This summer I did not go anywhere. Usually this is not the case. After the school year ends, there is this need to just hop in the car and take off for a while. I play tunes on the radio or CD or listen to books-on-tape. I read by the pool or in my room, and I watch free HBO for a week or two before bed. I visit friends in other states, in-laws, or fellow genealogists and researchers. I see tourist places and stop at mom-and-pop cafes for good food. Some trips Caveman will join me or a friend, but usually I go alone.
There was the time, however, that I offered to take my dad with me. He was interested in everything I had uncovered about the family and wanted to see old family homesteads. What can you say to that? No, Dad! I'd rather poke hot needles in my eyes than take you with me for two weeks trapped in a car!
"Sure! It'll be fun!"
So we're in Nebraska (too far for either of us to walk home, but close enough to send someone packing with a cheap Greyhound ticket) when Dad says, "Hey, do you mind if I play one of my tapes?"
"Of course not. Go right ahead." Whereupon Dad pulls out Slim Whitman's Greatest Hits on the Pan Pipe.
Where are the needles???
There is the Dad humor added from time to time just to make things fun. "Hey, Liz, see that cemetery to your right?"
"Yeah."
"Guess how many people are buried there?"
?
"All of them!"
Guess what? He survived and is not buried among them.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A Very Different Birthday
Yesterday, my teammates threw an intimate gathering to celebrate my birthday. It was very pleasant to get together, catch-up, and have a good laugh. We began this year throwing each other small theme birthdays during our lunch hours. I won't get into all the details but will summarize as such:
One thing was interesting. The tarot card was the picture of a young child looking through some gates as if longing to go in. It represented either a) quit being an elitist and go in; or b) except that you want to do your own thing. In the past I had learned that if you want something done, do it yourself. Now that I have a wonderful support group at work and in my personal life, I realize that I do not have to do it all. They are wonderful group with so much from which I can learn and grow.
The whole day was absolutely wonderful from beginning to end.
- party 1 - all of us with eye patches and birthday boy in a pirate hat
- party 2 - all of us with leis and birthday girl in a coconut bra
- party 3 - all with Tinkerbell tiaras and a game of Pixie Bingo
- party 4 - all with cans of silly string and me with a Spiderman action figure to stick in my car windows.
I am blessed with a wonderful team that fits well. That doesn't happen often. We all love a good laugh, but can support each other.
Caveman came. At first I thought he was going to be his usual quiet, retiring self. I was pleasantly surprised that after awhile he loosened up and infused the group with his own style of humor. He is great with puns, and was able to throw out a few. He also got a chance to see some of the humor that my friends have. He enjoyed Laurie's impression of a dog barking underwater. That and a can of silly string loosened him up.
After the party Caveman, Laurie, Donna, and myself went to see a local tarot card reader who happened to have the same unusual last name as myself. She certainly had the same intensity that all of my family seems to have. That intensity can, of course, be used for good or evil.
Of course, I had to show familial support by paying for a tarot reading. Some of the reading was a direct hit (need more "real sleep" because I over-analyze everything). Some of the reading was a bit general (a worthwhile project will be coming up). Hey, I'm the project queen. Everything is a project to be done in my mind. However, I'm supposed to let go of some of that over-thinking.
One thing was interesting. The tarot card was the picture of a young child looking through some gates as if longing to go in. It represented either a) quit being an elitist and go in; or b) except that you want to do your own thing. In the past I had learned that if you want something done, do it yourself. Now that I have a wonderful support group at work and in my personal life, I realize that I do not have to do it all. They are wonderful group with so much from which I can learn and grow.
The whole day was absolutely wonderful from beginning to end.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wild Dog
I mentioned in a previous blog that I have an Australian cattle dog. Cattledog.com states that a lot of experimentation went on in coming up with a dog that was perfect for herding cattle in the Australian outback. They tend to be a mix of Highland collie, dingo, kelpie, and dalmatian. Cattle dogs are ranked #10 in intelligence behind other herding dogs like Australian shepherd and border collie.
Caveman and I were watching a special on the dingo on Animal Planet. Our dog had sooo many similar features. She has white socks on her forelegs with the unmistakable dalmatian spots. Her ears are floppy, but when she lays back you can see how big and pointy they are. Very similar to the dingo and kelpie.
And smart! She's so smart it's scary. We've had to make sure to provide her with toys that will keep her occupied. One toy is a Kong ball. It's solid rubber and odd-shaped so that it bounces in weird directions. It has a hole in it so that you can put treats inside for the dog to try to get at. Our dog will toss it down the stairs, go get, it, bring it back to the top, and toss it again until the treat comes out. It doesn't take long. One time she took it out to our deck and threw it down onto the patio. The treat came out instantly.
We have one plush toy shaped like a tree with holes in it. It has three chipmunks that hide in the tree. The dog loves to quickly pull the chipmunks out. She has a plush cow with velcro appendages. She rips the head, legs, and arms off then waits for you to put them so she can do it again. She has a plush duck with lots of plush eggs that fit inside the duck. She loves to try to get all of them out beating each previous time.
On top of that, she has an immense number of stuffed animals that she loves to play with. If we're not there to play throw and catch, she will toss the stuffed animal up in the air and catch it in her mouth. She also loves to lay on her back with a toy in her mouth. Then she grabs it between her paws, tosses it in the air, and catches it between her paws.
She loves to walk although she can't stand seeing other dogs around. Her favorite place to walk is by the creek. The creek comes from down the foothills. It has lots of trees and grassland and is home to a fair amount of animals that come down from the mountain searching for food and water - tons of snakes, insects, rodents, and also deer, raccoon, fox, and skunk. Once I saw a coyote stalking through the grass. Then he stopped, pounced, and scooped up a mouse.
When we go on our walks, my dog acts just like that coyote. Those ears don't miss a sound! Every rustle must be investigated. And that is how she came upon her first field mouse. She heard a rustle, sniffed, saw a mouse scurry, she ran after it . . . it was gone. Dived under something it did, and my dog was left to keep on walking.
Each time we have walked the paths along the creek, her instincts have sharpened. She will hear a rustle and all four legs will leave the ground to land at the spot where the sound originated. If the mouse scurried to a different spot, another quick bound brought her to that spot. Woe (or whoa!) to the person holding onto the leash.
Her first mouse, she landed on top of. It squealed, and I'm not quite sure who was more surprised. My dog just froze, and I pulled her away. She kept looking back to the spot, but I dragged her through the rest of her walk.
Her second mouse was not so surprising to her. She pounced on it, scooped it up in her mouth, and brought it out of the grass. "Put it down!" I yelled, and she did. It just lay there. I'm not sure how it died. Either her weight crushed it, she broke it's neck (even though she had simply scooped the whole thing with her mouth), or it died of fear. She didn't protest when I pulled her away - mainly because some other dogs were walking by. Over my shoulder I hear that owner say, "Put that down, don't eat it." I knew some lucky dog got a free surprise.
Her third and fourth mouse were caught on the same day. She was certainly getting more skilled even though I was trying to keep her on a shorter leash. She seemed to find them everywhere now. The accuracy of her leaps was astounding, catching them on her first leap and routing them out of their holes with her nose. She scooped these mice more quickly, harder so that their little necks were broken instantly.
During this time, I watched with both fascination and horror. The fascination came from watching her speed and agility. It came from understanding that her eyes ears were attune to everything around her. I saw how quickly her primitive dingo instincts kicked in. "Hey, Mom, see? I could live on my own if I had to." The horror came from seeing the dead mice even though I knew that the dog was doing what dogs do.
The fifth (and hopefully last) time she pulled one right out of the grass next to me with no trouble at all - at least for her. For the mouse it was trouble aplenty. This time she shook it by its neck before I pulled her away. Each catch seemed to be getting less gentle and more ferocious.
It's time to start taking her somewhere else no matter how much she pouts. She'll have to settle for dominating her plush animals.
Caveman and I were watching a special on the dingo on Animal Planet. Our dog had sooo many similar features. She has white socks on her forelegs with the unmistakable dalmatian spots. Her ears are floppy, but when she lays back you can see how big and pointy they are. Very similar to the dingo and kelpie.
And smart! She's so smart it's scary. We've had to make sure to provide her with toys that will keep her occupied. One toy is a Kong ball. It's solid rubber and odd-shaped so that it bounces in weird directions. It has a hole in it so that you can put treats inside for the dog to try to get at. Our dog will toss it down the stairs, go get, it, bring it back to the top, and toss it again until the treat comes out. It doesn't take long. One time she took it out to our deck and threw it down onto the patio. The treat came out instantly.
We have one plush toy shaped like a tree with holes in it. It has three chipmunks that hide in the tree. The dog loves to quickly pull the chipmunks out. She has a plush cow with velcro appendages. She rips the head, legs, and arms off then waits for you to put them so she can do it again. She has a plush duck with lots of plush eggs that fit inside the duck. She loves to try to get all of them out beating each previous time.
On top of that, she has an immense number of stuffed animals that she loves to play with. If we're not there to play throw and catch, she will toss the stuffed animal up in the air and catch it in her mouth. She also loves to lay on her back with a toy in her mouth. Then she grabs it between her paws, tosses it in the air, and catches it between her paws.
She loves to walk although she can't stand seeing other dogs around. Her favorite place to walk is by the creek. The creek comes from down the foothills. It has lots of trees and grassland and is home to a fair amount of animals that come down from the mountain searching for food and water - tons of snakes, insects, rodents, and also deer, raccoon, fox, and skunk. Once I saw a coyote stalking through the grass. Then he stopped, pounced, and scooped up a mouse.
When we go on our walks, my dog acts just like that coyote. Those ears don't miss a sound! Every rustle must be investigated. And that is how she came upon her first field mouse. She heard a rustle, sniffed, saw a mouse scurry, she ran after it . . . it was gone. Dived under something it did, and my dog was left to keep on walking.
Each time we have walked the paths along the creek, her instincts have sharpened. She will hear a rustle and all four legs will leave the ground to land at the spot where the sound originated. If the mouse scurried to a different spot, another quick bound brought her to that spot. Woe (or whoa!) to the person holding onto the leash.
Her first mouse, she landed on top of. It squealed, and I'm not quite sure who was more surprised. My dog just froze, and I pulled her away. She kept looking back to the spot, but I dragged her through the rest of her walk.
Her second mouse was not so surprising to her. She pounced on it, scooped it up in her mouth, and brought it out of the grass. "Put it down!" I yelled, and she did. It just lay there. I'm not sure how it died. Either her weight crushed it, she broke it's neck (even though she had simply scooped the whole thing with her mouth), or it died of fear. She didn't protest when I pulled her away - mainly because some other dogs were walking by. Over my shoulder I hear that owner say, "Put that down, don't eat it." I knew some lucky dog got a free surprise.
Her third and fourth mouse were caught on the same day. She was certainly getting more skilled even though I was trying to keep her on a shorter leash. She seemed to find them everywhere now. The accuracy of her leaps was astounding, catching them on her first leap and routing them out of their holes with her nose. She scooped these mice more quickly, harder so that their little necks were broken instantly.
During this time, I watched with both fascination and horror. The fascination came from watching her speed and agility. It came from understanding that her eyes ears were attune to everything around her. I saw how quickly her primitive dingo instincts kicked in. "Hey, Mom, see? I could live on my own if I had to." The horror came from seeing the dead mice even though I knew that the dog was doing what dogs do.
The fifth (and hopefully last) time she pulled one right out of the grass next to me with no trouble at all - at least for her. For the mouse it was trouble aplenty. This time she shook it by its neck before I pulled her away. Each catch seemed to be getting less gentle and more ferocious.
It's time to start taking her somewhere else no matter how much she pouts. She'll have to settle for dominating her plush animals.
Friday, June 6, 2008
I Earned It
This year I decided to join MENSA. I looked up the calendar of events at my local chapter, and it seemed interesting. Once you're a member, you have access to more than just the calendar of events. One page tries to describe the typical mensan. Most are social and few are hidden in their rooms. All of them tend to be individualist and are bright, although not in every area. Only a handful are annoying.
So with this in mind, I attended my first function. It was a coffee/breakfast at a local deli. Caveman came with me as family members are encouraged to attend. It was nice, every day chitchat over coffee, and Caveman was pleasantly surprised. One person did mention that they didn't have a phone after discovering it was tapped, but I didn't think anything about it. I mean mensans tend to be bright, so it's to be expected that some are politically active and on a List.
The next function was a group discussion on the topic of Personal Freedom. Now even though their were some ideas I did not agree with, I found the discussion to be quite stimulating. However, I was surprised at the number of comments about phone tapping, email reading, library book checkouts, and overall government spying.
This got me thinking.
1. Are they all paranoid? Never let it be said that I do not over think things. I have reached a point where I can no longer read a newspaper without my blood pressure skyrocketing. I just get upset about everyone and their stupid antics. But, I never thought about the government being after me personally. I thought they had it in for everyone equally.
2. Is the government really after them? I mean some of them were probably active in their college days during the Vietnam War, but I'm betting that most went into a white collar type of life where being blacklisted in the 60's is a badge of honor. Then again, it's not like your average BubbaJoe is going to pull off some plan to overtake the government.
* On a side note - Ever read those articles on America's dumbest
criminals? My favorite is the one where this guy tries to rob a
jewelry story by throwing a cinder block at the window. The
window was made of that special material, so the cinder block
bounced back, hit the guy in the head, and knocked him out. The
police came and found him there on the sidewalk. He was arrested.
So maybe the government's time is better spent following mensans.
3. What's wrong with me? I mean, am I not good enough for the government that they can't spy on me? a.) My bank accounts aren't being accessed. Just because I spend my savings like a drunken sailor on Home Depot products, does not mean I can't be as good a threat as anybody else. Maybe all those plants I purchased will put out a noxious smell to render people unconscious while I take over. b.) My phone isn't being tapped. Okay, so maybe one teammate and I call each other during the finale of The Biggest Loser to discuss how great everyone looks after losing 100+ pounds. Maybe that's our secret code for something. c.) No one with dark suits and glasses has questioned me about what books I'm reading. Okay, maybe it's because the last book I checked out was Ramona the Pest. Everyone knows Ramona was subversive.
I discussed this topic of mensan paranoia with Caveman after the two of us attended another event and the mention of phone/computer tapping came up. "I always thought all intellectuals were paranoid. You included. It comes with the territory," Caveman contributed.
"I know I have my worries, but really, what am I paranoid about?"
"Well, airport security for one."
True. "But, you always say you're not a real intellectual. You're paranoid." I thought I had scored a point there. Not only is Caveman brighter than he lets on, but he can't bear to throw any receipt away because he's paranoid the government might want it for taxes. He once kept a receipt for dog food even though we don't claim the dog as a dependant.
"My dad was paranoid, so I come by my paranoia honestly. You earned yours."
I guess that means I belong with the right group.
So with this in mind, I attended my first function. It was a coffee/breakfast at a local deli. Caveman came with me as family members are encouraged to attend. It was nice, every day chitchat over coffee, and Caveman was pleasantly surprised. One person did mention that they didn't have a phone after discovering it was tapped, but I didn't think anything about it. I mean mensans tend to be bright, so it's to be expected that some are politically active and on a List.
The next function was a group discussion on the topic of Personal Freedom. Now even though their were some ideas I did not agree with, I found the discussion to be quite stimulating. However, I was surprised at the number of comments about phone tapping, email reading, library book checkouts, and overall government spying.
This got me thinking.
1. Are they all paranoid? Never let it be said that I do not over think things. I have reached a point where I can no longer read a newspaper without my blood pressure skyrocketing. I just get upset about everyone and their stupid antics. But, I never thought about the government being after me personally. I thought they had it in for everyone equally.
2. Is the government really after them? I mean some of them were probably active in their college days during the Vietnam War, but I'm betting that most went into a white collar type of life where being blacklisted in the 60's is a badge of honor. Then again, it's not like your average BubbaJoe is going to pull off some plan to overtake the government.
* On a side note - Ever read those articles on America's dumbest
criminals? My favorite is the one where this guy tries to rob a
jewelry story by throwing a cinder block at the window. The
window was made of that special material, so the cinder block
bounced back, hit the guy in the head, and knocked him out. The
police came and found him there on the sidewalk. He was arrested.
So maybe the government's time is better spent following mensans.
3. What's wrong with me? I mean, am I not good enough for the government that they can't spy on me? a.) My bank accounts aren't being accessed. Just because I spend my savings like a drunken sailor on Home Depot products, does not mean I can't be as good a threat as anybody else. Maybe all those plants I purchased will put out a noxious smell to render people unconscious while I take over. b.) My phone isn't being tapped. Okay, so maybe one teammate and I call each other during the finale of The Biggest Loser to discuss how great everyone looks after losing 100+ pounds. Maybe that's our secret code for something. c.) No one with dark suits and glasses has questioned me about what books I'm reading. Okay, maybe it's because the last book I checked out was Ramona the Pest. Everyone knows Ramona was subversive.
I discussed this topic of mensan paranoia with Caveman after the two of us attended another event and the mention of phone/computer tapping came up. "I always thought all intellectuals were paranoid. You included. It comes with the territory," Caveman contributed.
"I know I have my worries, but really, what am I paranoid about?"
"Well, airport security for one."
True. "But, you always say you're not a real intellectual. You're paranoid." I thought I had scored a point there. Not only is Caveman brighter than he lets on, but he can't bear to throw any receipt away because he's paranoid the government might want it for taxes. He once kept a receipt for dog food even though we don't claim the dog as a dependant.
"My dad was paranoid, so I come by my paranoia honestly. You earned yours."
I guess that means I belong with the right group.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
We have a mother bird and some new babies this week. Mama made a nest conveniently located in the crook of a downspout. It's safe from cats, birds, and our dog. The eaves shade the nest and keep off the rain. We noticed mama sitting on the nest intently, rarely leaving for a break. And then a few days ago, I noticed an empty shell on our deck and Mama was MIA. "Oh, no!" I thought the worst, so I reached up and grabbed the nest to see and found TWO very healthy baby birds. "Oh, no!" I bet now because I touched the nest, Mama will have nothing to do with them. I quickly put the nest back and moved out of the way. Sure enough, much to my releif, Mama arrived to feed the babies.
For some reason, I just feel bad for any hurt little animal. I don't like to see them suffer. Of course, that doesn't apply to ants in the house. They're getting sprayed. It doesn't apply to moths in the house, either. I suck those critters up in the vaccuum. I figure spiders are somewhat useful, so I keep one or two of those around. Termites - gotta go. Last year some yellow jackets took up residence in our backyard, and I got stung. Those buggers were nixed. Pretty much most insects can go. Mice and rats would have to go if I found any around. I don't have much use for worms, but we have an uneasy peace. They don't fly around, and I don't roll in the mud after it rains.
But except for those, I feel bad for all the OTHER animals when they get hurt.
Most times my feelings of animal injustice extend to fiction writing. As friends know (and I've mentioned in a previous blog) books like Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Charlotte's Web drive me up the wall.
But anyhoo, Mama bird and babies are doing just fine.
For some reason, I just feel bad for any hurt little animal. I don't like to see them suffer. Of course, that doesn't apply to ants in the house. They're getting sprayed. It doesn't apply to moths in the house, either. I suck those critters up in the vaccuum. I figure spiders are somewhat useful, so I keep one or two of those around. Termites - gotta go. Last year some yellow jackets took up residence in our backyard, and I got stung. Those buggers were nixed. Pretty much most insects can go. Mice and rats would have to go if I found any around. I don't have much use for worms, but we have an uneasy peace. They don't fly around, and I don't roll in the mud after it rains.
But except for those, I feel bad for all the OTHER animals when they get hurt.
Most times my feelings of animal injustice extend to fiction writing. As friends know (and I've mentioned in a previous blog) books like Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Charlotte's Web drive me up the wall.
But anyhoo, Mama bird and babies are doing just fine.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Back to Blogging
I promised my friend Laurie that I would get back to blogging, especially now that school is almost over. Yahoo!
Unfortunately, school isn't over yet. We still have two days to go. While it is nice to know that soon we will go from working 24/7 to sleeping 24/7, each remaining day must be carefully navigated like an obstacle course with harrowing traps.
To make matters more interesting, the air conditioning unit on our side of the building went out. So I had to navigate the course in 80 degree heat with 22 stinky 11-12 year olds in a cramped room. At lunch time I had to leave and drive around the block blasting the air in my car. By 2:00 in the afternoon, I thought they had it fixed and that I could feel a breeze. That turned out to be an hallucination brought on by heat stroke.
As soon as I got home, I turned on the air conditioner in my house and laid down on the bed. Caveman followed me upstairs to see if I was ok. I wasn't. I was highly irritable and hot. I explained my day trapped in a hot room with hot, stinky children and I wanted to not be hot.
"I'm fine. I think the house is perfectly comfortable."
"You've been in your office in the basement. Of course you're fine. I need a chance to cool down."
"Maybe you have a temperature."
"I'm hot on the outside, not on the inside."
"Are you sure?"
He was smiling benignly which translated means he was unaware that he was in imminent danger. I was hot, Hot, HOT! Only imagine the exclamation point as a dagger because I was considering stabbing him to drive home the point. (And that reminds me that I could back over him in the driveway if given the opportunity. But I digress.)
He let me know he was off to play poker with his buddies and to call if I needed anything. I took a xanax and went to sleep on the sofa in the living room where it was much cooler.
Needless to say, the Love of My Life is alive, I'm feeling much better today, and the air conditioneer in my classroom is working. Two more days to go.
Unfortunately, school isn't over yet. We still have two days to go. While it is nice to know that soon we will go from working 24/7 to sleeping 24/7, each remaining day must be carefully navigated like an obstacle course with harrowing traps.
To make matters more interesting, the air conditioning unit on our side of the building went out. So I had to navigate the course in 80 degree heat with 22 stinky 11-12 year olds in a cramped room. At lunch time I had to leave and drive around the block blasting the air in my car. By 2:00 in the afternoon, I thought they had it fixed and that I could feel a breeze. That turned out to be an hallucination brought on by heat stroke.
As soon as I got home, I turned on the air conditioner in my house and laid down on the bed. Caveman followed me upstairs to see if I was ok. I wasn't. I was highly irritable and hot. I explained my day trapped in a hot room with hot, stinky children and I wanted to not be hot.
"I'm fine. I think the house is perfectly comfortable."
"You've been in your office in the basement. Of course you're fine. I need a chance to cool down."
"Maybe you have a temperature."
"I'm hot on the outside, not on the inside."
"Are you sure?"
He was smiling benignly which translated means he was unaware that he was in imminent danger. I was hot, Hot, HOT! Only imagine the exclamation point as a dagger because I was considering stabbing him to drive home the point. (And that reminds me that I could back over him in the driveway if given the opportunity. But I digress.)
He let me know he was off to play poker with his buddies and to call if I needed anything. I took a xanax and went to sleep on the sofa in the living room where it was much cooler.
Needless to say, the Love of My Life is alive, I'm feeling much better today, and the air conditioneer in my classroom is working. Two more days to go.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Santa Steps In
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.
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 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.
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