My brother has been reading my posts, and we were recently discussing our traumatizing childhood event over roller skates.
It begins with a question: How can you keep up with your friends when your parents are constantly holding you back? Living in southern Turkey was bad enough what with only three English-speaking television shows. My sister, brother, and I were forced to play outside, come up with our own diversions, and play with our friends. Normally, that wouldn’t be too bad, but this one particular summer it seemed as though all our friends had roller skates while we had none. Nothing can be more pathetic than having your friends skate down the street while you run after them.
Of course, my parents felt that they had a good reason for ruining our lives. They insisted that skating was too dangerous. Indeed, my friends had all sorts of bumps, bruises, scrapes, sprains, and assorted markings of every size. Our area had no sidewalks, so kids skated on the uneven roads dodging cars. Any little stone could be a hazard and pitch you forward onto an oncoming car. Kids soon discovered that at the end of the road, you could skate in the medical center’s ambulance lot. There the concrete was smooth, and the ambulances warned you with a blast of the siren to get out of the way when they had to leave or return. My parents felt that having to get out of the way of a speeding ambulance was dangerous, too. “If your friends jumped off of a cliff, would you?” they asked. “No,” I said thinking that was a dumb question. My friends didn’t jump off of cliffs. They roller skated in an ambulance lot.
Having had enough of our pleading, puppy-dog faces, my mother said she would get us skates. I should have been suspicious because my mother didn’t usually cave in so easily. What my mother produced was one pair of red, plastic skates to be shared among the three of us. Our friends had the real metal skates. You placed your heel against the back support with the straps to hold it in, your toe in the brace, and then tightened it with a key so it didn’t slip apart. Ours didn’t even have a key – just an extra yellow strap. To make matters worse, we were not allowed out of mom’s eyesight with the skates. We had to practice on a patch of hard dirt in our yard until she was convinced we knew what we were doing. If my parents were out to stunt our social growth (as I long suspected), these plastic skates were the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes.
The summer faded, school started, and the plastic skates were forgotten. This was not because of the weather. We never got snow in our area of Turkey. We put them away because the whole joy of skating was sufficiently killed and buried. But as luck would have it, the forces of nature came together to create a miracle. Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus, got wind of our dire situation. Kids may be starving in China and begging in India (as my parents constantly reminded us), but he had deemed our embarrassing predicament as worthy of utmost attention.
That was why on Christmas morning, three special packages were waiting to be ripped open. To our everlasting surprise, we were presented each with our own pair of roller skates. We were so surprised that we just stared at the lids of the boxes. The picture on the lids showed not just any skates but real, honest-to-goodness boot skates. After this pause, we opened the boxes and pulled out our skates. The skates for my sister and I were white leather while my brother had black. Without any hesitation we slipped them on (even though we didn’t have on any socks) and began gliding on the carpet of the living room. Santa had totally come through. He had brought us from the deepest despair to the highest peak of delight. And no way was I prepared to give my parents even the least bit credit. I gave credit only to the Spirit of Christmas which had somehow managed to roll over their heads, back up, and roll over them again. I did say a hearty thank you to them, though, mostly so they wouldn’t get mad and take the skates back.
Skating with our friends made up for the emotional torture.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
From the Amazon to Home: A Journey in Easy Steps
I just finished reading River of Doubt. The book was lent to me by Laurie, and it chronicles the travels of Teddy Roosevelt in South America. A truly remarkable journey, it reminds readers just what kind of man was Roosevelt. The expedition suffered many hardships almost right from the start. As I read the book, I imagined myself taking the journey with today's modern conveniences, imagining what it must have been like for Roosevelt and the rest of the expedition. However, an important point is made by Roosevelt's son Kermit. He explains it is when conditions worsen, that a person's true self comes out. I guess that leaves me out.
Caveman and I had the same reaction when we read about trips up Mt. Everest. We both imagined what it might be like to go - even just up to Camp 1. When Everest came out at our IMAX theater, we went with enthusiasm. However, as soon as they showed climbers crossing a crevasse with nothing more than a regular aluminum ladder, a rope, and oversized boots, we both looked at each other and said, "NO WAY!"
A few weeks later, Caveman suggested that maybe we plan an extended hiking trip. I suggested the Appalachian Trail. He asked if there were one closer to home. I explained that there was the Colorado Trail. He was very keyed up about it until I bought a book about the Colorado Trail complete with photos by John Fielder. Caveman responded, "So what's the Appalachian Trail like?"
So Caveman now wanted to plan a trip out East complete with supplies sent ahead, places to camp, and sites to see. Then he read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson chronicling one saga on the Appalachian Trail. At one point in the story, an intrepid hiker jettisons his gear before even making the trailhead. Caveman hasn't brought up the hike since.
Sometimes we even have difficulty in Vegas. There was the time I wore new tennis shoes on the trip and developed blisters on my toes. The heat was 107 at 7:00 in the morning. I know this because our room had a view of a bank's thermometer flashing the temperature. Caveman insisted on walking to every casino on the strip in order to get their free coupons. I limped behind complaining of the heat and my feet. This brought out Caveman's superior male attitude forged millions of years ago in the primordial soup. He pointed out that with just a little imagination, he could "feel the cool breezes coming off the mountains." I pointed out that the cool breeze was the air conditioning coming out of the casinos to lure in gamblers (or gambol"ers" as was our case). I wished to be lured in, even reeled in, and at this point I would have gladly given all my money to put my ass down on a chair for an hour and drink. To make matters worse, with every free coupon, I won! Caveman became indignant that the the Gambling Gods were rewarding the person who didn't really want the coupons.
I say sometimes we have difficulty in Vegas because Caveman and I both agree that the next Vegas trip was the best ever. That's the trip where the Rio screwed up our room and so they gave us one their penthouses for a night. Talk about luxury! The bathroom was bigger than the room we eventually got. And in the penthouse, they don't post signs that say, "Please reuse your towels if possible to conserve water." The penthouse people get fresh towels even if someone else has to go without ice cubes in their drink. We even asked what it would cost to have it for another night, but the hotel refused. It seems that by checking our casino cards, the casino noted that we had not gambled during that 24 hour period. Like a couple of hicks, we had stayed in the room the whole time simply admiring the marble, the carpeting, and the big screen TV. The room was given only to big gamblers, or in our case, temporary lodging.
And I guess, that kinda sums up the travellers we really are. We are willing to see extreme locations as long as we can do it from the window of a comfortable vehicle or watch a documentary on the Travel Channel in the comfort of our own home.
Caveman and I had the same reaction when we read about trips up Mt. Everest. We both imagined what it might be like to go - even just up to Camp 1. When Everest came out at our IMAX theater, we went with enthusiasm. However, as soon as they showed climbers crossing a crevasse with nothing more than a regular aluminum ladder, a rope, and oversized boots, we both looked at each other and said, "NO WAY!"
A few weeks later, Caveman suggested that maybe we plan an extended hiking trip. I suggested the Appalachian Trail. He asked if there were one closer to home. I explained that there was the Colorado Trail. He was very keyed up about it until I bought a book about the Colorado Trail complete with photos by John Fielder. Caveman responded, "So what's the Appalachian Trail like?"
So Caveman now wanted to plan a trip out East complete with supplies sent ahead, places to camp, and sites to see. Then he read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson chronicling one saga on the Appalachian Trail. At one point in the story, an intrepid hiker jettisons his gear before even making the trailhead. Caveman hasn't brought up the hike since.
Sometimes we even have difficulty in Vegas. There was the time I wore new tennis shoes on the trip and developed blisters on my toes. The heat was 107 at 7:00 in the morning. I know this because our room had a view of a bank's thermometer flashing the temperature. Caveman insisted on walking to every casino on the strip in order to get their free coupons. I limped behind complaining of the heat and my feet. This brought out Caveman's superior male attitude forged millions of years ago in the primordial soup. He pointed out that with just a little imagination, he could "feel the cool breezes coming off the mountains." I pointed out that the cool breeze was the air conditioning coming out of the casinos to lure in gamblers (or gambol"ers" as was our case). I wished to be lured in, even reeled in, and at this point I would have gladly given all my money to put my ass down on a chair for an hour and drink. To make matters worse, with every free coupon, I won! Caveman became indignant that the the Gambling Gods were rewarding the person who didn't really want the coupons.
I say sometimes we have difficulty in Vegas because Caveman and I both agree that the next Vegas trip was the best ever. That's the trip where the Rio screwed up our room and so they gave us one their penthouses for a night. Talk about luxury! The bathroom was bigger than the room we eventually got. And in the penthouse, they don't post signs that say, "Please reuse your towels if possible to conserve water." The penthouse people get fresh towels even if someone else has to go without ice cubes in their drink. We even asked what it would cost to have it for another night, but the hotel refused. It seems that by checking our casino cards, the casino noted that we had not gambled during that 24 hour period. Like a couple of hicks, we had stayed in the room the whole time simply admiring the marble, the carpeting, and the big screen TV. The room was given only to big gamblers, or in our case, temporary lodging.
And I guess, that kinda sums up the travellers we really are. We are willing to see extreme locations as long as we can do it from the window of a comfortable vehicle or watch a documentary on the Travel Channel in the comfort of our own home.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Bus Rides and Crows
Dandy Girl recently had her first bus ride, and it reminded me of the infamous bus ride story in my own family.
My sister sister announced at the dinner table that she and my brother wanted to walk to the bus stop alone. “No.” My sister pointed out that I got to walk to my bus stop alone. "No." My sister begged. My mother saw that this was going to go on all night so she agreed with a sigh . . . and some warnings. “No going off with strangers, stay on the sidewalk, pay attention, . . .”
Of course, my mother had no intention of letting them go by themselves. Breakfast the next morning was eaten excitedly as my brother and sister anticipated their certain independence. My mother said goodbye to them and closed the door, letting them begin their march towards the bus stop. Only moments later the door reopened and my mother set off after them keeping a safe distance.
True to their word, the pair of them headed straight for the bus stop and made no detours, talked with no strangers, and stayed on the sidewalk. Arriving early, they stood talking and were oblivious to the fact that my mother stood only a few feet away listening to their conversation.
“Look at those birds.” My brother was pointing to a line of crows that were perched on a telephone wire.
My sister looked upset, “You know what those are. Those are mom’s birds.” My brother looked puzzled. “You know. Mom always says, ‘a little bird told me’. Those are mom’s birds spying on us.” Picture them throwing rocks towards a telephone line. You can guess that not one throw came even close.
Other kids began arriving, so they stopped with the rocks. Soon after that, the bus came and they boarded. My mom went home satisfied that they were okay. When the two of them got back home, my mom asked them about their day. They told her that they had done exactly as she told them and had no problems catching the bus.
“Yes, I know you did what I said. My little birds told me,” my mother said with a smile. Then her voice became just a little more stern. “But they asked that you not throw rocks at them. It only makes them mad.” The pair of them stood shocked. The birds had told on them! They promised to never try to hurt her birds again.
I had to explain that one to them later.
My sister sister announced at the dinner table that she and my brother wanted to walk to the bus stop alone. “No.” My sister pointed out that I got to walk to my bus stop alone. "No." My sister begged. My mother saw that this was going to go on all night so she agreed with a sigh . . . and some warnings. “No going off with strangers, stay on the sidewalk, pay attention, . . .”
Of course, my mother had no intention of letting them go by themselves. Breakfast the next morning was eaten excitedly as my brother and sister anticipated their certain independence. My mother said goodbye to them and closed the door, letting them begin their march towards the bus stop. Only moments later the door reopened and my mother set off after them keeping a safe distance.
True to their word, the pair of them headed straight for the bus stop and made no detours, talked with no strangers, and stayed on the sidewalk. Arriving early, they stood talking and were oblivious to the fact that my mother stood only a few feet away listening to their conversation.
“Look at those birds.” My brother was pointing to a line of crows that were perched on a telephone wire.
My sister looked upset, “You know what those are. Those are mom’s birds.” My brother looked puzzled. “You know. Mom always says, ‘a little bird told me’. Those are mom’s birds spying on us.” Picture them throwing rocks towards a telephone line. You can guess that not one throw came even close.
Other kids began arriving, so they stopped with the rocks. Soon after that, the bus came and they boarded. My mom went home satisfied that they were okay. When the two of them got back home, my mom asked them about their day. They told her that they had done exactly as she told them and had no problems catching the bus.
“Yes, I know you did what I said. My little birds told me,” my mother said with a smile. Then her voice became just a little more stern. “But they asked that you not throw rocks at them. It only makes them mad.” The pair of them stood shocked. The birds had told on them! They promised to never try to hurt her birds again.
I had to explain that one to them later.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Wonderful Summer Day
Sorry that I haven't posted on my blog for awhile. Now that school is out, I've managed to catch up on gardening, paperwork, visiting friends and family. As my good friend Laurie pointed out, it means I have a real life, and I don't have time for my virtual one. Of course, she's the self-proclaimed Blog Whore.
The truth is that blogging is a great way to procrastinate. So when I was blogging, I was really avoiding doing schoolwork. Now the truth is out! With summer here, there's been nothing to put off. But I swore I would start blogging again.
Actually, Laurie came over today with her daughter. She is soooo sweet and adorable (the daughter, not Laurie - see Blog Whore above). Her daughter is very precious, but Laurie assures me that she is not always so. Oh well, she is sweet for me, and I get to spoil her. We managed to pick some apples and bake an apple pie. We also picked some cherries and plums. There was a nice breeze and it felt good for us to sit on the patio. Good friends, good food, yes, a wonderful summer day.
The truth is that blogging is a great way to procrastinate. So when I was blogging, I was really avoiding doing schoolwork. Now the truth is out! With summer here, there's been nothing to put off. But I swore I would start blogging again.
Actually, Laurie came over today with her daughter. She is soooo sweet and adorable (the daughter, not Laurie - see Blog Whore above). Her daughter is very precious, but Laurie assures me that she is not always so. Oh well, she is sweet for me, and I get to spoil her. We managed to pick some apples and bake an apple pie. We also picked some cherries and plums. There was a nice breeze and it felt good for us to sit on the patio. Good friends, good food, yes, a wonderful summer day.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sprung a Leak
I have not been online for awhile. Things have been a bit unsettling. First, my truck was in the shop for three weeks for a dent in the door. I suppose if it had been my front end, we'd be in flying cars by the time I got my truck back. I do not like being without my truck because I don't like being displaced. Must be some psychological thing connected to all the moving I did as a kid.
And speaking of being displaced, a leak was found in my classroom. It seems that the mechanisms to the sprinkler system lie hidden behind a secret compartment in my classroom. Sometime this Spring, a part broke leaking water behind the wall, underneath the concrete, up through some drilled holes, and through the carpeting. By the time I spotted the first signs of water, the damage had been done. So myself and 21 5th graders were placed in a room half the size while the district dealt with fixing, repairing, and relaying. O.K. So I'm back with new carpeting, but it wasn't easy. Try being displaced in the Spring with 21 5th graders at the end of the school year in a small (and noticeably smelly) room.
My experience is that leaks happen at the most inopportune time. Take the last time, for instance.
Now I must preface this by saying that at the time, I had been experiencing an inordinate amount of stress that had finally shown as physical symptoms: chest pains, nausea, high blood pressure, numbness. You tell yourself you're too young to be having a heart attack, but then why do you have four of the five major symptoms? So I call my doctor, who says get to an emergency room.
So I drove myself. In retrospect, probably not the brightest decision. I guess I was too busy thinking, I'm too young to have a heart attack. I am, however, never too young to have a car crash. Fortunately, that did not happen. I sped down the road to the hospital at 2:00 a.m. This only stressed me more which made the pain sharper. Guess what I discovered! There's never a cop when you need one. When in pain, you can go speeding down the road driving through stop signs and they're not there. I actually had to go find one at a police substation where they called an ambulance.
Anyway, I made it and . . . . the results were inconclusive. Not a heart attack. Maybe stress. Maybe my thyroid. Maybe . . . .
Two weeks later, I get a call at about 8:00 a.m. Can I come down to the hospital to discuss the final results? They have a time now. So I rushed down there. Guess what I discovered! There's always a cop when you don't need one. Yes, just a block from the hospital, I got caught for speeding . . . in a school zone. Now I was guilty, and the cop was very nice, and I should know better. Why get upset? As the officer finished he said, "Hopefully, the rest of your day won't be as bad." I smiled, thanked him, and made it to the hospital without any further event. The final results: still inconclusive.
As I headed home, I thought about the officer, "Hopefully, the rest of your day won't be that bad." I realized what had happened. HE CURSED ME! Yes, I am one of those who believe that this single, haphazard comment meant to soothe was actually turned into a curse by the placement of the word "hopefully." ( I know this sounds weird, but just hang in there.)
I had just received a $138 ticket in exchange for the words "inconclusive." I could have stayed home for that! When I arrived home, I didn't even have time to tell Caveman what had happened. He informed me that the pipes had backed up and the basement had flooded. He was busily trying to find the source of the trouble while mopping, soaking, and moving electrical wiring. A call to the insurance company (and a large deductible) got us some help and equipment. Afterwards, I went straight to bed and pulled the covers over my head. Caveman's pleas that it was only 3:30 in the afternoon could not allay my fears.
Long story short ("Too late," as my brother would say), I don't like when my routine is changed, and that's why I haven't posted for awhile.
And speaking of being displaced, a leak was found in my classroom. It seems that the mechanisms to the sprinkler system lie hidden behind a secret compartment in my classroom. Sometime this Spring, a part broke leaking water behind the wall, underneath the concrete, up through some drilled holes, and through the carpeting. By the time I spotted the first signs of water, the damage had been done. So myself and 21 5th graders were placed in a room half the size while the district dealt with fixing, repairing, and relaying. O.K. So I'm back with new carpeting, but it wasn't easy. Try being displaced in the Spring with 21 5th graders at the end of the school year in a small (and noticeably smelly) room.
My experience is that leaks happen at the most inopportune time. Take the last time, for instance.
Now I must preface this by saying that at the time, I had been experiencing an inordinate amount of stress that had finally shown as physical symptoms: chest pains, nausea, high blood pressure, numbness. You tell yourself you're too young to be having a heart attack, but then why do you have four of the five major symptoms? So I call my doctor, who says get to an emergency room.
So I drove myself. In retrospect, probably not the brightest decision. I guess I was too busy thinking, I'm too young to have a heart attack. I am, however, never too young to have a car crash. Fortunately, that did not happen. I sped down the road to the hospital at 2:00 a.m. This only stressed me more which made the pain sharper. Guess what I discovered! There's never a cop when you need one. When in pain, you can go speeding down the road driving through stop signs and they're not there. I actually had to go find one at a police substation where they called an ambulance.
Anyway, I made it and . . . . the results were inconclusive. Not a heart attack. Maybe stress. Maybe my thyroid. Maybe . . . .
Two weeks later, I get a call at about 8:00 a.m. Can I come down to the hospital to discuss the final results? They have a time now. So I rushed down there. Guess what I discovered! There's always a cop when you don't need one. Yes, just a block from the hospital, I got caught for speeding . . . in a school zone. Now I was guilty, and the cop was very nice, and I should know better. Why get upset? As the officer finished he said, "Hopefully, the rest of your day won't be as bad." I smiled, thanked him, and made it to the hospital without any further event. The final results: still inconclusive.
As I headed home, I thought about the officer, "Hopefully, the rest of your day won't be that bad." I realized what had happened. HE CURSED ME! Yes, I am one of those who believe that this single, haphazard comment meant to soothe was actually turned into a curse by the placement of the word "hopefully." ( I know this sounds weird, but just hang in there.)
I had just received a $138 ticket in exchange for the words "inconclusive." I could have stayed home for that! When I arrived home, I didn't even have time to tell Caveman what had happened. He informed me that the pipes had backed up and the basement had flooded. He was busily trying to find the source of the trouble while mopping, soaking, and moving electrical wiring. A call to the insurance company (and a large deductible) got us some help and equipment. Afterwards, I went straight to bed and pulled the covers over my head. Caveman's pleas that it was only 3:30 in the afternoon could not allay my fears.
Long story short ("Too late," as my brother would say), I don't like when my routine is changed, and that's why I haven't posted for awhile.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Parking Spots, Chicago Weather, and Mom's Cooking
A.K.A GOOD LUCK
I do have good luck in some aspects of life. Not buying a winning lottery tickets, of course, but in little things that make life just a bit more pleasant. For example, I can usually score when getting a parking spot at a crowded store. This has happened so often, that friends and and family refer to the phenomena as "The Luck of Liz." We'll pull in to a mall lot packed with weekend shoppers and invariably get a spot a couple of spaces away from the door. Caveman will say, "The Luck of Liz is working again!" One time a dear friend and I needed to go to Walmart. On a weekend. The weekend before Christmas. I got a spot right next to the handicapped spots (if not for the handicapped spots, I bet I could get closer). My friend commented that she always knew of the Luck of Liz, but was now a true believer. Can I get an Amen!
I also have good luck with weather when visiting Chicago. July is comfortable. December is comfortable. When I go there in the summer to visit friends and in-laws, neighbors will warn that I'm in for a Hot One. Instead, I get 80 degrees with low humidity. In the winter when we go out for the holidays, I get mid-50's to low 60's and clear skies. Usually it's snowy and cold back home while I'm in Chicago wearing a sweater. Can I get an Amen!
Caveman has his own kind of luck. He was always able to get a decently cooked meal from my mother. My mom was never the greatest cook, but Caveman always got her best. The meat was not one step away from shoe leather and the vegetables looked and tasted appealing. I never said anything to Caveman but let him assume that she was always that way. I mean, why make things difficult with a man and his mother-in-law?
As we all know, luck doesn't always hold out. Such was true for Caveman.
It all began on a Thanksgiving Day. Caveman had to work on Thanksgiving Day, so we had made arrangements to have dinner with my mother the next day (Friday). In the meantime, I had Thanksgiving dinner with my good friend, her children, her mother, her brother, and his family. Now, I should mention that the brother and his family lived in the same city as my mother and brother. They came with a copy of that day's paper which featured an article on the top chefs of the city and their holiday meal memories. Of course my brother, an excellent chef and highly regarded as such in the city, mentioned that my mother was not good at cooking. As I read the article, I could only imagine my mother's reaction. My brother was not on her Good List as it was, and anticipating her reaction was like slowing down to watch a wreck off the side of the road. At the same time, my friends and I couldn't help but joke about the situation as I described growing up in an anti-epicurean environment.
As Caveman and I drove to visit my mother and stepfather the next day, I filled him in on the article and what to expect when we got to my mother's. Caveman looked at me surprised. "I never thought her cooking was that bad." "Honey, it's time you knew the truth. You just seemed to always catch her on her good days." We arrived. As soon as we were comfortably ensconced on the sofa, she began talking about my brother. Now in all truth, my mother always talked about us to the others which was the cause of a lot of unnecessary arguments. So I just kept changing the subject. Finally it was time to sit down for the meal. We pulled up our chairs, said a blessing, and began to dig in. In this case, "dig" seems appropriate. I found myself wishing I could dig a hole, put the food in, and cover it up. I'm sure there are rules about starting landfills in neighborhoods.
The meat was cooked in such a way as to assure the eater that the animal was indeed dead. The vegetables were cooked long enough to insure the no longer had any nutritional value. The mashed potatoes floated on top of the gravy. There was enough salt on each dish to make a cow happy. Hey, it was a Thanksgiving just like the ones I grew up with!
We slowly managed to finish our plates with the "Oh no, I'm full . . . couldn't eat another bite." The evening was finished with goodbyes and hugs followed by a speedy getaway. "Thank God that's over," I said. "Now do you see what I grew up with?"
Caveman replied, "I'm so glad you brought it up. I didn't want to say anything, but that was awful. I've never had a meal so bad."
"Well, now that you know, let's do another holiday tradition in my family. Pull over to a convenience store." He did and we bought a six-pack . . . of water! The rest of the drive was spent with more howling of laughter about my growing up with food no one would eat without spilling a lot of tears.
Now, you know I love irony, but even I wasn't prepared for the following day. I got a phone call that my mother had died from a massive coronary. There were a couple of members of the family who blamed my brother and the news article. The truth, dear reader, is that she never took care of herself, smoked all day, and never ate properly. Her doctor had warned her many times about this. Don't get me wrong, I really cared about her, but she lived life on her own terms. She lived life the way she wanted, and to blame her death on someone else is disrespectful to her.
If all of us can accept the life we've made for ourselves, we're very lucky indeed.
I do have good luck in some aspects of life. Not buying a winning lottery tickets, of course, but in little things that make life just a bit more pleasant. For example, I can usually score when getting a parking spot at a crowded store. This has happened so often, that friends and and family refer to the phenomena as "The Luck of Liz." We'll pull in to a mall lot packed with weekend shoppers and invariably get a spot a couple of spaces away from the door. Caveman will say, "The Luck of Liz is working again!" One time a dear friend and I needed to go to Walmart. On a weekend. The weekend before Christmas. I got a spot right next to the handicapped spots (if not for the handicapped spots, I bet I could get closer). My friend commented that she always knew of the Luck of Liz, but was now a true believer. Can I get an Amen!
I also have good luck with weather when visiting Chicago. July is comfortable. December is comfortable. When I go there in the summer to visit friends and in-laws, neighbors will warn that I'm in for a Hot One. Instead, I get 80 degrees with low humidity. In the winter when we go out for the holidays, I get mid-50's to low 60's and clear skies. Usually it's snowy and cold back home while I'm in Chicago wearing a sweater. Can I get an Amen!
Caveman has his own kind of luck. He was always able to get a decently cooked meal from my mother. My mom was never the greatest cook, but Caveman always got her best. The meat was not one step away from shoe leather and the vegetables looked and tasted appealing. I never said anything to Caveman but let him assume that she was always that way. I mean, why make things difficult with a man and his mother-in-law?
As we all know, luck doesn't always hold out. Such was true for Caveman.
It all began on a Thanksgiving Day. Caveman had to work on Thanksgiving Day, so we had made arrangements to have dinner with my mother the next day (Friday). In the meantime, I had Thanksgiving dinner with my good friend, her children, her mother, her brother, and his family. Now, I should mention that the brother and his family lived in the same city as my mother and brother. They came with a copy of that day's paper which featured an article on the top chefs of the city and their holiday meal memories. Of course my brother, an excellent chef and highly regarded as such in the city, mentioned that my mother was not good at cooking. As I read the article, I could only imagine my mother's reaction. My brother was not on her Good List as it was, and anticipating her reaction was like slowing down to watch a wreck off the side of the road. At the same time, my friends and I couldn't help but joke about the situation as I described growing up in an anti-epicurean environment.
As Caveman and I drove to visit my mother and stepfather the next day, I filled him in on the article and what to expect when we got to my mother's. Caveman looked at me surprised. "I never thought her cooking was that bad." "Honey, it's time you knew the truth. You just seemed to always catch her on her good days." We arrived. As soon as we were comfortably ensconced on the sofa, she began talking about my brother. Now in all truth, my mother always talked about us to the others which was the cause of a lot of unnecessary arguments. So I just kept changing the subject. Finally it was time to sit down for the meal. We pulled up our chairs, said a blessing, and began to dig in. In this case, "dig" seems appropriate. I found myself wishing I could dig a hole, put the food in, and cover it up. I'm sure there are rules about starting landfills in neighborhoods.
The meat was cooked in such a way as to assure the eater that the animal was indeed dead. The vegetables were cooked long enough to insure the no longer had any nutritional value. The mashed potatoes floated on top of the gravy. There was enough salt on each dish to make a cow happy. Hey, it was a Thanksgiving just like the ones I grew up with!
We slowly managed to finish our plates with the "Oh no, I'm full . . . couldn't eat another bite." The evening was finished with goodbyes and hugs followed by a speedy getaway. "Thank God that's over," I said. "Now do you see what I grew up with?"
Caveman replied, "I'm so glad you brought it up. I didn't want to say anything, but that was awful. I've never had a meal so bad."
"Well, now that you know, let's do another holiday tradition in my family. Pull over to a convenience store." He did and we bought a six-pack . . . of water! The rest of the drive was spent with more howling of laughter about my growing up with food no one would eat without spilling a lot of tears.
Now, you know I love irony, but even I wasn't prepared for the following day. I got a phone call that my mother had died from a massive coronary. There were a couple of members of the family who blamed my brother and the news article. The truth, dear reader, is that she never took care of herself, smoked all day, and never ate properly. Her doctor had warned her many times about this. Don't get me wrong, I really cared about her, but she lived life on her own terms. She lived life the way she wanted, and to blame her death on someone else is disrespectful to her.
If all of us can accept the life we've made for ourselves, we're very lucky indeed.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Hiring and Firing
A.K.A. BAD LUCK
One of my teammates finished the year last week. She went on maternity leave as she is expecting her first bundle of joy. I know that she will make a great mother. She is very wise to begin with, and her years of teaching experience will only help her in her understanding. She will not be back next year because she and her husband are moving to Texas. She will be missed.
So last week, one of my teammates and myself were faced with interviewing a prospective replacement. It is, at times, a daunting task. Although we are not interviewing for the position of "best friend," you do hope for professionalism and a spirit of camaraderie.
To make matters difficult, I have THE WORST LUCK when it comes to hiring. My luck is so bad that at my last school, it was a running joke.
It begins thus:
One of my teammates finished the year last week. She went on maternity leave as she is expecting her first bundle of joy. I know that she will make a great mother. She is very wise to begin with, and her years of teaching experience will only help her in her understanding. She will not be back next year because she and her husband are moving to Texas. She will be missed.
So last week, one of my teammates and myself were faced with interviewing a prospective replacement. It is, at times, a daunting task. Although we are not interviewing for the position of "best friend," you do hope for professionalism and a spirit of camaraderie.
To make matters difficult, I have THE WORST LUCK when it comes to hiring. My luck is so bad that at my last school, it was a running joke.
It begins thus:
- Person being interviewed seems completely sane and fits the requirements.
- Person is hired and begins on normal learning curve.
- Person becomes insane and must either be fired or given fewer and fewer tasks.
Take my assistant X. X was a college graduate with a bright future. Needing some money while attending grad school, he applied for the position of assistant for 5th grade. At first, X was able to complete errands and help students in a reasonable manner. Then, my teammate and I began to notice some rather "peculiar" behavior. Being it was the fall of 1999, X kept a "countdown notebook" in anticipation of the millennium. It was filled with lists of numbers that were calculations as to the time remaining in the year, and he would do it in place of his other duties. Obviously, our needs were too mundane.
There was the time the phone rang and my teammate asked X to "get that for her." He yanked it out of the wall and handed it to her. Yanked. Handed. Wall. Hole. I kid you not. When our maintenance man saw the hole, he threatened to kill X stating, "No jury in the world would convict me." Perhaps it was just as well that our maintenance man moved to Wisconsin soon after. Unfortunately, we just gave X fewer and fewer tasks. I could tell you more, but I must move on to Y.
Y was also hired for the position of assistant the year after X. He seemed competent to run errands and make copies. It turns out, he had no understanding of children and could not help even in a one-on-one situation. Now Y was a former Israeli soldier in the U.S. to complete his med degree. Each morning, Y would check the Israeli newspapers and read the obituaries to see if he knew anybody. If it was one of his fellow compatriots, he would come upstairs in tears and be completely useless for the rest of the day. We eventually just sent him home on those mornings. Our pleas to the A.P. were helpful. She at least got him to check the papers in the afternoon, but it didn't matter. He was incapable of helping us out much.
Then there was Z who was hired as our assistant the following year after Y. Z was quite capable of doing all our tasks and helping the kids. We began to notice that the kids didn't really want his help and tried to avoid him. Often one of them came back from recess in tears, but begged us not to go into it saying Z had handled it. We began to realize that Z was a nut. He told the kids they were sinners when they misbehaved and going to burn in hell if they didn't repent. The kids were terrified of him. All our discussions on how to help and encourage children fell on deaf ears, and he was let go.
I could tell you more, but you get the idea. I have bad luck in this area. In our current interviews, I deferred to my teammate whose wisdom and instincts I trust. However, if it doesn't work out, it means the curse has followed me.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Bump and Grind
Yesterday was very strange. Yours truly dented her own vehicle!
I had decided to take the day off in order to go to some appointments. I had been able to schedule a doctor's appointment for a yearly check-up and a much needed eye appointment. After having a chance to sleep in (so lack of rest was no excuse), I began to unload some stuff out of my back seat. I then jumped in the driver's seat and proceeded to back out of the garage. That's when I heard a crunch. I had forgotten to close the back door and it hit the post in our garage. The post was fine; my back door wouldn't close.
I brought Caveman out to survey the scene. As though things couldn't get worse, he was very supportive: meaning I couldn't even yell at him. I was stuck yelling at myself. So he suggested that I take his car to my doctor's appointment while he started calling the insurance company. Nothing says, "Have a nice day," like a dent, a $500 deductible, and a rectal exam!
When I got back, everything was in place. The tow truck was going to pick up the car. The driver would take me to the auto body shop to fill out forms. The auto body shop would have the rent-a-car people to pick me up and get me a rental. By mid-afternoon I was back home. I had had to cancel my eye appointment and reschedule, but that was ok. I was just glad to have a calm rest of the day as a vegetable ( I'm not sure which one, maybe a turnip).
In retrospect, the most bumming part was that prior to this, Caveman had been in the lead with stupid car accidents. Now we're tied. I know that he must must have been snickering gleefully on the inside. Given the past history, he'll take the lead again very soon.
Off to the races!
I had decided to take the day off in order to go to some appointments. I had been able to schedule a doctor's appointment for a yearly check-up and a much needed eye appointment. After having a chance to sleep in (so lack of rest was no excuse), I began to unload some stuff out of my back seat. I then jumped in the driver's seat and proceeded to back out of the garage. That's when I heard a crunch. I had forgotten to close the back door and it hit the post in our garage. The post was fine; my back door wouldn't close.
I brought Caveman out to survey the scene. As though things couldn't get worse, he was very supportive: meaning I couldn't even yell at him. I was stuck yelling at myself. So he suggested that I take his car to my doctor's appointment while he started calling the insurance company. Nothing says, "Have a nice day," like a dent, a $500 deductible, and a rectal exam!
When I got back, everything was in place. The tow truck was going to pick up the car. The driver would take me to the auto body shop to fill out forms. The auto body shop would have the rent-a-car people to pick me up and get me a rental. By mid-afternoon I was back home. I had had to cancel my eye appointment and reschedule, but that was ok. I was just glad to have a calm rest of the day as a vegetable ( I'm not sure which one, maybe a turnip).
In retrospect, the most bumming part was that prior to this, Caveman had been in the lead with stupid car accidents. Now we're tied. I know that he must must have been snickering gleefully on the inside. Given the past history, he'll take the lead again very soon.
Off to the races!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Listen to Me
My teammate has asked to blog more often. But, since working on the memoir unit with my students, I haven't had any extra time to write here. Of course she suggested including my memoir pieces, so here's one:
Listen to the Mustn’ts
by Shel Silverstein
Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me –
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
I was reading this poem by Shel Silverstein, and it made me think. There are always times when you SHOULDN’T or MUSTN’T. It’s important to follow the rules in order to stay safe and learn. But has someone ever used the words IMPOSSIBLE or WON’T. That happened to me.
When I was a junior in high school, I started doing research on colleges. Excitement bubbled at the possibility of being on my own, choosing my own goals and classes. Hours were spent examining the pages of catalogues. I looked at the brick buildings, the pictures of students walking on campus to their classes, and I imagined me in those pictures.
“What’s that you’re looking at?” the voice of my guidance counselor came from behind me.
“Princeton,” I replied. “They have a very good program for pre-law students, and that’s what I want to do.”
“Princeton? You have to have really top grades and money.”
I was surprised at how easily she dismissed my idea. “Well, I do have good grades and I’ll try for a scholarship. It can’t hurt to try. I plan on also trying for the University of Denver and Marquette University.”
My guidance counselor continued to argue with me. “Those are all tough schools. What about Pikes Peak Community College? Then if you like it, you can change to another school.”
Even now I wonder, did she really know me so little? I had talked with her for three years of high school. I thought she understood what I wanted in life. Was she afraid I might fail and lose confidence? I had shown I was not afraid to give up on anybody including myself. Was she not looking? Not listening?
“No,” I continued, “I want to go to a regular university and become a lawyer or even a political analyst. Going to a community college won’t help.”
She threw out a new idea. “What about the army?”
“Well, that’s really not me, but I guess I could take time to look up West Point.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
“You think I should just go straight to Officer Candidate School?”
“No, I don’t mean that either.”
It took me a second before I figured out what she was trying to say. She didn’t think I could get into any of those schools. She thought I should just take a class or two or join the army. I first I was deflated. My own guidance counselor doesn’t think I’ll make it despite good grades and determination. Then I felt anger. How dare she try to stomp on my dreams! I stormed out of there more determined than ever. In fact, I was determined to prove her wrong more than determined to get into college.
I guess looking back, it would be easy to say to point fingers and lay blame. What would be the point? She’s no longer a counselor, and I’m no longer a young kid. Just a deep, terrible sadness hangs around my heart, squeezing it tightly. Was there some kid at my high school who lacked confidence, who just needed a push in the right direction? Who knows where they might have gone had they just had someone to believe in them.
Now I’m a teacher, and I can whisper to you. Listen to me, students. Anything can be, can happen. Anything is possible.
Listen to the Mustn’ts
by Shel Silverstein
Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me –
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
I was reading this poem by Shel Silverstein, and it made me think. There are always times when you SHOULDN’T or MUSTN’T. It’s important to follow the rules in order to stay safe and learn. But has someone ever used the words IMPOSSIBLE or WON’T. That happened to me.
When I was a junior in high school, I started doing research on colleges. Excitement bubbled at the possibility of being on my own, choosing my own goals and classes. Hours were spent examining the pages of catalogues. I looked at the brick buildings, the pictures of students walking on campus to their classes, and I imagined me in those pictures.
“What’s that you’re looking at?” the voice of my guidance counselor came from behind me.
“Princeton,” I replied. “They have a very good program for pre-law students, and that’s what I want to do.”
“Princeton? You have to have really top grades and money.”
I was surprised at how easily she dismissed my idea. “Well, I do have good grades and I’ll try for a scholarship. It can’t hurt to try. I plan on also trying for the University of Denver and Marquette University.”
My guidance counselor continued to argue with me. “Those are all tough schools. What about Pikes Peak Community College? Then if you like it, you can change to another school.”
Even now I wonder, did she really know me so little? I had talked with her for three years of high school. I thought she understood what I wanted in life. Was she afraid I might fail and lose confidence? I had shown I was not afraid to give up on anybody including myself. Was she not looking? Not listening?
“No,” I continued, “I want to go to a regular university and become a lawyer or even a political analyst. Going to a community college won’t help.”
She threw out a new idea. “What about the army?”
“Well, that’s really not me, but I guess I could take time to look up West Point.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
“You think I should just go straight to Officer Candidate School?”
“No, I don’t mean that either.”
It took me a second before I figured out what she was trying to say. She didn’t think I could get into any of those schools. She thought I should just take a class or two or join the army. I first I was deflated. My own guidance counselor doesn’t think I’ll make it despite good grades and determination. Then I felt anger. How dare she try to stomp on my dreams! I stormed out of there more determined than ever. In fact, I was determined to prove her wrong more than determined to get into college.
I guess looking back, it would be easy to say to point fingers and lay blame. What would be the point? She’s no longer a counselor, and I’m no longer a young kid. Just a deep, terrible sadness hangs around my heart, squeezing it tightly. Was there some kid at my high school who lacked confidence, who just needed a push in the right direction? Who knows where they might have gone had they just had someone to believe in them.
Now I’m a teacher, and I can whisper to you. Listen to me, students. Anything can be, can happen. Anything is possible.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Better Off Going Home in a Kansas Tornado
Today my teammate and I were discussing our travels in Europe when she mentioned cab rides in Greece. This, of course, reminded me of my own travel stories - and one in particular.
My trip to Malta began on a bad note. When I say bad note, I mean it was as if the trip were heralded by a five-year-old on a trumpet with spit coming out of the horn. Blaaaaaattttt! It seems my aunt (in Idaho) had gotten a hold of my travel agent (in Denver) and offered what she thought was useful information. Air Malta in New York does not respond solely to faxes and emails about connecting flights; they want to be called. My agent responded that she had sent people to Malta before and not to worry. My aunt began the second sentence with, "Look b . . .," and it went downhill from there. I got some jolting phone calls from my aunt and agent. Turns out my aunt was right. Air Malta had not received and information about my connecting flight, but the situation was quickly fixed.
When in Malta, it is not recommended that you rent a car unless you are adequately insured. The island's roads are quite narrow from back in the time when they had donkeys and carts. Your car will need to be parked along the road where it is a target for oncoming traffic. Many is the vehicle that has had its mirrors smashed off by the city buses.
Speaking of buses, that is the most common form of transportation on the island. The routes are posted everywhere, and the times are accurate. The ride itself is another story. I was suspicious the moment I sat in my seat and the person following me entered the bus, genuflected, and made the sign of the cross. It seems a few more people entered the bus and did the same thing. It was while wondering if they knew something I didn't that I noticed the candles at the front of the bus. Their flames flickered beneath a picture of Madonna and Child (and I don't mean the singer and her adopted child from Malawi).
Whooooooshhh! The bus took off with a jolt. We were taken at high speeds on narrow roads through crowded towns. If you looked up ahead, you couldn't help notice a few things. One, the candles were bouncing merrily on the dash. Two, the bus driver was not looking at the road but smiling at a toddler as it sat on its mother's lap. The kid was laughing and making a lunge for the buttons next to the driver. Three, The Virgin Mary had a look of fear on her face, and tears were coming out of the corner of her eyes. If you looked out the back window, you saw the havoc that was left behind. Too bad about that guy's busted passenger mirror.
I suppose if you wanted to avoid wheeled transportation , you could go around the island by water. I had been on several types of boats on this trip when seeing the sights. One was a small fishing boat owned by a cousin. When I say small, I mean it was a rowboat with a motor. He insisted that holding a half dozen people was perfectly okay. Hmmmm. The second was a glass-bottom tour boat meant to hold about three dozen people. You could look through the glass and see the fish of the bay and the rock formations.
Turns out, you can also see Jesus. That's right. To commemorate the fact that Saint Paul brought Catholicism to the island, the people put a statue of Jesus in the bay where Paul's ship wrecked on the coast. Tourists can take pictures of the statue or buy postcards instead. I don't know if Jesus is crying. It's hard to tell in the water. I imagine he's thinking that it might have been better to put a lighthouse up instead. I could be wrong.
I also took a larger tour boat around the whole island. It's while you're about 2-3 miles from the coast that you realize this isn't America. There are no life vests, no fire extinguishers, and no such thing as law suits. There are, instead, several elderly passengers, a jovial "captain", and a picture of Madonna and child (still not the singer) complete with burning candles.
Leaving the island was eventful, too. The people who rented the apartment to us provided a truck to take us to the airport. The small vehicle held the driver, my aunt in the passenger seat, myself tangled up with the gear shift, and my uncle sitting on the luggage in the back. They left via British Airways, and I left via Air Malta/Continental. Flying into Gatwick, my pilot had to pull up because the fog was so thick he couldn't see the runway. And on my connecting flight to Dallas, a group of born-again Christians chose me as their next project and tried to convert me through sleep deprivation. Seriously. The person in the seat next to me sang Bible songs whenever I turned my head into the pillow to sleep.
Finally, after 26 hours my other connecting flight to Denver touched down. I hope no one got hurt in my rush to get home!
My trip to Malta began on a bad note. When I say bad note, I mean it was as if the trip were heralded by a five-year-old on a trumpet with spit coming out of the horn. Blaaaaaattttt! It seems my aunt (in Idaho) had gotten a hold of my travel agent (in Denver) and offered what she thought was useful information. Air Malta in New York does not respond solely to faxes and emails about connecting flights; they want to be called. My agent responded that she had sent people to Malta before and not to worry. My aunt began the second sentence with, "Look b . . .," and it went downhill from there. I got some jolting phone calls from my aunt and agent. Turns out my aunt was right. Air Malta had not received and information about my connecting flight, but the situation was quickly fixed.
When in Malta, it is not recommended that you rent a car unless you are adequately insured. The island's roads are quite narrow from back in the time when they had donkeys and carts. Your car will need to be parked along the road where it is a target for oncoming traffic. Many is the vehicle that has had its mirrors smashed off by the city buses.
Speaking of buses, that is the most common form of transportation on the island. The routes are posted everywhere, and the times are accurate. The ride itself is another story. I was suspicious the moment I sat in my seat and the person following me entered the bus, genuflected, and made the sign of the cross. It seems a few more people entered the bus and did the same thing. It was while wondering if they knew something I didn't that I noticed the candles at the front of the bus. Their flames flickered beneath a picture of Madonna and Child (and I don't mean the singer and her adopted child from Malawi).
Whooooooshhh! The bus took off with a jolt. We were taken at high speeds on narrow roads through crowded towns. If you looked up ahead, you couldn't help notice a few things. One, the candles were bouncing merrily on the dash. Two, the bus driver was not looking at the road but smiling at a toddler as it sat on its mother's lap. The kid was laughing and making a lunge for the buttons next to the driver. Three, The Virgin Mary had a look of fear on her face, and tears were coming out of the corner of her eyes. If you looked out the back window, you saw the havoc that was left behind. Too bad about that guy's busted passenger mirror.
I suppose if you wanted to avoid wheeled transportation , you could go around the island by water. I had been on several types of boats on this trip when seeing the sights. One was a small fishing boat owned by a cousin. When I say small, I mean it was a rowboat with a motor. He insisted that holding a half dozen people was perfectly okay. Hmmmm. The second was a glass-bottom tour boat meant to hold about three dozen people. You could look through the glass and see the fish of the bay and the rock formations.
Turns out, you can also see Jesus. That's right. To commemorate the fact that Saint Paul brought Catholicism to the island, the people put a statue of Jesus in the bay where Paul's ship wrecked on the coast. Tourists can take pictures of the statue or buy postcards instead. I don't know if Jesus is crying. It's hard to tell in the water. I imagine he's thinking that it might have been better to put a lighthouse up instead. I could be wrong.
I also took a larger tour boat around the whole island. It's while you're about 2-3 miles from the coast that you realize this isn't America. There are no life vests, no fire extinguishers, and no such thing as law suits. There are, instead, several elderly passengers, a jovial "captain", and a picture of Madonna and child (still not the singer) complete with burning candles.
Leaving the island was eventful, too. The people who rented the apartment to us provided a truck to take us to the airport. The small vehicle held the driver, my aunt in the passenger seat, myself tangled up with the gear shift, and my uncle sitting on the luggage in the back. They left via British Airways, and I left via Air Malta/Continental. Flying into Gatwick, my pilot had to pull up because the fog was so thick he couldn't see the runway. And on my connecting flight to Dallas, a group of born-again Christians chose me as their next project and tried to convert me through sleep deprivation. Seriously. The person in the seat next to me sang Bible songs whenever I turned my head into the pillow to sleep.
Finally, after 26 hours my other connecting flight to Denver touched down. I hope no one got hurt in my rush to get home!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Snappy Comebacks
When we were teens, my brother had a subscription to MAD Magazine. One of our favorite parts was a section entitled "Snappy Comebacks to Stupid Questions". For each scenario, it left room for you to add your own response. Hands down, my brother always had the best response. Quick-witted responses just seem to pop out of his head to any given situation.
My brother recalled an incident back in the late 80s when everyone was concerned about the environment and recycling. He was working in a restaurant when a customer asked for a sandwich to go. As he was finishing, she asked if he was planning on putting it in a Styrofoam box. He responded, "I'll put it in a Styrofoam box, disposable diaper, or snowy owl." She didn't get the joke, just the sandwich.
Now, I can do quite well at times myself. There was a time back in the late 80s when I worked at the old airport to make extra money. They always needed people during holidays and summers - times that I was free. In our display case facing the main concourse were replicas of a snowy owl, golden eagle, and a bald eagle - all on the Endangered Species List. I cannot tell you how many times someone asked us if those animals had been killed. In reality they were handcrafted painstakingly with painted turkey feathers. The replicas looked so real that people would storm into our store screaming. Then when told they were fake, they would respond, "I knew that." We begged management to put signs up stating information, but management wanted people to come in the store asking questions. The cheapest of them was $1800.
Dealing with stressed out customers over their desperate need for a toothbrush or an overpriced t-shirt is not my forte, but I had to grin and bear it (or grit and bear it). But, people's stupid comments about those stuffed animals drove me insane . . . until a friend suggested a better idea. I decided to fight back with snappy comebacks.
"Did you kill that eagle in the window?" (Said in an angry, indignant, and superior tone of voice.)
My brother recalled an incident back in the late 80s when everyone was concerned about the environment and recycling. He was working in a restaurant when a customer asked for a sandwich to go. As he was finishing, she asked if he was planning on putting it in a Styrofoam box. He responded, "I'll put it in a Styrofoam box, disposable diaper, or snowy owl." She didn't get the joke, just the sandwich.
Now, I can do quite well at times myself. There was a time back in the late 80s when I worked at the old airport to make extra money. They always needed people during holidays and summers - times that I was free. In our display case facing the main concourse were replicas of a snowy owl, golden eagle, and a bald eagle - all on the Endangered Species List. I cannot tell you how many times someone asked us if those animals had been killed. In reality they were handcrafted painstakingly with painted turkey feathers. The replicas looked so real that people would storm into our store screaming. Then when told they were fake, they would respond, "I knew that." We begged management to put signs up stating information, but management wanted people to come in the store asking questions. The cheapest of them was $1800.
Dealing with stressed out customers over their desperate need for a toothbrush or an overpriced t-shirt is not my forte, but I had to grin and bear it (or grit and bear it). But, people's stupid comments about those stuffed animals drove me insane . . . until a friend suggested a better idea. I decided to fight back with snappy comebacks.
"Did you kill that eagle in the window?" (Said in an angry, indignant, and superior tone of voice.)
- "No, I killed him in the mountains."
- "No, he committed hari-kari after begging to be stuffed and prominently displayed."
- "No, he flew into an engine and was later rebuilt."
- "No, he drank one too many and was grounded by the FAA."
- "Why do you ask, Kemo Sabe?"
As Bugs Bunny would say, "What a maroon!"
Saturday, April 7, 2007
No Manners
Today my closest friend came over for a visit. It's good to have her around for the fun and company. She's also good for helping to socialize my dog. My dog has no manners. As Rudyard Kipling would add, "She had no manners then, has no manners now, and will never have any manners." In fact, my dog once nipped my former principal on the back of the leg and drew blood. Now in the dog's defense, she is an Australian cattle dog, trained to bring in the cattle and nip one when it goes astray. It seems that somewhere in my dog's blood line, they've been kicked in the head one too many times. Anyhooo, my dog needs some practice with proper social etiquette, and she was quite well-behaved tonight.My dear friend had her own neurotic dog at one time - a long-haired terrier. One vacation my friend left the dog with us for a week to babysit. The moment their car pulled out of the driveway and headed for parts north, that dog began a high-pitched whine that could break true crystal (fortunately we only have plastic). She whined when we were with her and she whined when we left. She whined to be picked up and whined of we picked her up. I even tried sleeping on the sofa with her in my arms, and she whined up close in my ear. In less than 24 hours, we had her ensconced in a kennel out of earshot.
A year later my friend and I were taking a road trip together with her two children and two dogs, who I'll refer to as Whiner and Sweetie (the dogs, not the children). On the trip Whiner sat in my lap whenever I was in the passenger seat, slept in bed next to me . . . get the idea. "See, she likes you," they all said. Hmmm, maybe I was mistaken. But then in Nebraska we pulled up at a rest stop. I took the dogs to do their business while everyone took a chance to clean up. The moment they were all out of earshot, Whiner began a high-pitched noise that reverberated up the spine and sent sharp, shooting pain into the brain. I tried to tell everyone what had happened, but of course, she stopped as soon as they got close.
Damn dog!
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
He Fell. No, Really.
Today I was discussing topics for memoirs with my students. one student recounted a story in which his siblings rolled him up in a carpet and pushed him down the stairs. This reminded me of a similar event with my own siblings on a set of stairs.
First, I must have you travel with me to an event prior to this. I was six, my sister was five, and my brother was three. We and our parents were living in a small 2-bedroom apartment outside the air base where my dad is stationed. I don't know why they stationed him at this one base because they turned around and sent him to school at another, and we didn't have him around. Anyhooooo, it was a cramped situation. I had a bed on oneside of a bedroom, and my brother and sister shared another across the room.
One morning my sister and I woke up to find the house eerily empty. Our brother was gone and so was our mom. We searched each room, but we were alone. We went upstairs to tell our neighbor, a nice woman with a daughter in my class. She explained that my brother had fallen out of bed and broken his collar bone. My mother was with him at the hospital. We were to get ready for school, and she would take us. I suppose it would have been less scary had my mother just woke us up and told us to go the neighbor's. On the other hand, how are you going to wake up two kids who are sleeping through a screaming baby brother? We later found out that he actually rolled over my sister and fell out on the opposite side of the bed. I guess you could say we were deep sleepers.
Years later my mother recounted that at the hospital, the doctors kept asking my brother how it happened. He kept crying, "I fell. I fell." The doctors just gave my mother dirty looks.
Flash forward. I'm ten, my sister is nine, and my brother is almost eight. Again, we're temporarily in one place and my dad is in another. During the summer we had gotten a pool - one of those small ones with corrugated sides and a plastic liner. Now that it was winter, we used the liner as a tent. When we were bored with that, we came up with a new idea. At the house we rented, they had stairs from outside to the basement. For some odd reason, the railing went straight across to the wall rather than down the sides with the stairs. So we decided to drape the line over he railing and hide on the steps. Then we got rocks and put them around the liner to hold it in place. THEN, we took turns getting ON the liner while the other two pushed the rocks off. The person in the middle was slowly lowered down the stairs like an elevator.
While my brother was on the liner my sister asked, "I wonder what would happen if we pushed them all off at the same time?" So like any budding scientist, we put the question into a hypothesis (We predict he will still go down.) and proceeded with the experiment. One side of the liner gave way and my brother was slammed into the wall along the side of the stairs and then dropped unceremoniously onto the cement landing face first.
My brother let out a wail. We girls ran . . . down the street . . . away . . . My mother loaded my brother in the car and passed us. "You girls head back to the neighbor's. I'll be back." We knew what that meant.
When my mother came home, she was steamed. My brother's face was swollen like a red tomato with a black eye. His bruises were fantastic. Every time the doctors asked my brother what happened, he cried loudly and said, "I fell, I fell." They gave my mother dirty looks.
My brother has survived his bumps and bruises (with no help from us). I'll have to thank him for giving us good material for stories.
First, I must have you travel with me to an event prior to this. I was six, my sister was five, and my brother was three. We and our parents were living in a small 2-bedroom apartment outside the air base where my dad is stationed. I don't know why they stationed him at this one base because they turned around and sent him to school at another, and we didn't have him around. Anyhooooo, it was a cramped situation. I had a bed on oneside of a bedroom, and my brother and sister shared another across the room.
One morning my sister and I woke up to find the house eerily empty. Our brother was gone and so was our mom. We searched each room, but we were alone. We went upstairs to tell our neighbor, a nice woman with a daughter in my class. She explained that my brother had fallen out of bed and broken his collar bone. My mother was with him at the hospital. We were to get ready for school, and she would take us. I suppose it would have been less scary had my mother just woke us up and told us to go the neighbor's. On the other hand, how are you going to wake up two kids who are sleeping through a screaming baby brother? We later found out that he actually rolled over my sister and fell out on the opposite side of the bed. I guess you could say we were deep sleepers.
Years later my mother recounted that at the hospital, the doctors kept asking my brother how it happened. He kept crying, "I fell. I fell." The doctors just gave my mother dirty looks.
Flash forward. I'm ten, my sister is nine, and my brother is almost eight. Again, we're temporarily in one place and my dad is in another. During the summer we had gotten a pool - one of those small ones with corrugated sides and a plastic liner. Now that it was winter, we used the liner as a tent. When we were bored with that, we came up with a new idea. At the house we rented, they had stairs from outside to the basement. For some odd reason, the railing went straight across to the wall rather than down the sides with the stairs. So we decided to drape the line over he railing and hide on the steps. Then we got rocks and put them around the liner to hold it in place. THEN, we took turns getting ON the liner while the other two pushed the rocks off. The person in the middle was slowly lowered down the stairs like an elevator.
While my brother was on the liner my sister asked, "I wonder what would happen if we pushed them all off at the same time?" So like any budding scientist, we put the question into a hypothesis (We predict he will still go down.) and proceeded with the experiment. One side of the liner gave way and my brother was slammed into the wall along the side of the stairs and then dropped unceremoniously onto the cement landing face first.
My brother let out a wail. We girls ran . . . down the street . . . away . . . My mother loaded my brother in the car and passed us. "You girls head back to the neighbor's. I'll be back." We knew what that meant.
When my mother came home, she was steamed. My brother's face was swollen like a red tomato with a black eye. His bruises were fantastic. Every time the doctors asked my brother what happened, he cried loudly and said, "I fell, I fell." They gave my mother dirty looks.
My brother has survived his bumps and bruises (with no help from us). I'll have to thank him for giving us good material for stories.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Blecccccccchhhhh
Yahoooooo! Spring Break has begun! I celebrated Friday night by promptly spewing the contents of my stomach (not recommended as part of the Weight Watchers Plan). Everything from the previous 18 hours came back "up" to haunt me. The ghosts of a birthday cupcake and a slice of pepperoni pizza from lunch seemed to taunt me from the Great Beyond (i.e. the bottom of the commode):
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
Fillet of a salmon sauted not broiled,
In the stomach bubbled and boiled.
Toe of frog and eye of newt,
Next time eat a piece of fruit.
Chicken's leg and buffalo wing
Will wake you up and make us sing . . .
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
To make matters worse, I have TMJ problems. During the first upheaval, I began having problems with my jaw. I guess you could say I was "locked and loaded."
What bothers me the most is that it had to happen after school got out. Had it happened the previous day, I could have had an extra day off. At the very least had it happened during the day on Friday, I could have had some fun. You would just have to imagine some kid's t-shirt
ala Jackson Pollack. Parent complaint? I could say that they were interfering with my right to artistic expression. What better way to say, "You're not doing your work to the best of your ability," than a vomit-stained article of clothing!
The important thing is that I'm feeling better. Nothing says Spring Break like some tongue-in-cheek humor.
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
Fillet of a salmon sauted not broiled,
In the stomach bubbled and boiled.
Toe of frog and eye of newt,
Next time eat a piece of fruit.
Chicken's leg and buffalo wing
Will wake you up and make us sing . . .
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
To make matters worse, I have TMJ problems. During the first upheaval, I began having problems with my jaw. I guess you could say I was "locked and loaded."
What bothers me the most is that it had to happen after school got out. Had it happened the previous day, I could have had an extra day off. At the very least had it happened during the day on Friday, I could have had some fun. You would just have to imagine some kid's t-shirt
ala Jackson Pollack. Parent complaint? I could say that they were interfering with my right to artistic expression. What better way to say, "You're not doing your work to the best of your ability," than a vomit-stained article of clothing!
The important thing is that I'm feeling better. Nothing says Spring Break like some tongue-in-cheek humor.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Hidden in the Words
I am preparing lesson plans for a unit on Memoirs. The school is in the process of adopting a new writing program, and we decided to try one of the units now to get our feet wet for next year. In the Memoirs Unit chosen by my team, teachers and students are expected to look at Life Topics - the underlying themes that run through our writing. According to the text, most people may write about a variety of topics, but they only have 3 - 4 themes that lie hidden.
It takes some deep digging to ferret out those themes and bring them up for closer inspection. I've been thinking about that the last few days as I've mapped out my expectations for my students. What do we reveal about ourselves with our words?
I know that my writing tends to be about my family/genealogy. But, I like to think that all of my writing is more a reflection for the purpose of learning and moving forward. It will be interesting to think about in the next two months as I travel this path with my students.
It takes some deep digging to ferret out those themes and bring them up for closer inspection. I've been thinking about that the last few days as I've mapped out my expectations for my students. What do we reveal about ourselves with our words?
I know that my writing tends to be about my family/genealogy. But, I like to think that all of my writing is more a reflection for the purpose of learning and moving forward. It will be interesting to think about in the next two months as I travel this path with my students.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Creative Stories
At the end of the day Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I were talking about articulate youths and thier lies - namely - ourselves. We know that none of our darling students lie nor even stretch the truth to fit their purposes *cough* *hack*. I told Laurie that my siblings were gullible targets and promised to blog a few choice favorites.
- The Infamous Broken Balloon Lie - This one was inspired by an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle in which Boris and Natasha are stuck on a hot air balloon with no rope and no way to get back down. Now at the time, I was six and my sister was five. The perfect age for someone with a year of school tucked under their belt to prey upon another just learning the ropes. My sister was chewing on a very gross balloon. It had a hole and would not be sailing any maiden voayage into the heavens. Within a short time, sis had actually chewed the top off and was showing that you could still blow air through this and pretend the balloon was still attached. That's when she swallowed it. I can tell you what I didn't do. I didn't go get help or slap her on the back to knock it out. Instead I said, "Now every time you take a breath, it's going to get bigger until you float away and die." She ran home, her hand covering her mouth to block air while crying, "Mom, I don't want to die!" How did I know she was going to believe it? I mean there was no balloon attached to take in air. My mom didn't buy it either.
- The Infamous Green Bean Lie - This one was also inspired by an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle in which plants are taking over the town. Same age. Same victim. I don't know how we got on the topic, but in short: I told my sister that green beans had seeds in the pod. Every time you ate a bean, the seeds would grow in your stomach, the plant would take over, and you would die. My sister was starting to wise up. "How come it doesn't happen to you?" I replied matter-of-factly, "Because I'm six. Your body changes and they let you go to school all day. She didn't say anything. Now, what vegetable do you think my mom served with almost every meal? Green beans. The one that she could be sure would be eaten by three picky kids. My sister was eating hers slowly that night. She cut each one in half, picked out each little seed, and then ate the bean with the seeds pushed over to the far side of the plate. My mom asked her if she was okay. "Mom," she cried, "I don't want to die!" Same ending.
Ah yes, fond memories. I guess that's what makes a good teacher. Someone with practice who knows what to watch out for.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Reading Questions
Laurie asked me some good questions about what I read, so I thought I would respond in my blog.
When I go to the library or bookstore, I come home with waaayy more non-fiction (except when I'm getting children's books - then it's 50-50). When I go into a bookstore, the first place I head is the "New in Non-Fiction" section. Within the non-fiction, I lean towards getting something historical whether it's religion, economics, politics, etc.
The problem with juvenile literature is that as soon as I pick it up for me, I begin thinking how I might use it in the classroom. The choices available to kids today is astounding! If they don't want to read about dead/dying animals, they do not have to. There's plenty of other books from which to choose.
I tend not to read magazines. If I'm in a waiting area, I'll read Time or Newsweek. I refuse to read magazines like People. With the internet, I do read a lot of newspapers on line. I love to read about a story in an American paper and then find the same story in an international paper. It gives a different perspective.
Lastly, I should say that I spend too much at bookstores and do not always take advantage of the local library (and we really have a great local library). I guess I buy books because of all the books I had to get rid of every time we moved.
The important thing is to Keep reading!
When I go to the library or bookstore, I come home with waaayy more non-fiction (except when I'm getting children's books - then it's 50-50). When I go into a bookstore, the first place I head is the "New in Non-Fiction" section. Within the non-fiction, I lean towards getting something historical whether it's religion, economics, politics, etc.
The problem with juvenile literature is that as soon as I pick it up for me, I begin thinking how I might use it in the classroom. The choices available to kids today is astounding! If they don't want to read about dead/dying animals, they do not have to. There's plenty of other books from which to choose.
I tend not to read magazines. If I'm in a waiting area, I'll read Time or Newsweek. I refuse to read magazines like People. With the internet, I do read a lot of newspapers on line. I love to read about a story in an American paper and then find the same story in an international paper. It gives a different perspective.
Lastly, I should say that I spend too much at bookstores and do not always take advantage of the local library (and we really have a great local library). I guess I buy books because of all the books I had to get rid of every time we moved.
The important thing is to Keep reading!
Raining Books - Part II
Here are a few more books that had an impact on how I think about my reading. I picked up the following for a good cheesy scare and instead developed a deep, life-long respect for these authors. No movie has come close to capturing the ideas because they tend to focus on the superficial horror while ignoring the underlying meaning.
- Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Robert Louis Stevenson) - This book may be about an exaggerated character, but it forced me to think about my own actions in life. I also found myself becoming more understanding of the complexities of people. Perhaps now, I am more forgiving of their mistakes and joyous of their accomplishments.
- Dracula (Bram Stoker) - It seemed to me that this book challenged the Victorian/English precepts of the time. Women: In the novel the men are constantly telling the women to stay home and cower while they go off. However, in the end it's a woman who saves their frightened asses! Good/Evil: Characters spout off about what is evil, but they themselves have no problem bending the rules when it suits their purpose. Religion: The men (again!) make comments as to how God is on their side and they will prevail, making fun of local customs. No sooner do they land in a village outside the castle, then they are wearing garlic and making the sign of the evil eye.
- Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (Mary Shelley) - What a commentary on modern man!! It didn't take long for me to realize that the Dr. was a jerk. Duh! The title is about the doctor not his creation. In this time of cloning, we must remember that her story was not about the what we create. It is about who we are and what we become in the process.
I know most people expect something different when they pick these books up and so they put them down. I guarantee they are worth the read.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Raining Books (not Cats and Dogs)
Not only was it another glorious, sun-drenched day, I was given $500 to go shopping for classroom library books! Yahooooooooooo! Hopefully everyone I cut off along the highway received my telepathic apology. It would have been better, however, had they received the telepathic message to get out of my way as I was on a biblio-driven mission.
I love to read - love language and words. I love to picture the words and watch them take shape into scenes. Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I have discussed some of our favorite books. Truly, there are too many to list. But, here are some of the ones that had an impact on how I think about books and reading.
I love to read - love language and words. I love to picture the words and watch them take shape into scenes. Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I have discussed some of our favorite books. Truly, there are too many to list. But, here are some of the ones that had an impact on how I think about books and reading.
- Where the Red Fern Grows (Wilson Rawls) - I read this in 5th grade and was horrified by the ending. How could those innocent dogs have been killed (forget about the guy with the axe in his chest)? It made me realize that every "classic" book my teachers gave me to read had some poor animal croaking (pun intended).
- Charlotte's Web (E. B. White) - I'm probably the only person who abhors this book (see above). My belief: if you can make up a story where a spider talks, said spider can defy nature and live to be older than Methusalah.
- The Godfather (Mario Puzo) - Tired of the same old, I read this in 6th grade (taking it from my mother's night table when she was otherwise occupied). At the time I couldn't pinpoint what it was that I liked about it. I didn't understand any of the parts about sex although I completely understood the part of killing (see above.) Mostly I loved the telling of the family's story minus the horse in the bed.
- On the Banks of Plum Creek (Laura Ingalls Wilder) - One of my friends in 7th grade pointed out that the teacher was not going to accept a book report on The Godfather or its ilk. She suggested this book as a quick easy read. I was entranced. This book helped me to identify what types of books I enjoyed reading - historical fiction and non-fiction. Family sagas and the unfolding of their lives was a fascination, a peek into others' lives.
More later. Until then, Keep Reading!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
A Sunshine Day
Bright sunshine and azure skies are spilling out. It was the kind of day that makes you want the feel of grass under your bare feet. Although Spring snow storms are inevitable, today was a promise that winter would not last forever. I have always been a sun-worshipper, but I must say I've become less tolerant of heat.
Growing up, my mother was a firm believer that kids should be outside playing and getting fresh air. I don't remember ever using sunscreen or getting burned. I guess we knew when to come in and when to put a hat on. I spent a few years growing up in southern Turkey just a two-hour drive from the Mediterranean. The climate was hot and dry most of the year and going to the beach was a special treat. It was there that I learned seaweed is gross, slimy, and unnerving when you swim into it unexpectedly. I also learned that when you do an underwater somersault, the salt burns the inside of your nose.
We also spent some time with relatives on the island of Malta. Everyone was olive-toned and sat outside with chairs drawn up outside on the sidewalks and streets to chat with neighbors and passersby. You went to the beach after school, after work, and after church. Families strolled hand-in-hand along the boardwalk on Sundays stopping to talk with those they knew. It was on Sunday that men and women had arms and legs covered - out of respect for the day rather than their leathery hides.
Coming back to the States, we were unaware of just how dark we had become until our travels took us to southern Idaho. Now this was back in the early '70s and as foreign a place to me as Turkey was to them. The kids in my 5th grade class were unprepared for someone who claimed to be American yet was born in England, raised (mostly) overseas, spoke a few words of other languages, and knew people of other faiths and cultures.
I did not fit in.
As the school year wore on and winter approached, I began to make friends and felt that people were getting to know me. That was my mistake. I learned later that the reason people were starting to like me was because they realized I was white. I should have picked on the clues - like the questions people asked. "My mom wants to know, do you have someone black in your family?" "Are you Indian?" (I thought they meant from India at first until I considered they didn't know where that was.)
Maybe I had been naive at first, but I eventually saw that there was no one of any color in our elementary school. Winter months had softened my skin tone, and they could see I was not a person of color either. I guess for some, their world went back on its axis and they could breathe safer. I, on the other hand, knew this was not the place for me. I breathed easier when we were told we would be moving again. I did not shed any tears.
I have refrained from mentioning this town, because so many years have gone by and things can change. I did discover that an acquaintance of mine had spent a brief time their during her high school years. She continues to refer to the place as a "vicious den of iniquity."
The whole experience was sobering, yet I hope it has helped me to become a better person and a better teacher. I don't want to sound too preachy, but I try to recall that year whenever I see injustice. I believe that when we are considering the feelings of others and putting ourselves in their shoes, that's when the sun is most bright.
Growing up, my mother was a firm believer that kids should be outside playing and getting fresh air. I don't remember ever using sunscreen or getting burned. I guess we knew when to come in and when to put a hat on. I spent a few years growing up in southern Turkey just a two-hour drive from the Mediterranean. The climate was hot and dry most of the year and going to the beach was a special treat. It was there that I learned seaweed is gross, slimy, and unnerving when you swim into it unexpectedly. I also learned that when you do an underwater somersault, the salt burns the inside of your nose.
We also spent some time with relatives on the island of Malta. Everyone was olive-toned and sat outside with chairs drawn up outside on the sidewalks and streets to chat with neighbors and passersby. You went to the beach after school, after work, and after church. Families strolled hand-in-hand along the boardwalk on Sundays stopping to talk with those they knew. It was on Sunday that men and women had arms and legs covered - out of respect for the day rather than their leathery hides.
Coming back to the States, we were unaware of just how dark we had become until our travels took us to southern Idaho. Now this was back in the early '70s and as foreign a place to me as Turkey was to them. The kids in my 5th grade class were unprepared for someone who claimed to be American yet was born in England, raised (mostly) overseas, spoke a few words of other languages, and knew people of other faiths and cultures.
I did not fit in.
As the school year wore on and winter approached, I began to make friends and felt that people were getting to know me. That was my mistake. I learned later that the reason people were starting to like me was because they realized I was white. I should have picked on the clues - like the questions people asked. "My mom wants to know, do you have someone black in your family?" "Are you Indian?" (I thought they meant from India at first until I considered they didn't know where that was.)
Maybe I had been naive at first, but I eventually saw that there was no one of any color in our elementary school. Winter months had softened my skin tone, and they could see I was not a person of color either. I guess for some, their world went back on its axis and they could breathe safer. I, on the other hand, knew this was not the place for me. I breathed easier when we were told we would be moving again. I did not shed any tears.
I have refrained from mentioning this town, because so many years have gone by and things can change. I did discover that an acquaintance of mine had spent a brief time their during her high school years. She continues to refer to the place as a "vicious den of iniquity."
The whole experience was sobering, yet I hope it has helped me to become a better person and a better teacher. I don't want to sound too preachy, but I try to recall that year whenever I see injustice. I believe that when we are considering the feelings of others and putting ourselves in their shoes, that's when the sun is most bright.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Piled as High as an Elephant's Eye - Part II
Am I a control freak?
Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? Yes to all (except the last one 'cause that's just you not thinking)!
As I mentioned before, I'm an organizer. My need to systemize things is a symptom of my bigger need to control my environment. One of my fantasies is that I'm Samantha Stevens in Bewitched or Jeannie in the show I Dream of Jeannie. With a twitch of my nose or the blink of my eyes, I can regiment the world around me. Housework is done instantly. Lesson plans are brilliantly completed in seconds. No more driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But of course, none of that could happen. Instead, I'm left twitching and blinking in a perculiar, maniacal manner.
I did always wonder a few things about these two shows. For instance, why did these women always limit their abilities to small stuff? There's no mention of catching crooks and murderers, but heaven forbid Gladys Kravitz should be standing on the front lawn. And why is it that these women had simpering, spineless men at their sides? Perhaps a therapist from the Great Beyond could explain their deep-seeded needs, but I find it highly incredulous. Besides the afore-mentioned deeds, I could use my abilities to find Osama Bin Laden, the Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Jimmy Hoffa. We could have world peace and and a patched-up ozone. We'd have a place to raise happy, healthy children.
But I digress.
I have come to the realization that I cannot blink or twitch chaos into world order. So if you hear someone honking behind you on the freeway, it could be me hinting for you to get out of the way!
Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? Yes to all (except the last one 'cause that's just you not thinking)!
As I mentioned before, I'm an organizer. My need to systemize things is a symptom of my bigger need to control my environment. One of my fantasies is that I'm Samantha Stevens in Bewitched or Jeannie in the show I Dream of Jeannie. With a twitch of my nose or the blink of my eyes, I can regiment the world around me. Housework is done instantly. Lesson plans are brilliantly completed in seconds. No more driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But of course, none of that could happen. Instead, I'm left twitching and blinking in a perculiar, maniacal manner.
I did always wonder a few things about these two shows. For instance, why did these women always limit their abilities to small stuff? There's no mention of catching crooks and murderers, but heaven forbid Gladys Kravitz should be standing on the front lawn. And why is it that these women had simpering, spineless men at their sides? Perhaps a therapist from the Great Beyond could explain their deep-seeded needs, but I find it highly incredulous. Besides the afore-mentioned deeds, I could use my abilities to find Osama Bin Laden, the Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Jimmy Hoffa. We could have world peace and and a patched-up ozone. We'd have a place to raise happy, healthy children.
But I digress.
I have come to the realization that I cannot blink or twitch chaos into world order. So if you hear someone honking behind you on the freeway, it could be me hinting for you to get out of the way!
Monday, March 5, 2007
Piled as High as an Elephant's Eye - Part I
My teammates/sisters and I were enjoying a nice lunch together. One, married for three years, asked, "At what point in the relationship do you just get your spouse to get rid of his stuff?" I forget the exact wording, but it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I refrained from yelling out, "THREE YEARS AGO!" But, I suppose that would not be starting a relationship on the right foot.
However, this discussion of organization vs. piling has been a point of conversation between Caveman and me. I am an organizer. It came from years of moving from air base to air base as a kid, deciding what it was I wanted badly enough to be shipped 8,000 miles. On the other hand, Caveman is both a piler and a collector. Newspaper articles and notes are placed in specific piles on the floor of our basement. There they begin to collect dust and resemble a home for a colony of rats. Once, I confronted Caveman with a receipt for one item - dog food.
"What's this?" I began.
"A receipt. I meant to put it with my other receipts."
"But why save it at all? As much as we love the dog, the IRS frowns on claiming her as a dependent." We both laughed. The receipt went but the other 9999 did not. Too bad I don't have a witty remark for each of those. But then, there'd be nowhere for the rats.
Caveman collects things that he finds at garage sales and estate sales - a tradition, seemingly, passed down through the males in his family. Among other things, our basement is currently home to a large massage table - the kind only found in chiropractic offices. It oscillates for stretching the muscles. It would be nice to use, but papers are piled on top of it.
Caveman does respect the fact that our entire way of living cannot be consumed in this manner, and so his stuff is relegated to the basement. And while I may not value his junk in the same way he does, I do value the the heart behind every treasure. Each piece is brought home with the same enthusiasm as a bludgeoned mastadon or a speared fish. It is his way of showing that he has gone past the hunting stage to the gathering stage.
One teammate made me realize, however, that it must have been women who invented fire. I am not above setting his things aflame - to make room for the newest stuff.
However, this discussion of organization vs. piling has been a point of conversation between Caveman and me. I am an organizer. It came from years of moving from air base to air base as a kid, deciding what it was I wanted badly enough to be shipped 8,000 miles. On the other hand, Caveman is both a piler and a collector. Newspaper articles and notes are placed in specific piles on the floor of our basement. There they begin to collect dust and resemble a home for a colony of rats. Once, I confronted Caveman with a receipt for one item - dog food.
"What's this?" I began.
"A receipt. I meant to put it with my other receipts."
"But why save it at all? As much as we love the dog, the IRS frowns on claiming her as a dependent." We both laughed. The receipt went but the other 9999 did not. Too bad I don't have a witty remark for each of those. But then, there'd be nowhere for the rats.
Caveman collects things that he finds at garage sales and estate sales - a tradition, seemingly, passed down through the males in his family. Among other things, our basement is currently home to a large massage table - the kind only found in chiropractic offices. It oscillates for stretching the muscles. It would be nice to use, but papers are piled on top of it.
Caveman does respect the fact that our entire way of living cannot be consumed in this manner, and so his stuff is relegated to the basement. And while I may not value his junk in the same way he does, I do value the the heart behind every treasure. Each piece is brought home with the same enthusiasm as a bludgeoned mastadon or a speared fish. It is his way of showing that he has gone past the hunting stage to the gathering stage.
One teammate made me realize, however, that it must have been women who invented fire. I am not above setting his things aflame - to make room for the newest stuff.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Here's Mud in Your Eye
This morning I settled down comfortably to do the Sunday New York Time's crossword puzzle. However, I find it increasingly less fun to do for the simple reason that I need reading glasses. A five-letter word for "dyed-in-the-wool" (total) is not the same as "died-in-the-wool" (chops)!
Last spring I spoke to my ophthalmologist about this. Dr. Stan is a parent of one of my former students and has been my eye doctor for quite awhile. I joked easily that it was getting more difficult to read ingredients on labels and asked if I was ready for bifocals. Without batting an eye he said, "You're not there yet. You'll know you're ready when it's no longer amusing but annoying."
Annoying happened this past summer. Caveman and I were trying to find our way into downtown Chicago to meet a cousin. He was driving, and I was the navigator. For some reason, Caveman does not trust my driving skills when visiting new, large cities. If I make even the slightest shift of the steering wheel, it will elicit the stiffening of body parts (arms, legs, back - get your mind out of the gutter) and a roaring of his voice. However, his brother will drift through Chicago freeway lanes with no signal while turned to talk to those of us in the backseat. Caveman will not show even a feeble token of discomfort or acknowledgement of honking horns. Instead, he will carry on an animated discourse on the stock market and ever-increasing gas prices, thereby encouraging his brother to turn towards us with his own ideas on how the economy is going to hell-in-a-handbasket (and no doubt drifting through lanes along the way while Satan himself is honking his horn and yelling, "Get off of the road, You Nut!).
But I digress.
My job as navigator was to look at the map for the street we wanted and let Caveman know where to turn. The problem? In order to read the map, I had to take my regular glasses off. Then I had to put them back on to see what street we were on, then take them back off to find the corresponding street on the map. Of course, by the time I put them back on and realized where we were, we had missed the turn and now were on a one-way street trying to find our way back. Hence, the whole process started over again.
So, here I am today faced with the certainty that in a couple of months, I will be the proud new owner of some bifocals. I will mark that occasion with some four letter words.
Last spring I spoke to my ophthalmologist about this. Dr. Stan is a parent of one of my former students and has been my eye doctor for quite awhile. I joked easily that it was getting more difficult to read ingredients on labels and asked if I was ready for bifocals. Without batting an eye he said, "You're not there yet. You'll know you're ready when it's no longer amusing but annoying."
Annoying happened this past summer. Caveman and I were trying to find our way into downtown Chicago to meet a cousin. He was driving, and I was the navigator. For some reason, Caveman does not trust my driving skills when visiting new, large cities. If I make even the slightest shift of the steering wheel, it will elicit the stiffening of body parts (arms, legs, back - get your mind out of the gutter) and a roaring of his voice. However, his brother will drift through Chicago freeway lanes with no signal while turned to talk to those of us in the backseat. Caveman will not show even a feeble token of discomfort or acknowledgement of honking horns. Instead, he will carry on an animated discourse on the stock market and ever-increasing gas prices, thereby encouraging his brother to turn towards us with his own ideas on how the economy is going to hell-in-a-handbasket (and no doubt drifting through lanes along the way while Satan himself is honking his horn and yelling, "Get off of the road, You Nut!).
But I digress.
My job as navigator was to look at the map for the street we wanted and let Caveman know where to turn. The problem? In order to read the map, I had to take my regular glasses off. Then I had to put them back on to see what street we were on, then take them back off to find the corresponding street on the map. Of course, by the time I put them back on and realized where we were, we had missed the turn and now were on a one-way street trying to find our way back. Hence, the whole process started over again.
So, here I am today faced with the certainty that in a couple of months, I will be the proud new owner of some bifocals. I will mark that occasion with some four letter words.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Theory of Relatives
My theory is that we are all related. I must be some distant cousin of Einstein: albeit, the one who saw a purpose in physics but couldn't get past spewing the contents of my last meal on plane rides - let alone traveling at high speed on some rocket through space. I'm that lady at Six Flags who got them to stop the ferris wheel and let me off because they recognized a real scream of panic when they heard one.
Back to my theory . . . Yes, we are all related, and I can prove it through simple mathematics. You have two parents, right? Four grandparents? Eight great-grandparents? 16 great-great-grandparents. It keeps doubling each generation. By thirty generations, you have 1 billion ancestors. The only problem is that 30 generations back, there weren't 1 billion people on the planet. I'll leave you to mull over where we all came from. Those who study calculus and such can explain it better, but it seems that gene skipped me, too.
Unfortunately, that might also mean that we're related to people we would just as soon not mention in polite circles. BUT since we're family, I suppose we can talk about them behind their backs when they don't arrive at the annual Christmas get togethers.
Personally, I think people/relatives are far more complex than the Theory of Relativity - and more interesting, too. Really, wouldn't you rather sit around the dinner table while Grandma (who's been into the liquor cabinet) gossips than sit in a lecture hall discussing speed in relation to energy and mass?
So sit back, cousin (or sister, brother, uncle with 6 toes, or whoever), it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Back to my theory . . . Yes, we are all related, and I can prove it through simple mathematics. You have two parents, right? Four grandparents? Eight great-grandparents? 16 great-great-grandparents. It keeps doubling each generation. By thirty generations, you have 1 billion ancestors. The only problem is that 30 generations back, there weren't 1 billion people on the planet. I'll leave you to mull over where we all came from. Those who study calculus and such can explain it better, but it seems that gene skipped me, too.
Unfortunately, that might also mean that we're related to people we would just as soon not mention in polite circles. BUT since we're family, I suppose we can talk about them behind their backs when they don't arrive at the annual Christmas get togethers.
Personally, I think people/relatives are far more complex than the Theory of Relativity - and more interesting, too. Really, wouldn't you rather sit around the dinner table while Grandma (who's been into the liquor cabinet) gossips than sit in a lecture hall discussing speed in relation to energy and mass?
So sit back, cousin (or sister, brother, uncle with 6 toes, or whoever), it's going to be a bumpy ride.
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