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.
Monday, May 28, 2007
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!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)