhere, waiting to serve you “later.” Good teachers know this, and do their level best to encourage students to find and understand the connections and relationships between and among “things.”

That’s what I’ve always tried to do, anyway. I didn’t learn that in college. I learned it from some of my own teachers. Not all; just the good ones. I learned plenty from the bad teachers, too, and not just because bad examples are as useful – and sometimes more so – than good examples. The many good teachers in my life taught me much more than their job description required, and it was these “tangents” that taught me the most. I do this with my students, too, and often those tangents end up being more important than the actual lesson.

If our children learn nothing else in school, I hope they learn about the connections, which are, of course, also relationships. Connecting the dots between math and English and science and history, etc, will help us all want to learn more, and more, and more, and never stop learning more. I consider that to be my primary goal. Perhaps knowing these things about me will soften what I am about to say next, which is simply this:

It’s no surprise to me that a student doesn’t much like to sit still and pay attention when the instructor is boring, lackluster, monotonous, incompetent, and uninformed. (Or any one of those things.) Excellent lessons require much more than books, paper, and pencils; they require the skills of a savvy standup. You can’t teach Period 7 the same way you taught Period 2; it’s a different audience.

However, I still maintain that the majority of responsibility for learning lies with the student, not the teacher. A person who desires to learn will learn in spite of all of the obstacles our modern educational system puts in his/her path, and believe me, modern educational systems put all the obstacles in the path of our students that they possibly can.

It’s still – mostly – the student’s responsiblity.

Bring it on.

(Another re-run.  We’re moving this week.  I’m buried alive in stress, mess, & junk.  This house is a hoarder’s dream.)

Well pootie-doo, they removed all the videos! When they put them back in again, I’ll show you my favorite one.

Add to it the fact that I met several old friends and made several new ones, and I’d call it a perfect day.

Just perfect.

Oh wait, that wasn’t what I meant to say.

It’s that time again.  The morel mushrooms are here.

My husband still speaks wistfully of the day he and the kids visited his step-grandmother Margaret (she whom John Dillinger once tried to carjack. . . .) and she shared with them her unbelievable and, naturally, SECRET, morel mushroom patch.

Remember now, Hoosiers do not share this kind of secret with ANYBODY. People who will show a stranger their genital surgery scars will not share a morel mushroom location with their own mothers. Margaret took Tim and the kids across her fields and invited them to help themselves to the mushrooms.

They were everywhere. It was like a planted crop. You couldn’t take a step without stepping on morel mushrooms. They were all afraid to move, because around these parts, folks, you just don’t STEP on morel mushrooms if you can help it at all. They’re too valuable!!

How valuable are they? Well, if you can bear to part with yours, you can easily sell them for fifty bucks a pound. But it’s rare to find anyone who would part with them.

They came home fully loaded.

We once went to dinner at a friend’s home, and when we got there, she was preparing morel mushrooms as a last-minute addition to the meal. It seems that the night before, her husband had gone to their secret mushroom patch and had dumped two huge buckets of morels into their kitchen sink. All the guests were flabbergasted; usually, people don’t share their found mushrooms with others, either. To this day, none of us can remember what the main dish was at that meal. All anybody can remember is the mushrooms.

Except for me. Naturally, except for me. I am a freak, for I do not care all that much for morel mushrooms. I enjoy preparing them, but as for eating them. . . . well, let’s just say that everybody wants to sit by me, because I don’t eat mine and am happy to share.

And speaking of preparing them. . . . don’t let anybody tell you to use crushed saltines!!!

The proper Hoosier method is to mix together a little flour and a little cornmeal and a dash of salt, coat each mushroom, and fry in butter for just a few minutes. Remember to turn them.

Let them cool just enough to tolerate, and turn your crowd loose on them. There will never be enough.

Back in the middle school, my students used to bring breadsacks full of morel mushrooms and sell them to the teachers for twenty dollars apiece. The teachers got morel mushrooms for bargain rates, and the students got cash. It worked out pretty well for both parties concerned. I never bought any from a student; it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, it was just that, well, I’d seen these same kids try to tell the difference between a noun and a verb all year, and pick wrong every time. There was something about believing that they could tell the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool and pick correctly every time, that just didn’t hit me quite right. I’m sure they knew; outdoor kids know these things. It was just a feeling I had.

As for the finding of them, I am probably the only Hoosier in the history of the state who not only doesn’t like to eat morel mushrooms, but also can’t find them even if they’re right there by the toe of my shoe. I can’t SEE them. I also tend to step on them, which makes me the kid who is picked last for anybody’s mushroom team. Usually, I just stay home and get ready to cook them when they’re brought home, whether I end up with a bowlful or a handful.

But if you live around these parts, around this time of year, around now, anywhere you might go, you won’t be able to escape the morel mushroom stories. In southern Indiana, we’d rather hear about the morel that got away, than about your boring old six-feet-long fish that got away.

And since I don’t care for them myself, that would be the “Queen’s We” that I’m using here.

I love to say that. It sounds so borderline.

When the first space shuttle blasted off, my students didn’t get to see it. I don’t think my school even owned a TV at that point.  However, when that same shuttle landed, about eighty kids were packed into a classroom, eyes glued to that smallish screen, watching entranced as history was made: the shuttle landed safely, and before those very straining eyes, too.

I’m thinking that it was this event that inspired some schools to invest in some better “audio-visual” equipment than the ancient shared 16mm projector and portable, folding, grainy screen.  History was being made and the resources were now available for schools to allow their students to see it.  Well, some of it, anyway, and some schools are still waiting for the resources AND the equipment.  And the permission to use it.

A few years later, my school wasn’t much more advanced, technology-wise, and we rented a big-screen TV to watch the Challenger launch.

For the next few years, shuttle launches and landings were almost commonplace; there was another horrendous tragedy in the sky (Columbia) but for the most part,  NASA has done outstandingly well.  I am a huge fan of the shuttle program and it’s heartbreaking to know that it’s about to end.  Bad decision.  I’d far rather my tax dollars be used to explore the universe than to have them squandered on certain other projects which I shall not mention here lest I start a brouhaha from which I shall not back down and from which others won’t back down from their stance, either.  Therefore, silence is golden.  Snort.

I will be posting more about NASA’s programs soon, as it is my pet project, for want of a better phraseology.

The sky’s not the limit any more, and this thrills me to the core.

Hey, I made a little rhyme!  Yes, I do that all the time.  Channeling Fezzik, wherever you are. . . .

In the meantime, why not send your face to space?

Hah, did it again.

No, we don’t really even SEE the front door much, unless it’s December and I’m hanging a big beautiful wreath on said door.

I mention this tonight because said wreath is still hanging on said door.  I use my non-use of the door as my main excuse; who remembers what she never sees, after all?

However, whenever we have day after day after day of pouring incessant torrential rain, for some reason I can’t STOP think of that out-of-season wreath hanging on the front door for all the world to see and pass judgment on as it hangs helplessly, in March, and dripping because it’s thoroughly soaked and can’t be brought into the house until it’s completely dried out which will take more weeks and by then I’ll have forgotten about it again and won’t find it until it’s time to hide Easter eggs, and I’ll be so embarrassed at being THAT PERSON who still has a wreath on the door in springtime that I’ll probably seclude myself in the dining room and devour all the Reese’s Eggs in spite of my diabetes and overall fatness.

I’ve been obsessing so much over that soaking wet Christmas wreath that I’ve hardly had time to notice the large black iron basket overflowing with golden balls and candles sitting there on top of the tiny little corner table in the foyer right beside the front door, and which I walk past at least a dozen times a day.  Apparently, it has mutant powers and is fighting so hard for survival that it becomes invisible whenever it senses my presence.

I don’t have the excuse of it being soaking wet, either.  I haven’t thought up my excuse for leaving it be yet, in fact.  If you have any suggestions, please, bring ‘em on.

Because the fact is, whenever I DO “see” the basket of golden glowing balls and candles there, it still makes me smile.  In fact, I usually smile twice.  Once for the general coolness of the black basket full of golden balls and candles, and once because I’m such a tool for having a Christmas basket of balls in my foyer in March.

Come on over and see it.  Use the front door so you can see the wreath.

Mamacita says:  All my life I have loathed the expression, “Act your age.” Even as a child I wondered how a person could ‘act’ an age; the best I could ever do was to ‘be’ an age. “Act” always connoted phoniness to me.

I totally agree with the little girl in this joke. How can a child know how a certain age is supposed to act, when the child has never BEEN that age before? We need to be guided into each age, not tossed.

Remember in the movie “Hook” when Robin Williams turns on his young son in anger and tells him to stop acting like a kid? And the child’s response was, ‘But Dad, I AM a kid!”

Often in schools, teachers mark students down for being “immature.” This is indeed a deficiency after a certain point, say, sixth grade or so. But to mark down a small child for being ‘immature?’ If a child is not allowed to be immature when he’s seven years old, just when IS he allowed to be immature? Aren’t all small children immature? Doesn’t that go with the territory? Why do we expect small children to behave maturely, yet smile when grown men and women behave like small children? Why is one cute and endearing, and the other annoying? And which did you find annoying, may I ask?

BEING one’s age is something we should all strive to do. ACTING it won’t fool anybody.

And with the BEING comes the responsibility. Proper behavior should not be limited to certain ages; after only a few years, children know what’s proper and what’s not, unless they’ve been living in a vacuum, or unless they’ve been allowed to run the household. And none of us know anyone who lets THAT happen, right?

So. As parents and citizens of the universe, we owe it to our children and to each other and to ourselves to lighten up on some things AND tighten the screws on others, both at once, so our children will truly grow up, not just get bigger with the same poor impulse control and with the feeling that the galaxy revolves around them. And how do we do this? With whatever it takes, my friends. Some children evolve naturally into delightful mature adults, and others must be wrestled to the ground with every new concept.

Do not allow your child to walk out your door and become the neighborhood monster, the school bully, the local knock-up artist, and an incorrigible bum. At least, not without some serious battles and opposition on your part. (some things we just can’t control, not even with the best parental intentions, dedication, and arsenal known to mankind, sigh.) And if teachers, neighbors, friends, and total strangers try to tell you that your child’s behavior is in need of serious control, believe them. Don’t make excuses, because there ARE no excuses. Seek help and seek it till you get it. No matter what the problem might be, a person with no self control is a danger to the other people in this world, and that person must be stopped and forced to change, and if change is not possible, then that person must be corralled, lest innocent others be hurt if they get in the way of his baby tantrums ‘anger management problems’ and childish selfishness ‘poor impulse control problems.’ I’m sorry as I can be, but the safety and well-being of the majority should count for something, too.

So. Let your children BE their age. And make bloody sure they know what’s expected of them at that age, and give them time and opportunity to DO what’s expected of them, and make the expectations bigger and more complicated as their age increases. Make sure the consequences for NOT BEING their age are severe and memorable. Very memorable. Allowing a child to remain a child forever, with no responsibilities and with excuses for tantrums and selfishness and laziness and with no manners and no understanding of public behavior, is as much ‘abuse’ as is beating him with a stick. Maybe worse, because others will suffer because of this parental laziness as well.

As a teacher, I called CPS more times than I could ever count. But not as many times as I WISH I could have. Whiny spoiled lazy hormonal monsters with helpless babyish doting excuse-making parents are a bane to the existence of us all.

BEING one’s age often means behaving as a child behaves. BEING one’s age also means behaving as polite society requires all persons in public to behave. There are times and places for childish shouts and spontaneous delight, and there are times and places for silence and respect. People of all ages need to know which is which.

I feel ranty today.

And no, I am not referring to special needs people.

<——Not good, no.

My blog, my rules.

Here’s the post:

Is anyone else out there lucky enough to have a job that makes you so happy that all you have to do is walk into the building and you feel the positive vibes? My days seem so short now; most days I feel as though I’ve just begun, and bingo, it’s time to go to bed again.

I get tired, yes. I am exhausted, usually, by the end of the day. But even so, I love this teaching gig with a passion I didn’t even know I was still capable of after enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous public school dealings for so long.

I think that after so long in the school systems of our country, the teachers who stay evolve a mindset that is almost enslavement. We endure schedules and treatment that no other professional would dream of enduring. We allow ourselves to be used and misused and overworked, all in the name of love for our students. What other professionals have a clientele that pretty much expects to be supported, fed, dressed, taught, and catered to in every possible way, without showing the least bit of gratitude? What other profession works so hard and gets so little support?  What other job books a professional  so thoroughly during the course of the day that there isn’t even time to go to the bathroom or grab a sandwich?  Is there another profession so vulnerable that it is forced to endure all kinds of abuse without any recourse and often very little, if any, in-house support?

We get so used to it, we don’t even realize that there is another world out there, where people show each other respect.

We really do love the students, don’t get me wrong. But year after year in a public school kind of makes a teacher numb to any other possibility that might be out there for a person with these talents. Every year it gets worse and worse, even while we are thinking and saying things like “Next year it will be better.”

But it never is.

Next year, the classrooms are more overcrowded, there are fewer books, there are more dysfunctional families who seem to be in charge of the system, there are more duties, there are more responsibilities, there are more problems, there are more “incidents,” and there is less and less support. There is no respite. There is no discipline. The teacher’s union here stands idly by and allows a principal to schedule a teacher to the point that there isn’t even time in the course of the day to blow her nose. I am not exaggerating, either. The contract guarantees some prep time daily? We’ll count walking down the hall to fetch yet another class as break-time. We’ll count your driving time, from building to building, as your lunch. Ask any music teacher if I’m stretching the truth.

Yes, every year it’s worse. And a teacher doesn’t really know how bad it is, until that teacher walks out and tries something new.

Me, for instance.

And now, I teach every day in a building full of wonderful hardworking students and smiling administrators and friendly janitors and awesome bosses who TALK TO US AS THOUGH WE WERE EQUALS (instead of slaves) and the building resounds with humor and happiness and dedication.

Heck, even the restrooms here are superior. And there is ALWAYS toilet paper!!!!! The halls and classrooms are clean and well-maintained. Everyone behaves properly.

Always toilet paper.  This amazes me.

The sad and odd thing is, I did not know how bad it actually was until I left the public schools. While I was there, I was the most loyal and hardworking and dedicated person in the building. Sure, the days seems awfully long, and sometimes the despair and frustration were so thick one could cut it with a knife, but it was my obsession, to somehow be a positive force in this not-very-positive place. I came to school at 7:00; I got home around 6:00. I was determined to make a difference, a positive difference.

But, but, there was no appreciation. There was only the expectation that if I could do that, I should be doing even more.

I couldn’t keep on.

But now? I feel positive every day. I love coming to school. All I have to do is walk into this building and I am instantly wide-awake and happy.

Sure, there are some, um, “interesting” students here, but MOST of them are pure quality.  They are really students, and they mean business about learning.

I still work the long hours. But I am appreciated, and treated like the professional I’d forgotten I was, all those years.

And now, I truly believe I am helping to make a positive difference. I can see it. I can hear it.

I love my job.

The really ironic thing is that in spite of all the negative things about the public schools, I still believe that this nation’s schools are the hope of our future. There is such potential in every classroom, such stories to be told, such wondrous talent and creativity and sensitivity and music concealed behind the t-shirts and the grubby jeans and exposed underwear and defiant raising of the eyebrows and the punky hair and the chips-on-the-shoulders and the trendy slang and the stubborn glares. . . . there is poetry behind the obscenities, and magnificent scientific discoveries behind the unwillingness to conform.

It’s too bad teachers are no longer allowed to cultivate it.

Why can’t we be allowed to step back and bask in the glow of unbridled enthusiasm, and throw ourselves into helping students learn and discover and grow, grow, grow, both physically and mentally and socially and culturally and scientifically. . . . .

What happened to us as a people, as a culture, as a nation, that our idea of ‘school’ has sunk to the level of equating success with a number on a piece of paper?

I do tend to rant, don’t I. My apologies.  I’m just so sorry and sad that our genuine students have to put up with the distractions and disruptions and dangers caused by others who come to school because the law makes them and who have chosen not to put any effort whatsoever in bettering themselves or fitting themselves for any kind of work and seem obsessed with not permitting anybody else to do so, either.  And, that such students people are allowed to stay and continue to hinder learning and soaring in others. Sigh. So unfair.

Teachers and parents, please rise up in protest.  Our precious children, our STUDENTS, are too valuable to be wasted.  They have a right to be truly educated, to learn, to sing, to dance, to think,  to SOAR, unhampered, and a lot of other infinitives as well.   Our children’s teachers, likewise, are too valuable to be treated like indentured servants, or like anything but the educated and trained professionals that they are.

We desperately need to take back our public schools.

I miss what my former job might have been, in a perfect world.

P.S.  Thank you, current students, for being awesome and serious about learning.  I appreciate you more than you could ever realize.

Basic Elevator Etiquette for Dummies:

1. Push the appropriate button. If the button is already glowing, do not push it. If you repeatedly push an already-glowing button, everybody will know what you are.

2. Stand back. LEAVE ROOM FOR PEOPLE TO EMERGE FROM THE ELEVATOR.

3. When the door opens, WAIT UNTIL EVERYBODY IS OUT BEFORE YOU GO IN.

4. The people coming out of the elevator have the right-of-way over the people going into the elevator.

5. WHEN THE ELEVATOR IS COMPLETELY EMPTY, then and only then, calmly walk towards the open door. Do not push. Do not shove. The elevator is not going anywhere. It’s not like a subway, or a train, or an airport shuttle. Step inside the elevator and position yourself as far away from the other passengers as possible. If the elevator is crowded, do not take up more than your fair share of space no matter what you might be carrying. Hold your packages close to your body. Pull your wheeled briefcase as close to you as possible. Do not allow your child to touch anything or anybody, or move away from you for any reason.

6. Anyone who farts or who has a lighted cigarette in an elevator is fair game for murder. Nobody will tell on you. Everybody will help. You might even get a medal. If not, you should.

7. Once inside the elevator, do not reach across people to push a button. If your button is not already glowing, ask someone near the buttons to push it for you. Be sure to say please, and thank them nicely when they do it. Do not use a tone of voice that suggests that you’ve seen too many old movies about buildings that employ an actual elevator man.

8. If you stink, take the stairs. I’m not kidding.

9. ESPECIALLY do not violate #’s 2 and 3.

10 If you violate #’s 2 and 3, you are an idiot. “Dummies” books are beyond your intellect. You suck. You’re probably ugly. Your mother dresses you funny. You smell bad. Nobody likes you. Your spouse is changing the locks as we speak. Your children tell their friends that you are the boarder, and that their real parent  lives in Paris and films documentaries.

There. Now you know one way to tell smart people from stupid people, and nice people from rude people. It’s a pretty good indicator.

Elevator etiquette is a kind of social media, you know. When you or your representative behave like a tool in the elevator, I consider that to be an indication of how you conduct your business and treat people in general. And if I see you doing any of the above things, then no, thank you very much;  I’m no longer interested in doing business with you. Rude and stupid outside the office = rude and stupid inside the office.

“Let me sum up,” as Inigo Montoya might say.

BEHAVE YOURSELF.

Rude, crude people used to be the exception, and everybody else pointed and laughed at them. Sadly, rude crude people are now the norm, and sometimes I think they’re competing with each other for the rudest crudest simpletonian  numbskull award.

There would be a lot of ties.  Someone would probably turn it into a reality show.